A Theology of Fun

Published in our church's August 2011 newsletter:

By the time you read this, several of our church members will have had the opportunity to experience being covered in baby food, cool whip, raw eggs, and shaving cream.  They’ll have slid in spaghetti or found treasures in Jell-O with their feet.  Already, church members have sung silly songs together, made up goofy walks, and told funny and embarrassing stories about themselves.  Where does all this happen?  Family Fun Nights.  Why does all this happen?  Well, that’s a bigger answer.

Raise your hand if, when you think of church, the first word that pops into your head is “fun.”  I’ll wait just a minute… Anyone?  Yes, you, the four year-old in the back.  Thank you for raising your hand.    No one else?  I kind of suspected that…

Somewhere around age six, church stops being fun for most of us.  It becomes serious, weighty, a thing of somber reflection.  Indeed, church is one of the few institutions that provides a place for us to gather and reflect on who we are as moral beings.  But I would argue that this does not have to exclude fun and laughter.  In fact, those things are absolutely integral to a healthy faith!

Theologian Conrad Hyers has said, “Faith without laughter leads to dogma, and laughter without faith to despair.”  My friend Susan Sparks, who is both a professional stand-up comedienne and an ordained minister, suggests in her book Laugh Your Way to Grace that humor and fun are absolutely essential to the Christian faith.  They serve as bridge-builders to forgiveness, protect us from the great sin of sanctimoniousness, give us a sense of perspective on what is really a tragedy and what is just a bump in the road, and serve as a healing balm for sadness and grief. 

Most importantly, though, humor and fun are bonding agents in a community.  In being lighthearted together, our guards are let down, and trust is built up.  On our first Family Fun Night this summer, each participant was given the chance to take as many M&Ms as they wanted, only to find out later that they would then have to share something about themselves for each M&M.   As we went around the circles, hearing about favorite foods, movies, and outdoor activities, and then about memorable and important moments in each others’ lives, I could see barriers breaking down, new relationships being built.  “You, too?”  “I’ve always wanted to go there!” “I LOVE that movie!”  All these comments began new opportunities for deeper intimacy.  Across generations, children taught older people about fun things in their lives, and older people found commonalities with the children.  With every bit of laughter or joy, we became more and more of a church family. 

As the summer draws to a close and we begin to gear up for another active year together, I encourage you to embrace it with love and humor.  Come to our last Family Fun Night on August 16^th; join Parish Life for a concert on the lawn; plan what you’ll perform for the theatrical revue in October…. Opportunities abound!  If you find yourself stuck for inspiration, look to the children; they know how to have fun in church!

"And a little child shall lead them..." in a silly dance!

Finally, I leave you with a joke from comedian Dwayne Kennedy: “Two things they talk about all the time in the bible: wine, and things that are hard to believe.  I think the wine came first…”

Righteous Plumbing

Date: July 11, 2010

SUNDAY: Ordinary 15C

SERMON: Righteous Plumbing

Text(s): Amos 7:7-17; Luke 10:25-37

© 2010 Rachel Small

Some of you were here a few weeks ago when the children performed “The Parable Trail,” a detective story in which Joe Friday, Columbo, Bond, Holmes and Watson listen to Jesus’ parables to try to discern their meanings.  My reading this morning can do no justice to that acting troupe’s presentation of the parable of the Good Samaritan, complete with Alec Bader as the robbed and beaten man plaintively calling out, “I’m not dead yet!” and Cecelia Tueber as the innkeeper announcing that the Jericho Holiday Inn has a special, in which a night’s stay only costs 1 denari and your donkey can stay for free.  I was hoping we’d be able to reprise that portion of the play today, but alas, it is camping and vacation season and the kids are gone, so we’ll have to make do with the memories.

When I saw that the Parable of the Good Samaritan was slated for today’s lectionary, I admit I had to sigh a bit.  This parable has been dogging me since we started working on it in church school in February.  It haunts me as I make my way through the streets of New York, encountering on every street corner someone who could easily be as beaten up as the man in the story.  While not wanting to give away my life savings, and not wanting to enable people in addictions that they may or may not have, I have been consistently reminded that I, the recently ordained minister, am passing by a lot of wounded people – just like the priest in this story.  I suspect many of you – ministers in your own right – experience the same quandaries, whether in the streets of the City or among the communities here in Westchester.

We are all faced constantly with people in need, and some of us have even taken a turn as people in need ourselves.  It’s this relationship – that of the giver and the one in need – that I’d like to explore with you today. 

