The Old South Church in Boston
Make Way for the Mystical
Sermon by Jennifer Mills-Knutsen
February 22, 2004
Luke 9:18-36
Each and every year on this last Sunday of the season of Epiphany—Epiphany, the season of light, the season of God’s revelation in Jesus Christ—on this last Sunday in Epiphany, we read this story of the Transfiguration. It is the pinnacle of all epiphanies, the most spectacular tale of light, the height of Jesus’ divinity on earth prior to the resurrection. On the mountain, in the midst of prayer, God chose to reveal God’s self to Jesus and the disciples. They experienced a theophany, a manifestation of the Holy One. It was an experience that can only be understood as mystical, a direct connection forged by God between their souls and the Divine Spirit, an insight into the mysteries of the universe, a revelation of the transcendent. On this last Sunday of Epiphany, we are invited to touch the Transfiguration, to remember this great mystical experience of God, that it might steel and sustain us as we enter the season of Lent and the march toward the cross.
The problem is, I’m not convinced that simply hearing the story of the Transfiguration does that anymore. Perhaps because we’ve heard it all before, or because we just don’t relate to these flashy images of God on the mountaintop anymore. What was your own experience of hearing the Transfiguration story that Trinity read so beautifully this morning? What went through your mind as you heard it? Did it lead you to the transcendent experience of God?
Transfiguration is not the only account of mystical experiences in the Bible or in Christian history, but I believe one’s attitude to this particular mystical story often mirrors one’s attitude toward mystical experiences of God generally. In my experience, most people view mysticism itself in one of three ways. I make no judgment about these—they are all valid and faithful ways to interpret the mystical, each with their own strengths and weaknesses.
First, the rationalists. These folks see a biblical story like the Transfiguration as a historical impossibility, and consequently search out ways to explain what might actually have happened. Some dismiss the happening altogether, and submit that the story is simply Luke’s fabrication to emphasize something important about Jesus. This is a faithful approach to the mystical, because the rationalists still take from the Transfiguration a powerful reminder of Jesus’ unique manifestation of God’s presence in his life. The greatest strength of the rationalist is their ability to connect faith to reason and to perceive the cosmic order of the universe, but they risk shutting themselves off from experiences of God that just can’t be explained. God can touch us in ways that are beyond our reason.
Second, the nostalgics. These folks may see this mystical event as something that really happened in history, or they may agree with the rationalists that this was not a straight-up historical event. Either way, they are pretty certain that such things do not happen like that any more. God acted in dramatic ways in the biblical days, but those intimate and tangible experiences of God are lost to us in the 21st century. The nostalgics sometimes feel like they missed out on the good stuff, and believing in God is much harder today. They take from the Transfiguration a sense of God’s power, but also God’s distance, because God does not act so boldly in our own day. The strength of the nostalgics is their great trust in the witness of faithful people who have gone before. Even if they don’t understand the bible as simple, literal history, the nostalgics trust deeply in God without requiring proof. Unfortunately, nostalgics can also come to understand God’s deeds as finished, and close themselves off to experiencing God’s action today.
Finally, a group I like to call the wannabes. These folks aren’t sure exactly what happened, and don’t require that it went down exactly like Luke describes, but know that something wonderful happened up on that mountaintop. But more importantly—they want a piece of it. They believe that the mountaintop experience is the model for Christian living. They understand the Transfiguration as the pinnacle of religion and supreme sign of faith among Jesus and the disciples. Every day, these wannabes seek that same mystical awareness of the presence of God, a guiding clarity about the movement of the Holy Spirit. And sometimes they find it. So I call them “wannabes” not because they want a mystical experience they can never have, for indeed their openness to God’s transcendence is their greatest strength. But they are “wannabes” for two reasons: first, they tend to forget that mystical experiences come from God and God alone. Epiphanies or theophanies are God’s gift, they do not come from our own faith or desire. Second, they risk turning these mystical experiences of transcendence, gifts from God, into a yardstick by which to measure their faithfulness. If I don’t feel that spectacular presence, I must be doing something wrong. Or, for some, God must be doing something wrong.
Rationalists, Nostalgics, Wannabes. It’s hard to find anyone who doesn’t react in one of these three ways to the story of the Transfiguration, or other stories from the scriptures and Christian history about mystical experiences. What about you? Which of these types most closely approximates your own relationship with the mystical experience of God? What are the strengths and limitations of that approach?
The English writer C.S. Lewis offers a profound analogy about our relationship to mysticism. He was confronted by a man who had a transforming experience of God’s presence out in the desert and consequently this man eschewed all theology and doctrine as a far cry from the real presence of God. We might call this man a wannabe. Lewis responds by drawing an analogy to the difference between a map of the ocean, a walk on the beach, and an actual ocean voyage.
