Glow-in-the-dark
Commentary
Object:
The story of Madame Curie is more fascinating than most fictional novels. Born Polish to families that lost everything in the political uprisings of the nineteenth century, Marie found her identity at the University of Paris. She was married to Pierre, a man who treated her as an equal in scientific investigations, and together they shared a Nobel Prize for the discovery of the causes of radioactivity. When Pierre was killed in a traffic accident, Marie was invited by the university to occupy his chair -- making her the first female professor of the school. Marie went on to distinguish herself in many other ways, including naming two newfound elements (polonium and radium), achieving another Nobel Prize, raising a daughter who would distinguish herself in scientific investigations and earn a Nobel Prize of her own, and founding or equipping several research schools, even while running on the edge of personal scandal and international political intrigues.
But Madame Curie died in 1934 as a direct result of prolonged and unprotected exposure to the very substances she "gave" to the world. She loved to carry around with her test tubes of radioactive materials, remarking often about the lovely bluish-green glow they emitted.
There is a kind of allegorical parallel between Curie's story and today's scripture passages. It revolves around the reports of eerie glowing that happen when people experience direct encounters with the divine. The outcomes, of course, bring life instead of death, but there is that mesmerizing "glow in the dark" quality about it all. On this Transfiguration Sunday, heaven's radiance still shines in tangible ways from heaven, by way of Jesus, and through his body, the church.
Exodus 34:25-39
The narrative of Exodus 25-40 has three major sections. In chapters 25-31 preparations for the tabernacle are made, and plans formulated. Then comes the intruding and jarring incident of the golden calf (chs. 32-34) in which not only Israel's loyalty to Yahweh but also Yahweh's loyalty to Israel are tested. Finally, the narrative of Exodus 25-31 is resumed in the actual construction of the tabernacle and its dedication (chs. 35-40), almost as if the dark blot of the interlude had never happened.
Why all of this emphasis on building the tent-like tabernacle? Why invest in a movable shrine rather than rally around some sacred hilltop (Mount Sinai, for instance)? The answer is intrinsically related to the covenant-making event itself. If Israel is now the (reclaimed) possession of Yahweh, then Yahweh must take up visible residence among the people. The tabernacle is not a strange phenomenon of the natural order, like an unfailing spring or a volcanic vent or a residual meteor rock. Instead, it is the fabrication of a civilization that is intentionally on a journey. These people do not make pilgrimage to a shrine and then return to their homes; rather, they travel with the source of their identity actually residing within the center of their unwieldy sprawl.
Thus the tabernacle existed uniquely in its world, representing the physical home of the community's deity as a residence within its own spatial and temporal context. Israel was not a people who needed to create representations of powers that it then idolized; instead, the very society in which it lived emanated from the identity of the chief citizen who lived at its heart.
It is in this context that the golden calf incident of Exodus 32-34 must be understood. Moses' delay on the mountain while talking with Yahweh on behalf of the people bred frustration and anxiety within the community. So they begged Aaron for symbols around which to rally and what emerged was a bull calf made of gold. The Israelites were probably not seeking to worship something other than the God who brought them out of Egypt so recently; rather, they were trying to find a representation of that God within their cultural frame of reference. Since the bull calf was revered among the Egyptians as portraying the liveliness of living power, it could well serve the Israelites at this time of national adolescent brash energy.
The problem for Yahweh was twofold. First, the calf was an Egyptian symbol, and thus virtually blasphemous in light of Yahweh's recent decisive victory over all aspects of Egyptian power and civilization. Second, the calf reflected brute power in the natural order and of a kind that could be controlled by human will. A bull was meant to be yoked and harnessed and guided by whips and goads. True, it was more powerful than its human driver but at the same time it became a tool in service to the human will. So for Yahweh to be thus represented undermined the significance of the divine defeat of Egypt and its culture and appeared to turn Yahweh into a powerful but controllable source of energy serving the Israelite will.
Under Moses' leadership, his own tribe, the Levites, rallied to avenge Yahweh's disgrace. Because of that action they were appointed to the honored position of keepers of the house of God. Meanwhile, Yahweh himself wished to break covenant with Israel and instead start over with Moses' family; after all, Moses and Yahweh had become great partners and almost friends over the past forty years. Moses argued against this turnabout, however, for two reasons. First, he reminded the great one that Yahweh had made this suzerain-vassal covenant with Israel and it could not so easily be discarded or broken. Yahweh had deliberately invested Yahweh's own destiny into this people, and while they might wrestle with the chafing fit of this new relationship, Yahweh no longer had a right to deny it. Second, Moses raised the card of shame. What would the nations say if Yahweh quit this project now? The peoples of the ancient near east had begun to tremble because of Yahweh's decisive victory over Pharaoh; if the God of Israel was able so clearly and convincingly to topple the deities of Egypt and their power in both the natural and supernatural realms, what hope could there be for any other mere national interest or powers? But if Yahweh now suddenly left the Israelites to die in the wilderness, the nations around would see that this god was no more than a flash-bang, a one-hit wonder, a dog with more bark than bite. Moses used Yahweh's own covenant to make the deity toe the line and get back into bed with Israel on this honeymoon night.