On the face of it, this story seems pretty cut-and-dried.  As one of the most famous and oft-referenced parts of scripture, it is often used as shorthand for an illustration of kindness and mercy.  Many of us learned it as children.  It’s in almost every children’s Sunday school curriculum because it’s one of the few bible stories that is easy to understand and has a clear moral compass: be kind to others, love your neighbor.  It’s made it into popular culture, too: there’s a Good Samaritan law that protects us from being sued if we risk performing CPR on a sick person.  Hospitals, nonprofits, and countless ministries have named themselves after this saintly Samaritan.  It’s so frequently cited, in fact, that the story’s punch frequently gets overlooked.

You see, the Samaritan is no saint, certainly not in the eyes of Jesus’ Jewish followers. Judeans (of whom Jesus and his audience were a part) had feuded with Samaritans for centuries.  Each group claimed to have come from the line of Jacob, Isaac, and Abraham, but Samaritans, who inhabited the northern part of Israel, claimed to descend from Jacob’s son Joseph, while the Judeans in the south claimed to descend from a different son, Judah.  Over the centuries they developed different methods of worship, different forms of holiness and cleanliness, and they looked up each other with utter disgust.  The antagonism was present even in the writings of the Hebrew prophets; Amos, from whom we read today, spent his career prophesying in Samaria against its great wealth, its poor treatment of widows and orphans, and its oppression of the poor.  His vision of the plumb line of righteousness was aimed squarely at the wealthy cities of Samaria, places that archaeologists have found significant material wealth, like ivory mosaics and inlaid wooden paneling. 

Amos was only one of many Jewish critics of the Samaritans.  Hosea and Isaiah also condemn them for their pride, wickedness, oppression and exploitation of the poor.  By Jesus’ time, it was common practice to travel around Samaria rather than through it, even though the journey was much longer, because the dangerous antagonism could lead easily to violence.  Samaritans who were traveling through Judea, like the hero in Jesus’ story, were seen as vile foreigners.  Even though they shared a religious heritage, they were not allowed in the temple in Jerusalem; they were scorned and derided.  Just before this scene in which Jesus tells this parable, Jesus was traveling and tried to stay in a Samaritan village, but the Samaritans refused to receive him.  The disciples ask Jesus if they should pray for fire to rain down upon the village, but Jesus rebukes them and moves on to a different village.

All this is to say, that when Jesus tells his tale of the man robbed and beaten on the side of the road, and it was not the two Jewish religious leaders who stopped, but a Samaritan, it had to sting.  It may have been similar to the way modern Israeli Jews and Palestinian Muslims feel about each other.  We could also envision it closer to home. Imagine yourself having fallen in the ditch on Garth Road after a bicycling accident, your leg screaming in pain.   A policeman walks by, ignoring you.  Then, heaven forbid, one of your ministers walks by and doesn’t stop.  Finally, a homeless man who has clearly not had a shower in months sees you from his campsite on the Bronx River Parkway.  As he pulls you out of the ditch and onto his grocery cart, he’s warning you to be careful of the spies that are all around us, and they’ve implanted microchips in his head.  He uses his rags to bandage your broken leg to a board from his cart.  He pours a little alcohol in your stings and cuts, then nips back a drink for himself.  He pushes you on the cart all the way to White Plains Hospital, where he wheels you into the emergency room and tells you what to say to them to get service for free.  With one more reminder not to let them put microchips in your head, he’s gone…

For some of you, the Samaritan might be a speaker of a foreign language who may or may not have immigration papers, but carries with her a first aid kit because she’s afraid to seek health care in a hospital, and uses this kit to help you.   For others, the Samaritan might be someone within the same race or class, but of a different ideology.  Perhaps you Rachel Maddow fans out there might find yourselves being aided by Rush Limbaugh, who summons his limo and offers his credit card to pay for your hospital bills.  We all encounter Samaritans regularly; we can recognize them because our blood pressure goes up a little just by seeing them.  Sometimes it’s a person whom we know as an enemy; often it’s simply a member of a group that we subconsciously perceive as an enemy.

The 2004 film Crash has several scenes of Samaritans saving the day.  It follows groups of people through two days in Los Angeles as their lives intertwine and crash into each other, sometimes quite literally.  The film is a complex and beautiful tapestry of the interconnectedness of human lives, but I’m going to try to isolate two examples for you. 

