Transfigure me, O Lord
A meditation on fellowship, wonder, and Transfiguration light in the here and now
There is so much in a soul that begs to be told, to be shared. I got to while away an hour with a dear friend this afternoon– the sort whom I rarely get to see. But even when we’re miles apart, and haven’t spoken in months, she is kin to me.
I came home struck– I didn’t think my life was nearly as full as I felt it in that hour. Who knew I had so much to tell? There’s something about a good friend who cuts to the heart of things in her questionings, drawing out all the intricate feelings that make up a life. We are– each of us– so complex and labyrinthine– when someone walks even part of it with us, it feels that we get to the center with more speed.
Not only did I feel the broad fullness of stories and tellings, but I felt the deep well of richness too. Did my life seem richer in that hour because she saw it as such? I think maybe so. Or rather, she sees my life for more of what it is than I do; her vision of love is more like our Heavenly Father’s than my own. And so I left her, even after a month of ongoing sickness, rejoicing with gratitude for the fingerprints of my Lord on my life– and on hers. I hope you have a friend like that. I hope you talk with her soon.
The Transfiguration came up recently in the Daily Office, that moment when Jesus takes some of his disciples up to a mountain and the veil between two worlds tear. The clouds part, and they see Moses and Elijah, long dead, but alive clearly in a different world, speaking with Jesus. When I look back on today’s time with my friend, I see this Transfiguration light penetrating, or maybe echoes of its light, like that reprise flush of color that always, always comes after the sun has set, and you think all is night. Is my soul in its night right now? I do not think so–but I do feel the repetition, the monotony of life– even here in my teacher’s summertime bliss, and that is its own sort of darkness. But through my conversation with my friend, I was touched by a vision, by a clearer light, by something, Someone above who looked at my life and named it good. I had forgotten. Love does that. He reclaims and renames. He takes our dulling eyes and casts before them the flash of that light he blinded Peter, James, and John with up on that mountain. It’s as though I can hear him murmuring to me, “here, here is how I see it, my dear child.” And it never fails to astonish me.
I went to an education conference last week (I teach the sweetest grade– 3rd), and we talked so much about how to stir up wonder in their hearts. And in all those great discussions, the realization grew in me that we cannot hope to spark wonder if we ourselves are not living lives of wonder. Our students will know the moment we contrive it– their hearts are more perceptive when it comes to facades than I believe adults’ are. I think it is of the utmost importance, beyond all method or management, to first stir up wonder in ourselves about what we are teaching– how else will it spill over into them? What is wonder if it isn’t Transfiguration light piercing into the here and now? Wonder must be moments where our Father cascades a heavenly beam into my eye, so that when I look around, I catch a glimpse of his beloved Son, walking the way with me, transfiguring everything He touches. In these moments with dear friends, in these recognitions of magnitude in the mundane, do we not feel like crying out Peter’s words: Let us build a tabernacle here in this place– It is good for us to be here!
I think I used to see the world with more of this precious awe. There’s something about adulthood that snatches it away from us– something about work and pressure that squeezes it out of us. In the sermon a couple of weeks ago, our priest encouraged us, saying that it is rather simple– if we want to see the Holy Spirit working in our lives, we ought to pray for eyes to see him. And, he said, God would grant us that. Maybe it is that simple– my adult brain cries out that it’s much more complicated than that– but I suspect it has to be that simple. There are many who say the eyes of wonder are a gift of childhood that fade, that can never be recovered– but I think the Bible begs to differ. We are called to be inflamed with the desire in Song of Songs for our Lord, not to desire half-heartedly. And with a heart like that, how could our days not be one long string of moments bursting with light and breathless awe?
Dear Lord,
I will rise now and go about the city in the streets, and in the broad ways I will seek You, whom my soul loveth. I will seek you as I form the workings of my mind and heart into words for others. I will seek you as I listen– to the gift of others, to the birds and crickets, to the music of this life. I will seek you in the eternally changing skies and the light shadows here beneath. I will seek you in all things of beauty. I will seek you especially in those things you’ve made my heart delight in. I will seek you even in those things I dread. Dear Lord, I long to seek you! I long to find you. I sleep in this life, but my heart waketh; it is the voice of my beloved that knocketh, saying, Open to me, my love, my dove. Yes, I will open to you, O Lover of my soul! Come and change me– change my heart and clear the windows from which it gazes. Form my heart to see you walking with me, transfiguring whatever you touch. Transfigure me, dear Lord.
Amen.
*Italicized lines: Song of Solomon 3:2; 5:2