All of this is affirmed in various ways through the text of these chapters. For instance, prior to the construction of the tabernacle Moses sought to commune with Yahweh not only on the mountain but also in a small structure called the "Tent of Meeting," which was located slightly outside the camp (Exodus 33:7-11). Once the tabernacle had been built, however, this designation of the "Tent of Meeting" was transferred to that newer edifice (Exodus 39:32--40:38). Furthermore the term used to describe the grander "Tent of Meeting" is mishkan, which means "place of dwelling." The same root is also found in the Hebrew term shakhen, which means "neighbor" (so the significance of Yahweh moving into the neighborhood), and again in the shekina ("presence") cloud of glory that settled on the tabernacle as its divine occupant moved in.
This is the same glow that Moses carried with him down from conversations with Yahweh on the mountain. Although the people feared the change in his visage (and necessitated the mask that hid his face), they were well aware that he had been in the presence of God. To be with God was overwhelming and transforming.
This is why the tabernacle was more than a religious shrine for Israel. It was different than a mere ceremonial place for offerings. It was, in fact, the home of Yahweh at the center of the Israelite community. When the sun settled behind the horizon and the cooking fires were banked to save wood as the people traveled through the wilderness, one tent continued to have a light on all night. In the heart of the camp the lamp glowed in the fellowship hall of the tabernacle; Yahweh kept vigil while the community slept. In the morning and evening a meal could be taken with Yahweh (the sacrifices, burnt so that Yahweh might consume the divine portion by way of inhaling the smoke), and constantly the feasting room was made ready for the king to meet with his subjects.
What happened at Mount Sinai? God formally claimed Israel as partner in whatever the divine mission was for planet earth. Israel, in turn, owned Yahweh as divine king and suzerain. In effect Yahweh and Israel were married and their starter home was built at the center of the camp.
2 Corinthians 3:12--4:2
Sometime in 53 AD, Paul apparently had a near-death experience during a preaching trip to Troas (2 Corinthians 1-2). This seems to have been the trigger that initiated Paul's last letter, one of comfort and tenderness, to the Corinthian congregation. Evidently he needed to confirm the renewal of his relationship with the church lest, if he should die soon, the lingering memories of their interaction would only be the difficult times of conflict.
Second Corinthians is a passionate, tender, personal, and encouraging communication. Paul can hardly repeat the word "comfort" often enough in his opening paragraph (2 Corinthians 1:3-7). Then he reminisces nostalgically, telling of his travel plans, his apostolic authority and how it came to him, the difficulties he has faced over years of dedicated service to God and the church, and the ministry of reconciliation that drives him (2 Corinthians 1:12--7:16).
It is in this section of his letter that Paul provides the powerful metaphor found in today's New Testament reading. Just as Moses began to radiate the glory of God after spending time with Yahweh on Mount Sinai (Exodus 34), so we radiate the glow of Christ the more we spend time with him. But the big difference is this: the ancient Israelites feared the luminosity of heaven and tried to hide from it, while we bask in its transforming radiance and change our behaviors to match that of eternity.
Peggy Noonan once wrote a speech for President George H.W. Bush in which she coined the term "a thousand points of light." She might well have taken the idea from Paul's brilliant comparison in this passage. God shines with transcendent brilliance. Those who get near God glow with unearthly radiance. Sometimes this world hides from the light that fleshes out the putrid works of darkness. But sometimes those who have spent time with God in Christ form an attractive glow in the dark, a thousand points of light that seek and save the lost.
Luke 9:28-36 (37-43)
While the Synoptic gospels (Matthew, Mark, and Luke) seem at first glance to have little obvious literary structure, all three actually espouse a similar macro form that if pictured would look something like a huge suspension bridge, perhaps like the mighty Mackinac that spans the narrows between Lakes Michigan and Huron. If you have driven it, or have seen pictures of it, you know that three long travel segments are separated by two unmistakable uprights. In such a way, in the Synoptics, one might think that the three travel segments are: (1) Jesus teaches the crowds about the kingdom of God ("kingdom of heaven" for Matthew); (2) Jesus teaches his disciples about discipleship; and (3) Jesus enters Jerusalem to process his passion and resurrection. The "uprights" that form the transition moments between these segments are: (1) the Transfiguration; and (2) the entry into Jerusalem on the Sunday before his crucifixion. Each "segment" and "upright" plays a critical role in unfolding the meaning and message of Jesus. The opening emphasis on teachings about the kingdom connects Jesus with the whole of Israelite history and prophecy, and explains and explores his personal messianic qualities and role. The transition of the Transfiguration indicates that Jesus is now sufficiently known by his disciples that they must become more privy to the full revelation of his divine character and purpose. Following this exposure, the disciples are more ready to become commissioned witnesses of the Messianic Age that is dawning, but they must understand well their unique role and thus be schooled in the disciplines of discipleship. Finally, when the world is ready for its Messiah, Jesus must go to the Jerusalem and the temple, for these are the pivotal geographical points on which the whole of God's activity with the world had turned through the Israelite phase of covenant redemption and witness.