In one, a wealthy, white wife of the state attorney general has just been carjacked by two black men.  When she is back at home, she has the locks on her apartment changed.  The locksmith is a Hispanic man with tattoos.  Still frightened from the day, she ends up yelling at her husband to get the locks changed again, because she’s sure that the man is going to keep a copy of the key and distribute it to his gang so they can rob her.  She says this loudly, in front of both the locksmith and her Hispanic housekeeper, Maria.  The next day, she slips and falls down a flight of stairs.  She phones her husband and friends, but reaches none except one, who says she can’t come to help until after her massage.  Finally, the Hispanic housekeeper finds her, takes her to the hospital, and brings her home safely.  As the housekeeper then brings her a cup of tea in bed, the woman hugs her and says, “You wanna hear something funny?”  The housekeeper replies, “What is it, Ms. Jean?”  She says, “You’re the best friend I’ve got.”

In another storyline, a black television director and his wife are pulled over by two white cops, one of whom had earlier had a bad encounter with a black woman.  This cop with a chip on his shoulder orders an unnecessary search on the black couple, and while searching the woman, puts his hands in inappropriate places – in the clear sight of her husband, who stands helplessly witnessing this assault.  Fast forward to a day later, when the woman, still distraught from this experience, crashes her car and is trapped in the car upside down, gasoline leaking everywhere.  The cop who shows up to the scene is none other than the one who molested her the day before.  She starts screaming, begging for him to get someone, anyone else to pull her out.  Finally, he screams back at her that he is the only one there who can help, and the fire is approaching fast.  With great fear, she assents, and allows him to help her.  He pulls her free, just before the car goes up in flames.  As she is taken off to an ambulance, she simply looks over her shoulder at him, shaking her head in wonder.

The scene in Crash just after the woman is pulled out of her burning car.  Photo Credit: Lorey Sebastian

This kind of shocked wonder is at the heart of the Samaritan story.    Crises and emergencies have the capacity to tear down huge walls built up between people.  When the man in the ditch is forced to receive help from someone he thought was an enemy, an equalization takes place.  The humility of having to be assisted, and especially to be assisted by an enemy, forces us to recognize the humanity in the other.   

When we hear this story read or paraphrased, it is natural for each of us to ask ourselves, “do I have what it takes to be the Samaritan?”  Can I love people no matter what, in the midst of whatever troubles they are enduring?  And we often try very hard to embody the command to love our neighbors; we have programs of feeding and housing; we give money generously.  We try our best to go and do likewise.

But if we look at Jesus and his audience, we can realize that there is another part of the story.  It’s one thing for people of privilege – and all of us are, in several or more ways, privileged – it’s one thing for people of privilege to offer help to hurting people on the road.  It’s another thing when WE are the ones hurting on the road, to let ourselves be helped.  If that man in the ditch was a good, law-abiding Jew, would he have wanted the Samaritan to help him?  Surely he would have called out, like the woman trapped in the burning car, for someone, anyone else to help.  But in the act of humility of allowing himself to be cared for, the man got more than he could have imagined.  He received help for physical wounds, but also help for spiritual wounds.  In the act of receiving the gift of help, he becomes one with the giver, the Samaritan.  He becomes more whole, having broken down another wall separating the human body of people.

In the book of Acts, Paul quotes Jesus as saying that it’s better to give than to receive.  Indeed, this story of the Samaritan can easily back up this sentiment if we see it from the position of the merciful Samaritan.  But if we also look at it from the ditch, which is where many of Jesus’ listeners might have put themselves, watching the priest and the Levite walk by, feeling their blood pressures rise as the Samaritan crossed the road, if we look at it from there, we realize that there is at least as much grace in being able to receive as to be able to give.  Being in need is a way that we are each, no matter how privileged we might be, given the experience of being an outsider.  Being in need allows us to identify with outsiders like the Samaritans, and opens up a chink in the wall between us.  From the viewpoint of the ditch, we begin to see our sameness rather than our difference.

Jesus asks the lawyer in this story to identify the “neighbor.” The word “neighbor” implies mutuality, equality.  There is no “better neighbor” and “worse neighbor” (although you may have some of those in your neighborhood!).  The word “neighbor” itself is neutral, and has no hierarchy.   In becoming neighbors to one another, people perform a dance together that requires movement from both parties, the giver as well as the receiver.   The dance of giver and receiver becomes a dance of oneness, of leveling the playing fields between race, class, ideology, and belief.  It is a frightening, vulnerable dance.  It requires us to let down guards that have been up since we were toddlers first learning how to differentiate between different types of people.  But it is a dance that ultimately leads to healing.

