Second Sunday of Lent
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March 17, 2019One of the most fondly remembered books of my childhood is “The Snowman” by Raymond Briggs. It is a story told in pictures, in which a small boy rushes out on a snowy morning to build a snowman. The snowman comes alive and the two have an unforgettable adventure. The part that has stayed with me most vividly is the opening scenes of the book, before the snow begins to fall, when the boy looks out of every window in the house and up into the sky in great anticipation, because everything seems to be whispering: “something is going to happen.” This is just how it is before a snowfall; there is a feeling in the air, a gathering of clouds, a stillness and a pregnant waiting for something to happen. And when that something does happen, it comes silently and gently, as snowflakes fall and accumulate, often while we are sleeping.
I feel the same sense of anticipation and silent waiting in the story of the Transfiguration. Jesus takes Peter, John and James with him on a mountain climb. He calls them to accompany him in prayer. Whether or not Jesus was explicit about his intentions, something in his manner, his intensity of purpose and his inner stillness must have drawn them into a state of anticipation. Conversation falls away as they climb toward the place of encounter. A mountain is a special place, a place apart, withdrawn from ordinary human concourse. One has to journey there, to set aside time and take steps to make a separation, and in the process one cannot help but find oneself becoming quieter. Where are we going? – To the place of encounter. There is a certain shyness that comes about as we reach the summit. The heart beats faster, more resonantly and seems ready to burst through the ribs. One is breathless, afraid to look directly at the One who called and is there.
Something is going to happen…
Stories are told in the Old Testament about encounters between a human being and God. Abram experiences God amid a deep and terrifying darkness, as a smoking fire pot which passes between sacrificial animals, and a voice which speaks of a covenant and of descendants yet to come. Moses, leader of the multitude of Abraham’s descendants, ascends the mountain into the cloud and the devouring fire which manifest the glory of the Lord. He returns to the people with a face which shines from having seen God. Elijah, down-in-the-mouth prophet to wayward Israel, is sent to retrace Israel’s steps through the desert to the mountain and relive the encounter with the God of Israel. His experience amounts to the sound of sheer silence. Jesus recapitulates these mountain theophanies, being himself the One who is manifested. “The appearance of his face changed, and his clothes became dazzling white” (Lk 9:29). Time is pressed into eternity for an instant as Moses and Elijah meet their Lord in glory on the mountain of his Transfiguration.
The Eastern Church puts great emphasis on the Transfiguration as the defining symbol of monastic life. Mount Athos, center of Orthodox monasticism, is called the “Holy Mountain” and boasts at its summit a shrine of the Transfiguration. Our Western tradition is not lacking in this, even if it isn’t the dominant symbol. It has been said that the proper place of consecrated religious – especially contemplatives – is exactly here, on the mountain of God, where we are called apart to remain with the Lord always, to pitch our tents, so to speak. St Benedict reminds us of the astounding fact that we live constantly under the “deifying light” of God’s gaze (RB Prol.). The light of Jesus’ unveiled face changes us; it is a deifying light. Can we see God and live? – No, not in the same way as before.
I find it important to note a departure from the earlier stories in the fact that this call to behold “the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ” (2 Cor 4:6) is extended not to one lonely patriarch or prophet but to a group. Jesus does not manifest his glory to Peter alone, for example, but to three disciples, Peter, John and James. We could just as well call them Robert, Alberic and Stephen, and perhaps there were really twelve of them, or twenty-one, or even forty! Jesus reveals himself to his disciples, that is, to us, as a community. Our call as Cistercians is to enter into the presence of God and dwell there together. We do this in a particular way when we put on our cowls – our very own dazzling white garments – and enter the church for prayer. It is fitting that we should do this silently and reverently, aware of its symbolic significance for our vocation as contemplatives. And when we remove our cowls after the office, we are not discarding our identity as bearers of the glory of God. We may set aside the garments of formal prayer, but let us remember that we bear this glory into our whole life, veiled perhaps, but no less present. One notable feature of our charism is the capacity to be comfortable with silence when we are together, whether in church or around the house or at work. This creates an environment in which each of us is free to remember and return to the encounter with Christ.
In one sense, then, we are called to remain on the mountain and must strive to do so through fidelity to prayer, both liturgical and continual, and through careful cultivation of silence as a medium of encounter. In another sense, we should not and indeed cannot remain on the mountain so as to pitch our tents there. Peak experiences pass, the vision of glory fades and, like it or not, we are back in the “ordinary, obscure and laborious” which is our daily lot. The last scene of “The Snowman” shows the little boy getting up the next morning to find that his beloved snowman has melted. As we go on with life, there are tasks to be accomplished, mouths to feed, problems to solve. Our attention is drawn away from the glory, which is normally veiled, and tends to focus on the very apparent messiness of the human situation. Moses comes down the mountain to find the people out of control. Jesus and the disciples come down and are accosted immediately by a great crowd, a distraught father and his demon-possessed son. Jesus’ words at this moment seem to be a most natural human reaction to being catapulted out of spiritual clarity and peace, back into daily realities:
“You faithless and perverse generation, how much longer must I be with you and bear with you?” (Lk 9:41)
Did he say this for himself, or for us? Our longing is, quite rightly, for the glory we have experienced, for eternal beauty, in a word, for Christ. Our citizenship is in heaven, but we walk the way of mortality. Jesus’ road led from Tabor to Golgotha and we, too, walk that road. It is the face of glory which strengthens us to look upon the face of suffering. The disciples find it hard to stay awake, to keep their eyes open to see the face of Christ. At Gethsemane too, they will fall down and sleep, rather than look on the holy Face. “It is high time for us to arise from sleep” and look upon the face of Christ and hear his voice. We need eyes to see the glory leaking from behind the veil. And that, I believe, is our vocation as contemplatives: to become so attuned to the presence of God and the in-breaking of his glory that we continually find it amid the brokenness of our world and the vicissitudes of daily life. We must learn to see the face of Christ, not only on the mountain, but everywhere and in everything.
“Our citizenship is in heaven,
and from it we also await a savior, the Lord Jesus Christ.
He will change our lowly body
to conform with his glorified body
by the power that enables him also
to bring all things into subjection to himself.” (Phil 3:20-21)