The story of the Transfiguration, then, tells us a number of critical things. First, it comes immediately on the heels of Peter's great confession of Jesus' identity. Only when Jesus' disciples have begun to understand that their master is more than one among many itinerant rabbis, but truly the promised Messiah, will their ministry of leadership in the age of the church take shape. What happens on the mountain of Transfiguration is simply that the testimony of Peter, received by the other and affirmed by Jesus, is modeled before the intimate three. What God placed in Peter's heart to say publicly is now shown in living technicolor as heaven and earth kiss within the frame of Jesus' body. This is clearly Luke's understanding of the meaning of Jesus' phrase "I tell you the truth, some who are standing here will not taste death before they see the kingdom of God" in verse 27.
Second, it is important to note that Jesus does not give up his humanity while expressing his divinity, nor become unknown in his divinity so that his humanity is obliterated. The Transfiguration is one of the most impressive Christological moments, when the fullness of deity becomes obviously human and the fullness of humanity becomes unquestionably divine. It is a mystery, of course, but it is the reason why the Nicene Creed (birthed out of the Councils of Nicaea in 325 and Chalcedon in 451) places the specific limits that it does to our understanding of the natures and person of Jesus.
Third, the appearances of Moses and Elijah are critically instructive. How were Peter, James, and John to know the identity of these two figures who suddenly materialized before them? Probably Jesus told them or the voice from heaven made it obvious. In any case, Moses was the mediator of the Sinai covenant that was responsible for Israel's national identity and missional purpose on behalf of Yahweh, and Elijah stood at the head of the prophetic line, whose teachings would make the Sinai Covenant a living constitution for the shape of Israel's life. By the time of Jesus, only the "Law" (i.e., the first five books of today's Hebrew Bible, those commonly identified as the books of Moses or the Torah) and the "Prophets" (i.e., the prophetically interpreted histories of Israel found in Samuel and Kings, and the great scrolls of Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel, and the Twelve) were received as authoritative scripture. The "Writings" would be finalized later in the first century. So Moses and Elijah are the fountainheads of the two acknowledged collections of divinely inspired literature. Appearing with Jesus, as they do, Moses and Elijah confirm that the entire word of God points to and is fulfilled in Jesus.
Fourth, Peter's desire to turn the site into a new religious shrine and Jesus' refusal to allow that to happen is a reminder of the Synoptic expression of Jesus' journey. This is only a transitional point, not a conclusion to things. The necessary revelation is not that Jesus has fulfilled the law and the prophets, but that he is the fulfillment of the law and the prophets, something that is still underway.
Fifth, the voice from heaven is an external confirmation that this is more than just a dream or hallucinogenic vision. This encounter has substance, and it has a purpose. Now that the three have seen more fully who Jesus is, they carry with them an added responsibility to treat him with appropriate respect and safeguard the mission that he is on. Increased knowledge brings heightened responsibility.
Sixth, immediately after the "mountaintop" exhilaration of the Transfiguration, life takes a rather grim turn. We go down the mountain with warm joy in our hearts, only to feel the crush of real life in the valley below. Down here the demons rule. Down here the world is torn by evil. Down here there are pains and torments. Down here the kingdom has not yet become prominent. Moreover, the disciples who were not on the mountain with Jesus do not have any power in themselves to change things. Jesus, of course, has the power, but his range of influence is limited by his conjoined divine and human natures, so that he cannot be everywhere at once. He is able immediately to cast out the demon and heal the boy, restoring one small beachhead of the kingdom here, but the other disciples, and those who come to the radiance of the glory of God through them, must still be taught. The Transfiguration is a turning point, a transitional statement, but it points to the need for Jesus to finish his work so that its effects might be transferred into the expanding army of grace that would be generalled by these officers-in-training.
A strong New Testament theme is the idea that our world is very dark, and that Jesus is the light of God penetrating earth's blackness and bleakness, and that the Christian church is the lingering glow of divine radiance pushing the transformations of heaven a little further through recessed corners of shame and pain. How are we glowing today?