In Amos’ castigation of the Israelites, he shares his vision of God standing beside a wall built with a plumb line.  God says to Amos that “this is a plumb line in the midst of my people Israel.”  He pronounces judgment on them because the walls of their city have become morally crooked; they have continued to oppress and subjugate the poor and downtrodden.  They have violated God’s law of righteousness, which can be defined as the “quality of life in relationship with others… that gives rise to justice.”[1]  It has become too late for the Israelites, and they will be destroyed.

What if, though, instead of a judgment device, the plumb line had been set before them as a guideline?  As the lawyer answers Jesus’s question about eternal life, we see that it had: in a spiritually fit life, one’s walls are built straight up toward God, with all our hearts, souls, strengths and minds pointed toward God, and with level floors, on which we are on the equal footing of love with our neighbors.    In the story of the Samaritan, God has lowered a plumb line into the lives of the Samaritan and the man in the ditch.  By risking the chance to give and to receive help, they have straightened out their spiritual standing in God’s eyes.  They have seen each of God’s people as human beings rather than labels.  They have risen to the challenge of the plumb line.

Image borrowed from Epiphenom blog

By the end of the story, we see that the lawyer gets it.  When Jesus asked the lawyer who was the true neighbor, the lawyer did not say the words, “The Samaritan.”  He did not reduce the person to racial labels.  Instead, he said, “the one who showed mercy.”   In so doing, in seeing the Samaritan’s humanity in the story, the lawyer, too, became a neighbor.  His eyes were opened to new possibilities beyond the traditional barriers erected by time, prejudice and culture. 

As we close today, let us hear Jesus’ final words to the lawyer, words of bewildering challenge as we face a world of needs – others’ needs, and our own deep wounds.  We have heard the story of the one who reaches into the ditch.  Many of us are in ditches right now.  Others of us are walking along the road, with the choice of whether or not to look in the ditches.  We have heard Jesus’ story.  And now we hear his charge: “Go, and do likewise.”

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[1] Tucker, Gene M.  Note on Amos 5:24. “Amos.” The Harper Collins Study Bible. New York: Harper Collins, 1993. P. 1304.

Transfigured by Love

Date: February 14, 2010

SUNDAY: Transfiguration/Last Epiphany C

SERMON: Transfigured by Love

Text(s): Exodus 34:29-35; Luke 9:28-43

© 2010 Rachel F. Small

If you’ve ever heard me talk about my time living in Seattle, you might have noticed that just the mention of the city’s name makes my eyes brighten a little, and that my voice gets a bit excited, breathy, even, when I talk about it.  There are many reasons for this, as it was the location of the heights of my self-discovery in life.  But there is something about the geography, too, that creates in me a heart-stopping-kind of feeling.  That something is Mount Rainier.

If you’ve ever visited Seattle, chances are it was raining and cloudy while you were there.  You may have driven two and a half hours out of town to visit the foot of the mountain, but the top likely remained obscured by clouds.  Most visitors never realize how tall the mountain looms over the city, unless they stay for a long time, or they’re really lucky.  On those special, lucky days, though, a glimpse to the southeast will take your breath away.  There, where you thought for days, weeks, months, even, that there was only sky, suddenly you find yourself face-to-face with the stunning vista of the peak of the mountain, far above you and the city, revealing its true glory.

Photo Credit: USGS/CascadesVolcano Observatory

In Seattle on these days, there is an extra excitement in the air.  “The mountain is out!” people cry.  We rearranged our schedules so that we might get more time outside on those days.  We reveled in the beautiful view that was both a reminder of the way in which were surrounded, often unknowingly, by majesty, and the humility of our smallness in the face of this grandeur.  On the days when the mountain was out, I could suddenly and palpably feel the presence of God in the form of that mountain, comforting and chastising both, and I was awestruck. 

There is something powerful and godlike in the image of a mountain – and it has been that way since at least the time of the ancient Israelites.  We notice in our Old Testament lesson today that Moses meets God at the top of a mountain to receive guidance in the form of the Ten Commandments (we know about those now, right, kids?). 

Elijah, who is mentioned in the New Testament story, is also known for having a meeting with God high on a mountain.  His vision, you may remember, takes place when he flees for his life and hides at the top of a mountain, where God is revealed to Elijah not in the form of an earthquake, or a windstorm, or a fire, but in a still small voice that only can be heard when Elijah is straining to listen. 

Then we have Jesus, whom we meet here on top of yet another mountain, hobnobbing with none other than Moses and Elijah, then enveloped by the cloud out of which comes the voice of God.  Perhaps it’s the thinness of the air, or the vista, or the sheer effort it takes to get to the top of the mountain, but there is something holy about being there, something that allows one to be more open to a revelation by God.

