OR TERRIFYING DARKNESS?
INTRODUCTION
The title of my homily for this 2nd Sunday in Lent, Year C, is,
“Dazzling White or Terrifying Darkness?”
Today’s first reading and today’s
gospel mention two realities: “Dazzling White or Terrifying Darkness?”
TWO SCENES, TWO SENTENCES
In today’s first reading - Genesis 15: 5-12, 17-18, we have a very mysterious scene.
We also have a mysterious sentence, “As the sun was about to set,
a trance fell upon Abram, and a deep, terrifying darkness enveloped him.”
What was that like?
In today’s gospel - Luke 9: 28b-36 - we have another mysterious moment.
We have these two sentences:
“Jesus took Peter, John and James and went up the mountain to pray.
While he was praying his face changed in appearance and his clothing became dazzling
white.”
What would that be like?
SOME QUESTIONS
Looking at our life, when have we
had similar moments: moments of dazzling white and moments of terrifying
darkness?
The birth of a child – a
beautiful baby – the death of a child?
The wedding - the divorce?
The getting of a job - the being
fired or let go?
The game winning shot - the
strike out or missing the extra point?
The walking the beach in a
bathing suit at 18 and the walking the beach in a bathrobe at 78?
The honeymoon - the funeral of a
spouse?
TRANSFIGURATION AND DISFIGURATION
The gospel scene is a
transfiguration moment and the disciples say the obvious, “Master, it is good
that we are here.” They want to pitch tents and stay there.
Of course, highs are nice. It
sells fine wines, lottery tickets and café mocha or café latte. It’s nice when our team wins it
all. It’s nice when all is going right – when all is dazzling bright. New cars
have that smell and that dazzle – for a few weeks at least – and I imagine in a Hummer or a Mercedes or a Lexus, the high lasts much longer - at least to those of us on the
sidewalk watching.
The Abram scene is a
disfiguration moment – where Abram sees birds of prey swooping down and eating
the animals of sacrifice.
Wow! Woo! An ugly scary scene.
Lows can disfigure our face. We
walk into a room and people seeing us just know something is wrong. Somebody
died. Someone got hurt. Something went wrong. Lows can devour our spirit like
birds of prey swooping down and biting us.
Paradoxically, the first reading
also gives a vision of great hope: God asks Abram to step out of his tent and
“Look at the sky and count the stars, if you can.” Then God adds, “Just so
shall your descendents be.”
And paradoxically, the gospel,
after the moment of great light, there comes a great shadow.
So life is like that line we want
to see on the monitor when we’re in the hospital. If it’s flat, we’re dead.
Life is the ups and downs – mountains and valleys – highs and lows. Roller
coasters are exciting because of their ups and downs – the morning train ride
is flat and just another way to get to work.
Both readings, both scenes, leave
those who experience them – in silence. The highs and lows of life have an
aftertaste of silence.
I’ve noticed that literary people
love George Eliot’s words from her novel, Middlemarch,
“If we had a keen vision and feeling of all ordinary human life, it would be
like hearing the grass grow and the squirrel’s heartbeat, and we should die of
that roar that lies on the other side of silence.”
Isn’t that a great quote?
When we become silent,
reflective, we get that.
It's morning - early morning. We're on vacation with the kids and we get up ahead of everyone. We can hear that roar on the other side of silence when we are walking or simply sitting at the beach.
Or we’ve heard that roar on
the other side of silence when we saw a dead squirrel on the street. Life ended
horribly for the little furry creature.
We’ll be hearing that roar again this
spring – or anytime, if we garden or walk or look at the night sky or morning
sunrise or fish or kayak or rollerblade or listen to classical music or read a
good novel or paint or sit in the mall or airports or downtown Annapolis and watch the world in progress.
LENT AND SILENCE
Obviously, one of the things to
do in Lent is to fast from talking and fasten the mouth shut – and listen.
Be
quiet and hear God. Be quiet and hear each other. Be quiet and hear one’s own
heart. Hear what’s on the other side of silence.
I am an advocate of walking
prayer – no iPods – no music – just quiet walking. Watch. See. Listen. God is a
mighty roar on the other side of silence.
Quiet Waters Park – the Naval Academy
– your neighborhood – the mall – a treadmill – where do you walk?
Lent is a time to listen – to
life’s great mysteries.
Last week Jesus took us into the
desert.
This week Jesus takes us up into
a mountain.
Next week we’re going to hear
about a garden where there was a fig tree that wasn’t producing figs.
The fourth week in Lent, we’re
going to go to a house where there were two sons and an extraordinary father –
and the younger son leaves home and everyday the father looks down the road for
his return – while the oldest son is furious - because his dad isn't noticing him and all that he's doing.
The fifth week in Lent, we’re
going to go to the Mount of Olives and we’re going to be there for a
fascinating scene where a woman is dragged before Jesus by men holding stones
to kill her – because she was caught in adultery. Were they scared she might
talk? Or were they using her in hopes they could kill the silent roar called
Jesus?
Then the following Sunday we’re going
to reach Palm Sunday and Holy Week, which begins with Jesus having a great high
– the crowd screaming, “Hosanna in the highest!” but by the end of that week he’s
in deep darkness – especially on Good Friday afternoon when all the lights went
out.
Dazzling light and terrifying darkness
is the stuff of Lent and life.
CONCLUSION
There’s an interesting word in
today’s first reading that gives an image that can pull this all together.
Maybe. Or maybe it’s too far fetched. You be the judge.
The word is, “enveloped”. It’s in
that sentence I quoted at the beginning of this homily. “As the sun was about
to set, a trance fell upon Abram, and a deep, terrifying darkness enveloped
him.”
I accidentally pronounced
“enveloped” “nvelope”.
Maybe much of our life feels like
we’re in a sealed envelope – that’s dark inside – being sent all over the place.
We’re inside. We’re in the dark about what’s really happening in life. And every once and a while, it’s good to step
aside – to slit open the envelope and see what’s inside – to read the contents
of the letter called me.
Lent is one of those moments – to
hear – “you’ve got mail” and to find a quiet place to open up and read our letter,
our story to ourselves – where we’ve been and to check the address on the front
of the envelope – to see where we’re headed. Amen. Is it the right address?