Application
There is an ancient legend first told by Christians living in the catacombs under the streets of Rome that picture the day when Jesus went back to glory after finishing all his work on earth. The angel Gabriel meets Jesus in heaven and welcomes him home. "Lord," he says, "Who have you left behind to carry on your work?"
Jesus tells him about the disciples, the little band of fishermen and farmers and housewives.
"But Lord," says Gabriel, "what if they fail you? What if they lose heart or drop out? What if things get too rough for them and they let you down?"
Well, says Jesus, then all I've done will come to nothing!
"But don't you have a backup plan?" Gabriel asks. "Isn't there something else to keep it going, to finish your work?"
No, says Jesus, there's no backup plan. The church is it. There's nothing else.
"Nothing else?" says Gabriel. "But what if they fail?"
And the early Christians knew Jesus' answer. "They won't fail, Gabriel," he said. "They won't fail!"
Isn't that a marvelous thing? Here are the Christians of Rome, dug into the earth like gophers, tunneling out of sight because of the terrors of Nero up above. They're nothing in that world! They're poor and despised and insignificant! Yet they know the promise of Jesus: "You won't fail! You're my people, and you won't fail!"
On the outside we seem to be nothing, like Jesus' helpless disciples below the mountain of the Transfiguration, but on the inside we are as big as the kingdom and the power and the glory of our God.
What would our neighborhood be without us? What would our area be like without the church of Jesus Christ? Where would our nation be without the conscience of the people of God? It's not enough to be anti-abortion; you must be pro-life, and remind your community what real life, God's life, is all about! It's not enough to be against immorality; you have to be the conscience of society, turning its thoughts toward love and laughter and life! It's not enough to protect your own interests; you have to speak out for the welfare of the poor and the disabled and the oppressed!
Alternative Application
2 Corinthians 3:12--4:2. There's a marvelous little story tucked away in the pages of Edward Gibbon's seven-volume work The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. It tells of a humble little monk named Telemachus living out in the farming regions of Asia.
Telemachus had no great ambitions in life. He loved his little garden and tilled it through the changing seasons. But one day in the year 391 he felt a sense of urgency, a call of God's direction in his life. Although he didn't know why, he felt that God wanted him to go to Rome, the heart and soul of the empire. In fact, the feelings of such a call frightened him, but he went anyway, praying along the way for God's direction.
When he finally got to the city, it was in an uproar! The armies of Rome had just come home from the battlefield in victory, and the crowds were turning out for a great celebration. They flowed through the streets like a tidal wave, and Telemachus was caught in their frenzy and carried into the Coliseum.
He had never seen a gladiator contest before, but now his heart sickened. Down in the arena men hacked at each other with swords and clubs. The crowds roared at the sight of blood and urged their favorites on to the death.
Telemachus couldn't stand it. He knew it was wrong; this wasn't the way God wanted people to live or to die. So little Telemachus worked his way through the crowds to the wall down by the arena. "In the name of Christ, forbear!" he shouted.
Nobody heard him, so he crawled up onto the wall and shouted again: "In the name of Christ, forbear!" This time the few who heard him only laughed. But Telemachus was not to be ignored. He jumped into the arena and ran through the sands toward the gladiators. "In the name of Christ, forbear!"
The crowds laughed at the silly little man and threw stones at him. Telemachus, however, was on a mission. He threw himself between two gladiators to stop their fighting. "In the name of Christ, forbear!" he cried.
They hacked him apart! They cut his body from shoulder to stomach, and he fell onto the sand with the blood running out of his life.
The gladiators were stunned and stopped to watch him die. Then the crowds fell back in silence and for a moment no one in the Coliseum moved. Telemachus' final words rang in their memories: "In the name of Christ, forbear!" At last they moved, slowly at first, but growing in numbers. The masses of Rome filed out of the Coliseum that day, and the historian Theodoret reports that never again was a gladiator contest held there! All because of the witness and the testimony of a single Christian who had the glow-in-the-dark power of grace and God's goodness.
During the time of the Reformation, John Foxe of England was impressed by the testimony of the early Christians. He gleaned the pages of early historical writings and wrote a book that has become a classic in the church Foxe's Book of Martyrs.
One story he tells is about an early church leader named Lawrence. Lawrence acted as a pastor for a church community. He also collected the offerings for the poor each week.
A band of thieves found out that Lawrence received the offerings of the people from Sunday to Sunday, so one night as he was out taking a stroll they grabbed him and demanded the money. He told them that he didn't have it, because he had already given it all to the poor. They didn't believe him and told him they would give him a chance to find it. In three days they would come to his house and take from him the treasures of the church.