As theophanies go – those brilliant revelations of God manifest to us – as they go, most of us might prefer Elijah’s version, that of the still small voice.  Many of us at one time or another have heard something akin to a small voice – a nudging, intuitive voice that often speaks less in words and more in compelling, strange feelings – and while we appreciate the gentleness of these revelations, truthfully, we also find them relatively easy either to discount or to ignore.  This story of transfiguration, though… THIS is tough to ignore.  A voice booming out of a mysteriously materialized cloud, right after a group vision of Jesus talking with two of the greatest prophets of Judaism.  This is more like what some folks call the 2-by-4-to-the-head kind of calling.  And that’s what this vision is – a calling.  It’s a calling to both Jesus and the disciples.  It’s both a powerful reminder of the mission to which they’ve committed themselves, as well as further clarification of that mission: God declaring, “This is my son; listen to him.” 

The transfiguration of Jesus is only temporary.  His clothes eventually stop glowing, and his ghostly companions vanish with the fog.  A change, though, has taken place in these four men.  They leave the mountain with their jaws set toward Jerusalem (admittedly, Jesus’ jaw is set a little more firmly than the disciples’).  But, their missions clarified, they can no longer ignore, or nudge, or sidestep this calling.  They are compelled to move.

I want to take a step back for a minute and think about how all this came to be.  This story, I think is one of those that is easy to skim over as a trippy, overly symbolic scene that wouldn’t likely happen today in our age of reason.  But this holy vision was clearly meant to send a message to those whom God deemed ready to receive it.  Notice that this theophany, this appearance of God, did not occur in the previous chapter, when throngs of thousands clung to Jesus’ every word as he taught.  Nor did it happen to the twelve disciples gathered together for an evening meal.  No, only three of Jesus’ disciples were given this gift of a vision.

It’s my guess that these three were chosen not because they were the superstars of Jesus’ posse, or that they had some special spiritual knowledge that the others didn’t have, but simply that they were willing to climb that mountain with Jesus that morning.  This seems to be a theme in the people whom Jesus chooses to be with him; they are never the best of the best – they are both rich and poor, outcast and socialite – they are whoever is willing to come when he calls their name.  On this day, it was Peter, James, and John who climbed the area’s highest mountain with Jesus in order to draw closer to God.  It was they who, after making the initial commitment to follow Jesus, continued to follow him, despite their fears and despite his warning only a few days before, that all who follow him must take up a cross daily.  These three, who were willing to make some sacrifices for the sake of spiritual practice, these three were chosen to witness the transfiguration, and in some ways to be changed themselves.

It makes me wonder, should this happen again, would I be one of the ones on the mountaintop?   Or would I more likely be one of the throngs in the crowd, maybe just on the sideline, mostly skeptical of all this crazy talk of love and devotion to God.  Where would any of us be in the story?  Are we willing to commit ourselves to God’s calling, to join this climb up the mountain , or are we too afraid?

Very often, I think, my skepticism for things religious has two parts.  One is legitimate, in that I have seen religion twisted in very hurtful ways into an instrument of oppression.  It is right to be skeptical about such things.  But if I am truthful, there is another component to this skepticism, and that is fear.

Fear, I think, is the biggest impediment to our ability to witness transfiguration, or to being changed ourselves.  We may fear the time and money this kind of devotion would take.  We may fear the ridicule of our friends and respected colleagues.  We may fear the sacrifices we might be asked to make.  We all fear the great unknown that change brings.

All of these are reasonable, human responses to the prospect of change, especially change so seemingly radical as the transfiguration of ourselves or people we love.  Underlying all these fears, however, is a much deeper fear – one that strikes at the very heart of our faith, and the one I want to face with you today: that is the fear that God is not trustworthy.    

Sometimes we struggle to put ourselves into God’s hands because we fear that God might not have our best interests at heart, or worse, that God might actually be punitive and condemning.  It is as though we fear that God will lead us to the cross and leave us there, forsaken.

With our hearts pressing up against these fears, we come to worship, hoping to be changed, transformed, transfigured, and yet also hoping that we won’t be.  We come, many of us, to the foot of the mountain, but find ourselves unable to climb it.   The “what if” of what might happen is just too frightening to bear…

But to this deep, deep fear, I have another question to ask:  What if, just what if, the God we worship is not the one who simply forsakes Jesus on the cross, but the one who resurrects him in glory, rendering death mute?  What if, just what if, our God is the God of love, the God who really – ultimately, even if we can’t see it just yet – truly has our best interests at heart?  What if God really is the God that we want to teach our children about – the God of love, and kindness, and humility, who loves all of God’s children – even you and me – equally?  What if we could be assured that THIS was the God who would transfigure us.  Would we let it happen?  Would we be willing to begin walking up the rocky mountain path to pray?

