“And while he was praying, the appearance
of his face changed, and his clothes became dazzling white.” (Luke 9:29)
I never know quite what to do with the story of “Clorox Jesus[i]” in the Revised Common Lectionary (Luke 9:28-43a). The feast of the Transfiguration has always puzzled me. It’s so weird. Okay. So Jesus goes up on the mountain with a few of his buddies, he prays, and then his clothes turn “dazzling white” like he’s doing an ad for some kind of laundry detergent, and two dead prophets magically appear with him. I always wonder how, in the days before photographs, the disciples knew these mysterious figures were Moses and Elijah. Did they wear name tags? And what’s so special about this event in the first place?
I’ve been reading a fascinating book lately called How Jesus Became God by Bart Ehrman[ii], a professor of religious studies at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. Dr. Ehrman suggests that this tale of the dazzling white clad Jesus might have been an afterthought. That is, after Jesus was resurrected his disciples and followers—who thought for sure their rabbi was just a regular Joe like themselves until he appeared to them after having been crucified—might have scratched their heads and said, “You know, I’ll bet he was divine all along and we just didn’t know it.” The story of the mountaintop prayer retreat was circulated orally throughout the early Christian communities, and, as it made the rounds, details got added and embellished until it landed decades later in a pretty similar form in each of the synoptic gospels.
Of course Dr. Ehrman is just spitballing a theory. If you’re a Fundamentalist you’ll maintain that the Transfiguration story went down exactly as it’s described in the gospels and Ehrman is going to Hell for suggesting otherwise. The older I get, however, the less convinced I am that there’s only one way to look at the Bible. I like to think of the Bible as a living document, rather like the US Constitution. The late Justice Antonin Scalia championed a theory of the Constitution he called “Originalism.” That is, he liked to try to interpret the document based on what he thought the original writers originally intended. Good luck trying that with the Bible! You see, we don’t know what the original writers intended. We don’t even know for sure who the original writers were[iii]. Our scriptures are separated from us by time, geography, and culture. Some stuff may seem perfectly clear, but a lot leaves us standing with our mouths open going, “Huh..?”
But, as I said, I like to think of the Bible as a living document. We love the Bible because the stories and letters we read have an enduring message which isn’t tied to time, place, or culture. It’s a message which always speaks to our shared humanity and can mean different things to different people in different circumstances—yet each difference can be valid and holy.
Liturgically, we use the story of the Transfiguration as a transition point. In our historic Roman ordo (of which Luther approved!), Transfiguration marks the turning point where the characters stop seeing the glory of Jesus and start seeing how his message gets him in trouble. In Luke’s gospel in particular, this story is the start of Jesus’ journey to Jerusalem and crucifixion. It’s the last up-beat moment before a bunch of bad guys make their entrance and we in the Church enter the more somber season of Lent.
If we look at the Transfiguration as a living story, we’ll find a bunch of pretty cool details here, any one of which could make for a good sermon. Just to pick one, I’ll point out that Jesus isn’t going on his prayer retreat with his whole posse. He’s been a pretty busy guy, just having fed five thousand people with a few loaves and fish and engaging his disciples in a pretty intense conversation about who they think he is and what his mission is supposed to be. When he heads up the mountain, he asks only Peter and James and John to come with him. Maybe it’s because these are the friends he trusts the most, and with whom he can reveal himself. These are the guys who, at this time, are willing to stay up with him and pray with him—something they don’t seem to be able to do later in the Garden of Gethsemane. It’s pretty important to have friends like this in your life. You know, the ones you can really be yourself with. The ones who are willing to see your divinity.
When I read the Transfiguration story this year, I note that Luke says the “appearance” of Jesus’ face changed. He doesn’t say Jesus changed, just the way he appeared to his buddies. Perhaps this prayer retreat gave these three guys a new appreciation of their friend and rabbi. Maybe, if only for a moment, they had a real, personal, connection with their friend which wasn’t colored by their expectations or projections. And maybe, in such close inter-personal moments with each other, we are closest to God.
Unfortunately, such encounters are only momentary. I like that the RCL lets us read on to verse 43a where Jesus and his pals come down off the mountain and get right back to dealing with a needy crowd. The moment of intimacy is over, and it’s back to work. (Jesus even seems a bit cranky in verse 41, don’t you think?).
I wish we all could take the time to see the divinity in the people God has placed in our lives, and that we all are blessed with people willing to see God’s presence in us in an honest, loving, and non-judgmental way. We need such fleeting moments to help us see us through the cloudy times ahead.
God bless you, and thanks for sharing these few moments with me.
[i] I
have to thank my esteemed colleague the Rev. Lauren Heywood-Bruno for this
witticism.
[ii] How Jesus Became God: The Exaltation of a
Jewish Preacher from Galilee. Bart D. Ehrman. Harper Press. 2015
[iii]
Okay, except for Paul. We know who he was, but we’re not sure if he actually
wrote all the letters attributed to him. It was a common practice back in the
day to ascribe your teacher’s name to something you wrote based on his philosophy.
My old Sunday School KJV Bible lists Paul as the writer of Hebrews, but now
most scholars don’t think it makes the cut.
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