Three days later they did come. But Lawrence wasn't alone. The house was filled with the people of his congregation. When the thieves demanded the treasures of the church, Lawrence smiled. He opened wide his arms and gestured to those who sat around him. "Here's the treasure of the church!" he said. "Here's the treasure of God that shines in the world!"
Indeed. As Jesus said in another place, "You are the light of the world." You can glow in the dark of this world, shining the light of the Transfiguration to those who desperately need it.
But Madame Curie died in 1934 as a direct result of prolonged and unprotected exposure to the very substances she "gave" to the world. She loved to carry around with her test tubes of radioactive materials, remarking often about the lovely bluish-green glow they emitted.
There is a kind of allegorical parallel between Curie's story and today's scripture passages. It revolves around the reports of eerie glowing that happen when people experience direct encounters with the divine. The outcomes, of course, bring life instead of death, but there is that mesmerizing "glow in the dark" quality about it all. On this Transfiguration Sunday, heaven's radiance still shines in tangible ways from heaven, by way of Jesus, and through his body, the church.
Exodus 34:25-39
The narrative of Exodus 25-40 has three major sections. In chapters 25-31 preparations for the tabernacle are made, and plans formulated. Then comes the intruding and jarring incident of the golden calf (chs. 32-34) in which not only Israel's loyalty to Yahweh but also Yahweh's loyalty to Israel are tested. Finally, the narrative of Exodus 25-31 is resumed in the actual construction of the tabernacle and its dedication (chs. 35-40), almost as if the dark blot of the interlude had never happened.
Why all of this emphasis on building the tent-like tabernacle? Why invest in a movable shrine rather than rally around some sacred hilltop (Mount Sinai, for instance)? The answer is intrinsically related to the covenant-making event itself. If Israel is now the (reclaimed) possession of Yahweh, then Yahweh must take up visible residence among the people. The tabernacle is not a strange phenomenon of the natural order, like an unfailing spring or a volcanic vent or a residual meteor rock. Instead, it is the fabrication of a civilization that is intentionally on a journey. These people do not make pilgrimage to a shrine and then return to their homes; rather, they travel with the source of their identity actually residing within the center of their unwieldy sprawl.
Thus the tabernacle existed uniquely in its world, representing the physical home of the community's deity as a residence within its own spatial and temporal context. Israel was not a people who needed to create representations of powers that it then idolized; instead, the very society in which it lived emanated from the identity of the chief citizen who lived at its heart.
It is in this context that the golden calf incident of Exodus 32-34 must be understood. Moses' delay on the mountain while talking with Yahweh on behalf of the people bred frustration and anxiety within the community. So they begged Aaron for symbols around which to rally and what emerged was a bull calf made of gold. The Israelites were probably not seeking to worship something other than the God who brought them out of Egypt so recently; rather, they were trying to find a representation of that God within their cultural frame of reference. Since the bull calf was revered among the Egyptians as portraying the liveliness of living power, it could well serve the Israelites at this time of national adolescent brash energy.
The problem for Yahweh was twofold. First, the calf was an Egyptian symbol, and thus virtually blasphemous in light of Yahweh's recent decisive victory over all aspects of Egyptian power and civilization. Second, the calf reflected brute power in the natural order and of a kind that could be controlled by human will. A bull was meant to be yoked and harnessed and guided by whips and goads. True, it was more powerful than its human driver but at the same time it became a tool in service to the human will. So for Yahweh to be thus represented undermined the significance of the divine defeat of Egypt and its culture and appeared to turn Yahweh into a powerful but controllable source of energy serving the Israelite will.
Under Moses' leadership, his own tribe, the Levites, rallied to avenge Yahweh's disgrace. Because of that action they were appointed to the honored position of keepers of the house of God. Meanwhile, Yahweh himself wished to break covenant with Israel and instead start over with Moses' family; after all, Moses and Yahweh had become great partners and almost friends over the past forty years. Moses argued against this turnabout, however, for two reasons. First, he reminded the great one that Yahweh had made this suzerain-vassal covenant with Israel and it could not so easily be discarded or broken. Yahweh had deliberately invested Yahweh's own destiny into this people, and while they might wrestle with the chafing fit of this new relationship, Yahweh no longer had a right to deny it. Second, Moses raised the card of shame. What would the nations say if Yahweh quit this project now? The peoples of the ancient near east had begun to tremble because of Yahweh's decisive victory over Pharaoh; if the God of Israel was able so clearly and convincingly to topple the deities of Egypt and their power in both the natural and supernatural realms, what hope could there be for any other mere national interest or powers? But if Yahweh now suddenly left the Israelites to die in the wilderness, the nations around would see that this god was no more than a flash-bang, a one-hit wonder, a dog with more bark than bite. Moses used Yahweh's own covenant to make the deity toe the line and get back into bed with Israel on this honeymoon night.