Image borrowed from the blog "Worshiping With Children"

At my church in Atlanta, there was always a time of confession near the beginning of the service, during which we could each offer our fears and doubts silently to the almightly.  Then, from the pulpit, our eyes still closed, we would hear our pastor’s booming voice pronounce this truth: “God has loved you, loves you still, and will ALWAYS love you.  This IS the good news that brings us new life!”  To really let God’s love sink in, to really begin to breathe it in and let it flow around with the oxygen in your blood… that is a transfiguring experience.

I have an idea for us all to try for Lent.  What if our spiritual discipline is simply to believe – or even, just pretend for a while that we believe – that God really is love, and that this is the God we want to transfigure us?  What if we say this simple prayer every day, like the prayer that the father of the healed boy offers in Mark’s version of the story: “Lord, I believe!  Help my unbelief!”  Just this simple prayer might be enough to open our hearts to the possibility of witnessing a transfiguration.  What if we try this together throughout Lent – just for Lent, just to see if maybe, maybe, if we let God in a little more, we might be amazed at the unexpected blessings God brings to our lives.

In the coming weeks of Lent, you are likely to hear a lot about spiritual disciplines.  As you consider what you might give up or take on for these six weeks (and you can do anything for six weeks, right?), I hope you’ll consider challenging yourself to do it in order to be close to God, the source of love and life.  Maybe it’s a daily prayer, set to an alarm on your watch so you don’t forget.  Maybe it’s enrolling in a yoga class, in which you breathe in and out the love of God.  Maybe it’s saying nightly prayers with your children and grandchildren, or for people you’re far away from but wish to be closer.  Maybe it’s giving up a tool of procrastination or distraction (for me that would be facebook!), so that your head is clearer to be open to the workings of God in the world.  Maybe it’s even making a getaway to a real mountain.  Whatever it is, let it be something, and something that might allow you to let go of or move past a fear in order to take another step up the mountain.

Does this sound like a really big task?  Does this sound like I’m asking you to be made perfect?  If that’s the case, let’s peek ahead at what happens after the transfiguration scene.  There may be some encouragement there.  Yes, in the transfiguration, Jesus’ clothes had become as dazzlingly white as the sun reflecting off of last Wednesday’s snow.  Yes, Moses and Elijah had appeared and a voice had boomed from the cloud… But then, things went somewhat back to normal.  Jesus didn’t walk around glowing for the rest of the gospel.  In fact, he even got frustrated and angry almost immediately, when he came down the mountain to discover that his disciples weren’t handling all that he’d hoped they would be.  He shows his humanity, his imperfections, right after he comes down off the mountain.  The disciples who witnessed the transfiguration were also not made perfect – not by far.  You remember that it’s Peter who, in fear, denies knowing Jesus on Good Friday, right? 

But even though we are not made perfect by these moments, they do offer us a new opportunity to reorient ourselves toward God.  The Taize community in France, whose songs of spirituality we’ve been singing a lot this year, practices spiritual disciplines carefully, in the hopes that they, too, might climb that mountain to be closer to God.  Kathryn Spink, the biographer of Mother Theresa and a member of the Taize community, writes about the power of the Transfiguration in this community:

“We of the Taize community look upon the transfiguration above all as the celebration of that presence of Christ which takes charge of everything  in us and transfigures even that which disturbs us about ourselves.  God penetrates those hardened, incredulous, even disquieting regions within us, about which we really do not know what to do.  God penetrates them with the life of the Spirit and acts upon those regions and gives them God’s own face.”

These transfiguring moments, then, are temporary heights of glory.  They are small chances to witness a divine truth, to be given courage and assurance as to how to proceed in life.  They are life-changing, but they do not erase our humanity or create automatons out of us.  God made us human beings, and wants us to continue to be human beings in all our fallibility.  But these transfigurative moments, these opportunities of clarity, these happenings of divine glory – they are there to bring us each, our whole selves, our whole personalities, a little closer to being in line with God who is love.  Though temporary, they give us courage, strength, and clarity.  They are there for us if we want them, if we are willing to prepare ourselves for it, if we are willing to climb the mountain.