(A reflection on Matthew 17:1-9)
For hundreds of years, butterflies have been seen as powerful symbols
of transformation. I remember buying my children one of those butterfly kits. It
came complete with a mesh habitat, life-cycle guide, 10 caterpillars, and food.
They allow children to watch the metamorphosis of a caterpillar into a
beautiful painted lady butterfly. Most of us have seen at least part of that
process. We have seen the chrysalis secured to a plant or tree— that
carefully-crafted silk pad. We notice it, forget about it, then suddenly
realize that it has broken free, trading its little pod of safety for a set of
wings. The part we don’t get to see—the metamorphosis—is what happens on the
inside, and it is nothing short of a miracle. Scientists tell us that this
miracle begins when the caterpillar loses all its interest in feeding, wanders
around for a while, then spins the little silk pad to sink its hooks into.
There, wrapped and secured, it starts the process of metamorphosis, which
literally means “changing form.” This process is miraculous because every part
of the caterpillar becomes a kind of cellular soup, made up of what are
essentially embryonic cells called “imaginal disks.” Once the caterpillar sheds
its skin, these cells start growing like crazy. When the cells first form, they
stall and wait until they have grown substantially. Then, in the final stage, over
a 4-day period, out of this cellular soup come wings, legs, antennae, a nervous
system, and all its other organs. In just these 4 days, almost everything in
the caterpillar is massively reorganized. All of its internal contents get
entirely rebuilt—as if you took your old Chevy into the shop, left it there for
a week, then returned to find it had been built into a Porche.
In this account of Jesus' Transfiguration, we follow Jesus and the disciples up to
the top of the mountain to witness Jesus in dazzling white robes, talking to
Moses and Elijah, bathed in streams of heavenly light, and overshadowed by a
cloud of Divine blessing. We find ourselves in the midst of a miracle. We, and
the disciples, stand where the light erases the lines between the earthly and
the Holy—between rocky ground and sacred space. As Jesus changes form right
before the disciples’ eyes, we stand with them in a place that is apart from
division, brokenness, fear, hunger, or pain. Here, on the top of the mountain,
we are taken straight into the moment of the miracle and washed in pure
transcendence. You can almost imagine the feeling of it: like a warm
citrus-colored sunrise stretching itself across the sky after a dark night; Like
the sounds of ocean waves and seagulls punctuating the silence on a quiet
beach; Like the sound of the people you love laughing.
Here, on the top of the mountain, we, and the disciples, get a
rendering of what God’s Kingdom will be like.
It’s the butterfly moment, the unfurling of painted wings ready to take
flight. It’s perfect and overwhelmingly beautiful. But this perfect moment is
not where we, or the disciples, are meant to stay. This transcendent moment feels like the
perfect happy ending. Standing in the presence of God, they finally feel relief
from all of the difficulty of life at the bottom of the mountain. It feels like
a final blessing, after all of the confusion and struggle. But what they don’t
quite understand is that Jesus’ transfiguration is their commissioning. When
God says, “This is my beloved. Listen to him,” he is granting them a glimpse of
the butterfly moment so that they will have an undeniable vision of just who it
is that leads them down the mountain. So that they will know just who it is
that is forming and transforming them in their lives and ministry.
A butterfly doesn’t become a butterfly instantly. It emerges from a
long process of fasting, wandering around, coming apart, and literally being
reorganized and rebuilt. Like Elijah and Moses who suffered because of their
fidelity to God, Jesus’ transfiguration only comes after ministry at the bottom
of the mountain—ministry that involves public political action against the
powers that be; ministry that includes
crowds asking him to perform signs to prove himself, right on the heels of him 4000;
disciples who still don’t quite
understand what his identity is really all about; religious leaders who see his
healing as a threat, and his teaching as treason. For the disciples, the
ministry at the bottom of the mountain means long journeys on foot, often only
to be turned away at the door. It means arguments about who can eat at the
table, and who is worthy to be touched. Spoiler alert: for Jesus, that means everyone. So that means confrontations
with Roman authorities, and threats of prison and death.
Life at the bottom of the mountain is like the cellular soup inside of
the butterfly’s chrysalis. It’s easy to understand why the disciples would want
to build booths and stay up there at the top of the mountain, bathing in the
Light and living in awe. Like us, the disciples don’t want to go back down to life
at the bottom of the mountain. They don’t want to return to the struggles of
misunderstanding, injustice, jealousy, loneliness, poverty, and pain that are a
constant part of life in this world. Life
at the bottom of the mountain may seem meaningless and futile, at times, just
as the cellular soup looks nothing like a butterfly. But within each healing,
each feeding, and each teaching (within all the most important parts of
ministry) are pieces of God’s Kingdom—the imaginal discs of God’s dream for
creation. Within each seemingly mundane or hard moment of life lies the raw
materials for transformation.
In Jesus, God shows the disciples, and us, that the same power that
drew Elijah up into heaven, and accompanied the Hebrew people out of slavery
into the Promised Land, is there with them, and here with us. That same power
dwells in them, and us. They, and we,
are not called to build dwellings at the top of the mountain, but rather to be God’s dwellings at the bottom of the
mountain—to make a home for God’s transforming presence right in the midst of
the pain and the struggle.
If you have ever attended our diocese’s convocation meetings, you know
it is a time for all the parishes in the diocese to gather, enjoy fellowship,
and learn what the churches are up to in their ministries. It’s also a time to
learn about the work the larger church is doing in other parts of the world.
One of the most inspiring ministries of our diocese is the Kansas to Kenya
ministry, which our own Jenifer Allen leads. Through this ministry, our diocese
works with other organizations to teach and assist communities that then
transform their own communities. The folks who participate in the program help
to provide life-saving mosquito nets that prevent countless deaths from
malaria, free health clinics, women’s health conferences that educate women
about reproductive health, a public school, where 28 teachers teach 1800
students, an electronic library, and a family violence shelter. In this place,
transformation is an everyday occurrence. Abused women become protected women.
Illiterate children become readers with an expanded understanding of
possibilities. People with treatable chronic illnesses become healthy and hopeful.
Those who travel to volunteer trade a mountain top for a dirt road and a
make-shift health clinic. But what they really find, in the faces of the
families and children, is the face and presence of God. As they work alongside other volunteers,
their faith is rebuilt and reorganized.
In our baptism, we are called to
be the Body of Christ in the world. God doesn’t say that this will always be
easy or peaceful. But God promises that we will be transformed. As we move into
the season of Lent, we move into a time of reflection, penitence, and
self-sacrifice. In Lent, as we anticipate the time of Christ’s death, we pay
attention to those choices, behaviors, and habits that separate us from God and
one another. We fast, pray, and learn to forgive others—not only so that we can
be happy, but to make in ourselves space for the God who is reconciliation. We take up spiritual practices that reorganize
and rebuild our souls—practices as simple as buying dog or cat food for an
animal shelter or doing something kind for a neighbor. Or more difficult
practices like learning to forgive someone who has caused us deep pain, or
working for justice in underserved communities. This time in the spiritual
chrysalis is often uncomfortable and confusing. But with each act of love and
selfless giving, God transforms us from the inside out. He takes the imaginal
discs of our souls and makes of us the Body of Christ, in and for the world. We
become the hands, feet, mouth, voice, and body of God, where there was once
only hopelessness and resignation. God makes of each of us, regardless of our
flaws, an unrepeatable incarnation of His transforming love. When we are least
expecting it, we are transformed. We are rebuilt to serve at the bottom of
the mountain. And it is nothing short of a miracle. Amen.