All of this is affirmed in various ways through the text of these chapters. For instance, prior to the construction of the tabernacle Moses sought to commune with Yahweh not only on the mountain but also in a small structure called the "Tent of Meeting," which was located slightly outside the camp (Exodus 33:7-11). Once the tabernacle had been built, however, this designation of the "Tent of Meeting" was transferred to that newer edifice (Exodus 39:32--40:38). Furthermore the term used to describe the grander "Tent of Meeting" is mishkan, which means "place of dwelling." The same root is also found in the Hebrew term shakhen, which means "neighbor" (so the significance of Yahweh moving into the neighborhood), and again in the shekina ("presence") cloud of glory that settled on the tabernacle as its divine occupant moved in.
This is the same glow that Moses carried with him down from conversations with Yahweh on the mountain. Although the people feared the change in his visage (and necessitated the mask that hid his face), they were well aware that he had been in the presence of God. To be with God was overwhelming and transforming.
This is why the tabernacle was more than a religious shrine for Israel. It was different than a mere ceremonial place for offerings. It was, in fact, the home of Yahweh at the center of the Israelite community. When the sun settled behind the horizon and the cooking fires were banked to save wood as the people traveled through the wilderness, one tent continued to have a light on all night. In the heart of the camp the lamp glowed in the fellowship hall of the tabernacle; Yahweh kept vigil while the community slept. In the morning and evening a meal could be taken with Yahweh (the sacrifices, burnt so that Yahweh might consume the divine portion by way of inhaling the smoke), and constantly the feasting room was made ready for the king to meet with his subjects.
What happened at Mount Sinai? God formally claimed Israel as partner in whatever the divine mission was for planet earth. Israel, in turn, owned Yahweh as divine king and suzerain. In effect Yahweh and Israel were married and their starter home was built at the center of the camp.
2 Corinthians 3:12--4:2
Sometime in 53 AD, Paul apparently had a near-death experience during a preaching trip to Troas (2 Corinthians 1-2). This seems to have been the trigger that initiated Paul's last letter, one of comfort and tenderness, to the Corinthian congregation. Evidently he needed to confirm the renewal of his relationship with the church lest, if he should die soon, the lingering memories of their interaction would only be the difficult times of conflict.
Second Corinthians is a passionate, tender, personal, and encouraging communication. Paul can hardly repeat the word "comfort" often enough in his opening paragraph (2 Corinthians 1:3-7). Then he reminisces nostalgically, telling of his travel plans, his apostolic authority and how it came to him, the difficulties he has faced over years of dedicated service to God and the church, and the ministry of reconciliation that drives him (2 Corinthians 1:12--7:16).
It is in this section of his letter that Paul provides the powerful metaphor found in today's New Testament reading. Just as Moses began to radiate the glory of God after spending time with Yahweh on Mount Sinai (Exodus 34), so we radiate the glow of Christ the more we spend time with him. But the big difference is this: the ancient Israelites feared the luminosity of heaven and tried to hide from it, while we bask in its transforming radiance and change our behaviors to match that of eternity.
Peggy Noonan once wrote a speech for President George H.W. Bush in which she coined the term "a thousand points of light." She might well have taken the idea from Paul's brilliant comparison in this passage. God shines with transcendent brilliance. Those who get near God glow with unearthly radiance. Sometimes this world hides from the light that fleshes out the putrid works of darkness. But sometimes those who have spent time with God in Christ form an attractive glow in the dark, a thousand points of light that seek and save the lost.
Luke 9:28-36 (37-43)
While the Synoptic gospels (Matthew, Mark, and Luke) seem at first glance to have little obvious literary structure, all three actually espouse a similar macro form that if pictured would look something like a huge suspension bridge, perhaps like the mighty Mackinac that spans the narrows between Lakes Michigan and Huron. If you have driven it, or have seen pictures of it, you know that three long travel segments are separated by two unmistakable uprights. In such a way, in the Synoptics, one might think that the three travel segments are: (1) Jesus teaches the crowds about the kingdom of God ("kingdom of heaven" for Matthew); (2) Jesus teaches his disciples about discipleship; and (3) Jesus enters Jerusalem to process his passion and resurrection. The "uprights" that form the transition moments between these segments are: (1) the Transfiguration; and (2) the entry into Jerusalem on the Sunday before his crucifixion. Each "segment" and "upright" plays a critical role in unfolding the meaning and message of Jesus. The opening emphasis on teachings about the kingdom connects Jesus with the whole of Israelite history and prophecy, and explains and explores his personal messianic qualities and role. The transition of the Transfiguration indicates that Jesus is now sufficiently known by his disciples that they must become more privy to the full revelation of his divine character and purpose. Following this exposure, the disciples are more ready to become commissioned witnesses of the Messianic Age that is dawning, but they must understand well their unique role and thus be schooled in the disciplines of discipleship. Finally, when the world is ready for its Messiah, Jesus must go to the Jerusalem and the temple, for these are the pivotal geographical points on which the whole of God's activity with the world had turned through the Israelite phase of covenant redemption and witness.
