Once, long ago, four men climbed a mountain, they climbed a mountain and at the top one’s face shone like the sun as he was transfigured in front of his friends. It’s a moment of revelation, and it points to Jesus’s identity as the Son of God incarnated here on earth, but I’m never sure what to do with it. It’s liminal and mystical, and we don’t live in a particularly liminal or mystical world.
But the Eastern Orthodox Feast of the Transfiguration and World Humanitarian Day both fall on August 19th, and so it feels like the two should be in conversation with each other. After all, the Transfiguration states that not only is another world possible, not only is another world out there, but that another world is here. And it may be hidden and it may be slow in being revealed, and it may be wearing sandals and tired from the climb, but it’s present, incarnated among the shouting and the weeping and the chaos.
When Jesus was transfigured on the mountain, the disciples didn’t see an alternative reality, they saw something that’s already here, often invisible but always present, the light of the world breaking through the walls we build around it and the veneer we paint over it. And it drove them to their knees, because in the face of occupation and oppression, poverty and prejudice, Reality broke through and they never wanted it to end.
But they had to come down the mountain, had to go back into the world, had to watch the One whose face shone with the glory of God get nailed to a cross, had to watch the Divine fall victim to state sponsored violence. “Gotta kick at the darkness till it bleeds daylight,” a wise man once sang, but sometimes all you do is kick, kick until you’re exhausted and frustrated and your foot hurts like hell, kick until you’re bleeding but the daylight isn’t.
Maybe that’s still part of the same thing though, a refusal to quit, a conviction that the light will break through, eventually, that if Christ is enthroned on a cross then there’s a Transfiguration of sorts in the kicking too, because it also points to a different world that may be hidden now but that eventually breaks through.
What does it mean to live in a world where we talk about Glory on the mountaintops but down in the valley kids stumble through the rubble, dusty and bleeding and crying for their mothers?
It means that we can’t remain silent.
It means that we can’t remain complicit.
It means that we can’t ignore the image of God in the refugee, or the wounded, or those who lie in bombed-out hospitals as the power cuts out.
It means that sometimes we shut up about the righteousness of our politics and allow ourselves to weep.
It means we let the sun get in our eyes so that we see something more than the raging and the rubble around us.
It means we honour those who go out there and try to help, it means we offer them support here at home, it means we all peer into the darkness looking for the light, because while sometimes that light is salvation, other times it’s a beacon towards which we’re being called.
“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” John talks about this in the opening of his gospel because it shapes everything that comes after it. And it should shape us, because it means we can live in the awareness of that light, we can see it on the mountaintop but also let it sustain our hearts and hands when we’re down in the valley. And we carry it with us, and sometimes we’re the ones who have to allow it to shine through into the dark corners of the world, the war zones and refugee camps, the politics and the prejudice. And be conscious, also, that the light is already there, that we witness a reality rather than create it. And the light of that reality will not be overcome.