Transfiguration

(updated from a 2009 posting)

I admit it – I love Harry Potter.  I love the stories, the rich details, its complexities, and the colorful characters.  I wish I had gone to Hogwarts School myself, where among other things I would have studied Transfiguration, and learned there such skills as transforming inanimate objects into animals, along with conjuring and vanishing spells –  so useful for changing a scary thing into something funny (riddikulus!) or filling a room with flowers (orchideous!).  Sadly, we can rarely transform other things or people, much less make them appear or disappear just by wishing it so. We’re really only able to change ourselves and our responses to life’s twists and turns.

The words transformation and transfiguration are usually thought to be synonymous, equivalent to the radical changes of metamorphosis. They all point to an external change in appearance – a caterpillar-to-butterfly kind of change in form/figure. We usually save transfiguration, however, for those times when something or someone is not just changed, but also elevated to a new level of beauty. I’m not prepared to say that butterflies are always more beautiful than caterpillars, and I don’t believe there are  any objective measures for beauty anyway, but we might agree that our hearts are able to discern what is truly beautiful and transfiguring in our lives.

This Sunday is something known on the liturgical calendar as Transfiguration Sunday.  Actually, in our lovely mastery of compromise, Episcopalians celebrate this event twice. Once on the last Sunday of Epiphany (March 3 in 2019) in accordance with Protestant practice and again on August 6, in line with the Roman Catholic Church. Celebrate might be too strong a word, since I’m doubtful that you’ve sent out your Transfiguration greeting cards or planned the traditional Transfiguration meal for your family. But these dates in the lectionary ask us to remember that moment in the Bible when Jesus was suddenly filled with radiant light, while on a mountain with his disciples. He transfigured himself, dazzling their eyes with light and giving the disciples another sign that he was indeed the Son of God. And so it was that by changing himself he was able to change the hearts and minds of others.

The Roman Catholic Church calls this day one of five “Luminous Mysteries” and it is an occasion to pray with the rosary.  Luminous mystery – isn’t that a beautiful phrase?  This choral work by the American composer Eric Whitacre captures luminous mystery for me.

Changing ourselves doesn’t happen by accident. We have to want to change, and we probably have to do it without enrolling in a Transfiguration class. No magic spells, just the hard work of changing those habits that keep us stuck in the dark places of ignorance, fear and selfishness.

But if I could send you a Transfiguration card it would read:

May you be filled with luminous mystery

It’s really the only way to bring light to our world after all, and fortunately there is a spell for that!  Lumos!

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Peace,

* * * * *

This blog represents my attempt to put thoughts together on various things that seem to connect – in my mind anyway. More often than not new ideas first involve reaching back to what was and I can only hope that the prehistoric San cave painting at the top of this page inspires all kinds of connections between old and new.

Feel free to pass this message along to anyone who might be interested. You can simply subscribe (look for the “Subscribe” button at the top of the post) to get a reminder of new posts, or you can register with a user name and password in order to comment. If a community conversation comes out of this, all the better. We have so much to share and so much for which we can be grateful.

Prepositions

I spent a lovely afternoon last week with a new friend, watching her play the sport of curling, a game which might be likened to croquet on ice – beer kegs and Viking costumes (it was Winter Carnival time!) notwithstanding. While I can’t begin to pretend that I understood any of the rules, I enjoyed observing the sociability and obvious good sportsmanship of the players, and I was made to feel very welcome.

Just like the Episcopal church, right? Lots of rules, not always comprehensible, but good sportsmanship is usually on display, and there is, ideally, a genuine sense of welcome extended towards those who don’t necessarily understand all the rules.

Who else cares about rules as much as Episcopalians?  Grammarians! In the great Venn diagram of life, there is probably a fair amount of overlap between the two. Episcopalians follow a calendar with very specific ways of describing the liturgical seasons which shape the year. We are coming to the end of the season after the Epiphany, having celebrated a month ago the Sundays of Christmas.  Following Ash Wednesday on February 14, we’ll find ourselves living in Lent, before moving into the week of Easter and then the Sundays after Easter, finally wrapping up the liturgical year with lots of Sundays after Pentecost, until we return to the Sundays of Advent.

Prepositions are small but mighty. They tell of location in one way or another – in time (before, during), of place (above, between), our state of mind (for, against). These three on our calendar – in, of, after – suggest three ways of experiencing a well-lived life to me: fully in the moment, as part of a community, seeing life through a lens of before and after the experiences which have the capacity to change us.

Rules are an important part of civil society, of living together in our families and communities of every kind. When rules trump love?  Then there’s a problem, and that is when it’s good to remember this advice:

Learn the rules like a pro, so you can break them like an artist.   Pablo Picasso

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Peace,
Sonya

* * * * *

This blog represents my attempt to put thoughts together on various things that seem to connect – in my mind anyway. More often than not new ideas first involve reaching back to what was and I can only hope that the prehistoric San cave painting at the top of this page inspires all kinds of new connections between old and new.

Feel free to pass this message along to anyone who might be interested. You can simply subscribe (look for the “Subscribe” button at the top of the post) to get a reminder of new posts, or you can register with a user name and password in order to comment. If a community conversation comes out of this, all the better. We have so much to share and so much for which we can be grateful.

Advent 2 – Dichotomy

This painting by German artist Beate Heinen captures for me the dual nature of Advent, the liturgical season which begins the church year with four Sundays preceding Christmas. During this time we arManger and Cross, Beate Heinene called to joy and penance in equal measure.  It is a season which reflects the darkness of the natural world and the candles of our inner light, beginnings and end times, the comfort of God’s word and the discomfort of the prophets’ words which we hear in the readings throughout these four Sundays of Advent.

“Manger and the Cross” is the painting’s title, and both of those symbols of our faith reveal God’s love for us. I find beauty in its complete representation of the story we begin each Advent, and as I look at it I am reminded of a poem I discovered some years ago as a text for a piece of music. Though I find the poem incredibly moving, I’ve never found quite the right time to program a song which is planted so firmly in both Advent and Lent. The words are by Dorothy Parker, the American poet best known for her wit and wisecracks.

Prayer for a New Mother

The things she knew, let her forget again-
The voices in the sky, the fear, the cold,
The gaping shepherds, and the queer old men
Piling their clumsy gifts of foreign gold.

Let her have laughter with her little one;
Teach her the endless, tuneless songs to sing,
Grant her her right to whisper to her son
The foolish names one dare not call a king.

Keep from her dreams the rumble of a crowd,
The smell of rough-cut wood, the trail of red,
The thick and chilly whiteness of the shroud
That wraps the strange new body of the dead.

Ah, let her go, kind Lord, where mothers go
And boast his pretty words and ways, and plan
The proud and happy years that they shall know
Together, when her son is grown a man.

 

May you find these weeks of Advent to be a time of comfort and discomfort, joy and penance, questions and answers, a time of resting and a time of moving towards light and rebirth.  And as Parker hopes for Mary, a time of learning how to let laughter and dreams triumph over our knowledge of life’s dark places.

Peace,
Sonya