The story of the Transfiguration, then, tells us a number of critical things. First, it comes immediately on the heels of Peter's great confession of Jesus' identity. Only when Jesus' disciples have begun to understand that their master is more than one among many itinerant rabbis, but truly the promised Messiah, will their ministry of leadership in the age of the church take shape. What happens on the mountain of Transfiguration is simply that the testimony of Peter, received by the other and affirmed by Jesus, is modeled before the intimate three. What God placed in Peter's heart to say publicly is now shown in living technicolor as heaven and earth kiss within the frame of Jesus' body. This is clearly Luke's understanding of the meaning of Jesus' phrase "I tell you the truth, some who are standing here will not taste death before they see the kingdom of God" in verse 27.
Second, it is important to note that Jesus does not give up his humanity while expressing his divinity, nor become unknown in his divinity so that his humanity is obliterated. The Transfiguration is one of the most impressive Christological moments, when the fullness of deity becomes obviously human and the fullness of humanity becomes unquestionably divine. It is a mystery, of course, but it is the reason why the Nicene Creed (birthed out of the Councils of Nicaea in 325 and Chalcedon in 451) places the specific limits that it does to our understanding of the natures and person of Jesus.
Third, the appearances of Moses and Elijah are critically instructive. How were Peter, James, and John to know the identity of these two figures who suddenly materialized before them? Probably Jesus told them or the voice from heaven made it obvious. In any case, Moses was the mediator of the Sinai covenant that was responsible for Israel's national identity and missional purpose on behalf of Yahweh, and Elijah stood at the head of the prophetic line, whose teachings would make the Sinai Covenant a living constitution for the shape of Israel's life. By the time of Jesus, only the "Law" (i.e., the first five books of today's Hebrew Bible, those commonly identified as the books of Moses or the Torah) and the "Prophets" (i.e., the prophetically interpreted histories of Israel found in Samuel and Kings, and the great scrolls of Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel, and the Twelve) were received as authoritative scripture. The "Writings" would be finalized later in the first century. So Moses and Elijah are the fountainheads of the two acknowledged collections of divinely inspired literature. Appearing with Jesus, as they do, Moses and Elijah confirm that the entire word of God points to and is fulfilled in Jesus.
Fourth, Peter's desire to turn the site into a new religious shrine and Jesus' refusal to allow that to happen is a reminder of the Synoptic expression of Jesus' journey. This is only a transitional point, not a conclusion to things. The necessary revelation is not that Jesus has fulfilled the law and the prophets, but that he is the fulfillment of the law and the prophets, something that is still underway.
Fifth, the voice from heaven is an external confirmation that this is more than just a dream or hallucinogenic vision. This encounter has substance, and it has a purpose. Now that the three have seen more fully who Jesus is, they carry with them an added responsibility to treat him with appropriate respect and safeguard the mission that he is on. Increased knowledge brings heightened responsibility.
Sixth, immediately after the "mountaintop" exhilaration of the Transfiguration, life takes a rather grim turn. We go down the mountain with warm joy in our hearts, only to feel the crush of real life in the valley below. Down here the demons rule. Down here the world is torn by evil. Down here there are pains and torments. Down here the kingdom has not yet become prominent. Moreover, the disciples who were not on the mountain with Jesus do not have any power in themselves to change things. Jesus, of course, has the power, but his range of influence is limited by his conjoined divine and human natures, so that he cannot be everywhere at once. He is able immediately to cast out the demon and heal the boy, restoring one small beachhead of the kingdom here, but the other disciples, and those who come to the radiance of the glory of God through them, must still be taught. The Transfiguration is a turning point, a transitional statement, but it points to the need for Jesus to finish his work so that its effects might be transferred into the expanding army of grace that would be generalled by these officers-in-training.
A strong New Testament theme is the idea that our world is very dark, and that Jesus is the light of God penetrating earth's blackness and bleakness, and that the Christian church is the lingering glow of divine radiance pushing the transformations of heaven a little further through recessed corners of shame and pain. How are we glowing today?
Application
There is an ancient legend first told by Christians living in the catacombs under the streets of Rome that picture the day when Jesus went back to glory after finishing all his work on earth. The angel Gabriel meets Jesus in heaven and welcomes him home. "Lord," he says, "Who have you left behind to carry on your work?"
Jesus tells him about the disciples, the little band of fishermen and farmers and housewives.