He says, “If a man has once looked at the Atlantic from the beach, and then goes and looks at a map of the Atlantic, he also will be turning from real waves to a bit of colored paper.” In other words, seeing a map is not the same thing as seeing the ocean. For our purposes, we might imagine the rationalist as someone who really likes the map, and sometimes risks being more consumed with the map than with the ocean itself. They like things that can be grasped in one’s hands and captured within one’s mind. Lewis also describes those who are “content with walks on the beach”, appreciating the ocean without risking entering it. These might be like our nostalgics—they admire the ocean and its vastness, but stay always on the shore. And the wannabes? They are definitely the ones who sail right on out into the sea, taking it all in, plunging in regularly for a swim in the depths. But Lewis cautions, without a map, these wannabes will be forever adrift. They may even experience the enormity of the ocean, but it won’t mean anything, and they won’t get anywhere. He says, “You will not get to Newfoundland by studying the Atlantic that way, and you will not get eternal life by simply feeling the presence of God in flowers or music. Neither will you get anywhere by looking at maps without going to sea. Nor will you be very safe if you go to sea without a map.”
A cautionary word, and a special invitation to each:
Rationalists, take the plunge into mystery. Remember that there is no map that can contain all of God’s majesty and splendor. There is much to God that moves beyond our reason, much that we must just experience and appreciate in all its glory, even if it doesn’t make sense.
Nostalgics, God is coming to meet you too. You are not left forever on the shoreline while the real action happens out at sea. You have placed great faith in the tales of others who have sailed the oceans—place that same faith in your own connection with God, and know that you too can know God’s presence in real and wondrous ways.
Wannabes, enjoy sailing in the ocean currents and feeling the power of the waves moving you, but you cannot remain forever adrift. There is a direction and a destination. God can be known through ordinary experiences as much as extraordinary ones, and the extraordinary ones are no adequate measure of God’s faithfulness day in and day out.
Whether we are rationalists, nostalgics or wannabes, the Transfiguration can only be appreciated, never understood. Whether or not it happened, whether or not it could or should happen again, for the disciples it evidences an extraordinary and powerful presence of God in Christ. Today, we are the disciples. And that means that this Transfiguration Sunday Jesus bids us to journey up the mountain together. In our prayerful imaginations, we are invited to attend this theophany, to remember and to experience the awesome majesty and glory of God. Will you come along this time? Let your imagination listen to the story again, and enter it as one of God’s disciples, today.
So far it has been an ordinary day. Although each day is special in Jesus’ presence, after following him for some time, there is an accustomed rhythm. Like most days, today had been filled with Jesus preaching to the crowds, a few healings here and there, even a brush with the Pharisees. Then, like every evening, Jesus insists on spending time in prayer. Unfortunately, his favorite place to pray is on top of the mountain. So here we find ourselves, at the end of the day, trudging up the side of a mountain. James and John are pestering Jesus with questions about something he’d said earlier in the day. Peter, tired of walking uphill, grumbles that if Jesus was smart, he’d prefer nightly prayer in the valley, instead of on top of a mountain. Initially Jesus walked alongside, and the conversation goes over the day’s events. Now he has moved off, walking alone, preoccupied with his own thoughts. By this point everyone is used to his quirky habits. At the mountaintop Jesus heads off a short distance to pray, and everyone else settles in for their usual. Everyone starts out in earnest prayer, but who wouldn’t get a bit sleepy after a long day’s work? No one can help dozing off in the twilight.
But this is to be no ordinary night, no ordinary prayer time. During his prayer, Jesus’ appearance begins to change. His body grows radiant, his face glows, his clothes become a dazzling white. Two figures appear with him, Moses, the great liberator who had brought the people out of Egypt, and Elijah, the great prophet who had kept the faith of the great kings of Israel. For the others on the mountaintop with him, somewhere between dreaming and waking, between praying and snoozing, the brilliance of the light seeps through closed eyelids, the sound of unfamiliar voices perks up ears, and the sense of someone’s presence is felt. Though eyes are groggy and minds are cloudy, what is happening there is unmistakably glorious, holy. Blinking through sleepy eyes, exchanging pinches to ensure this is no dream, there is a light radiating from Jesus so warm that faces begin to glow. That warmth keeps reaching out, as if entering the depths of our souls and surrounded them with love. All is the mystery and majesty. The universe suddenly feels clear and in order.
The two figures with Jesus make a move to depart, and Peter, never one to keep his mouth shut, and shouts out, “Wait! Don’t go! This is amazing! Please, stay, we’ll build you a house, and never leave you!” The vision began to get hazy. Everyone had been so awe-struck at the three dazzling figures; no one had noticed the cloud of fog building up around the mountain. As the cloud grows thicker, for some, awe turned to fear. Perhaps Peter’s thoughtless outburst had ruined everything. His daring address to the glorious majesty of God’s presence might kill everyone! Eyes dart about into the haze, some wondering what’s coming next, others scanning for the hand of God coming to smite them. From the depths of the fog, a voice emerges. The soothing voice of a mother offering comfort and wisdom to a lost child—“this is my son, my chosen, my beloved—listen to him.” Peace, light, wonder wash over—it is like touching transcendence itself. Turning eyes back to Jesus, he is now alone. No one speaks. Awe and wonder have overcome every other thought. God’s presence has been felt and known. The only response is to offer our praise. Thanks be to God. Amen.
The Old South Church in Boston
645 Boylston Street
Boston, MA 02116
(617) 536-1970