"But Lord," says Gabriel, "what if they fail you? What if they lose heart or drop out? What if things get too rough for them and they let you down?"
Well, says Jesus, then all I've done will come to nothing!
"But don't you have a backup plan?" Gabriel asks. "Isn't there something else to keep it going, to finish your work?"
No, says Jesus, there's no backup plan. The church is it. There's nothing else.
"Nothing else?" says Gabriel. "But what if they fail?"
And the early Christians knew Jesus' answer. "They won't fail, Gabriel," he said. "They won't fail!"
Isn't that a marvelous thing? Here are the Christians of Rome, dug into the earth like gophers, tunneling out of sight because of the terrors of Nero up above. They're nothing in that world! They're poor and despised and insignificant! Yet they know the promise of Jesus: "You won't fail! You're my people, and you won't fail!"
On the outside we seem to be nothing, like Jesus' helpless disciples below the mountain of the Transfiguration, but on the inside we are as big as the kingdom and the power and the glory of our God.
What would our neighborhood be without us? What would our area be like without the church of Jesus Christ? Where would our nation be without the conscience of the people of God? It's not enough to be anti-abortion; you must be pro-life, and remind your community what real life, God's life, is all about! It's not enough to be against immorality; you have to be the conscience of society, turning its thoughts toward love and laughter and life! It's not enough to protect your own interests; you have to speak out for the welfare of the poor and the disabled and the oppressed!
Alternative Application
2 Corinthians 3:12--4:2. There's a marvelous little story tucked away in the pages of Edward Gibbon's seven-volume work The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. It tells of a humble little monk named Telemachus living out in the farming regions of Asia.
Telemachus had no great ambitions in life. He loved his little garden and tilled it through the changing seasons. But one day in the year 391 he felt a sense of urgency, a call of God's direction in his life. Although he didn't know why, he felt that God wanted him to go to Rome, the heart and soul of the empire. In fact, the feelings of such a call frightened him, but he went anyway, praying along the way for God's direction.
When he finally got to the city, it was in an uproar! The armies of Rome had just come home from the battlefield in victory, and the crowds were turning out for a great celebration. They flowed through the streets like a tidal wave, and Telemachus was caught in their frenzy and carried into the Coliseum.
He had never seen a gladiator contest before, but now his heart sickened. Down in the arena men hacked at each other with swords and clubs. The crowds roared at the sight of blood and urged their favorites on to the death.
Telemachus couldn't stand it. He knew it was wrong; this wasn't the way God wanted people to live or to die. So little Telemachus worked his way through the crowds to the wall down by the arena. "In the name of Christ, forbear!" he shouted.
Nobody heard him, so he crawled up onto the wall and shouted again: "In the name of Christ, forbear!" This time the few who heard him only laughed. But Telemachus was not to be ignored. He jumped into the arena and ran through the sands toward the gladiators. "In the name of Christ, forbear!"
The crowds laughed at the silly little man and threw stones at him. Telemachus, however, was on a mission. He threw himself between two gladiators to stop their fighting. "In the name of Christ, forbear!" he cried.
They hacked him apart! They cut his body from shoulder to stomach, and he fell onto the sand with the blood running out of his life.
The gladiators were stunned and stopped to watch him die. Then the crowds fell back in silence and for a moment no one in the Coliseum moved. Telemachus' final words rang in their memories: "In the name of Christ, forbear!" At last they moved, slowly at first, but growing in numbers. The masses of Rome filed out of the Coliseum that day, and the historian Theodoret reports that never again was a gladiator contest held there! All because of the witness and the testimony of a single Christian who had the glow-in-the-dark power of grace and God's goodness.
During the time of the Reformation, John Foxe of England was impressed by the testimony of the early Christians. He gleaned the pages of early historical writings and wrote a book that has become a classic in the church Foxe's Book of Martyrs.
One story he tells is about an early church leader named Lawrence. Lawrence acted as a pastor for a church community. He also collected the offerings for the poor each week.
A band of thieves found out that Lawrence received the offerings of the people from Sunday to Sunday, so one night as he was out taking a stroll they grabbed him and demanded the money. He told them that he didn't have it, because he had already given it all to the poor. They didn't believe him and told him they would give him a chance to find it. In three days they would come to his house and take from him the treasures of the church.
Three days later they did come. But Lawrence wasn't alone. The house was filled with the people of his congregation. When the thieves demanded the treasures of the church, Lawrence smiled. He opened wide his arms and gestured to those who sat around him. "Here's the treasure of the church!" he said. "Here's the treasure of God that shines in the world!"
Indeed. As Jesus said in another place, "You are the light of the world." You can glow in the dark of this world, shining the light of the Transfiguration to those who desperately need it.
