Over
the last few months, I’ve had several conversations with people who are staring
down retirement. Some friends are
leaving their work with a deep sense of satisfaction, ready to take on some
long-postponed projects. Others are
worried about how they will fill the time and are looking for a way to hang in
for a few more years. One friend was
doing the most fruitful and fulfilling work of his career, but the funding ran
out, and he’s facing part-time work, something quite different. It might be marvelous, but I don’t think he’s
completely sold on it yet.
In
the back of most of those conversations lay a series of questions I suspect
we’ve all asked ourselves, even if retirement lies half a lifetime away: “Does
my life add up? Does it have meaning, this work into which I have poured so
much of my time and energy? Do I have a
legacy?” It’s worth reminding ourselves
that our privilege allows us to ask these questions of our work. Most people in history and most people in the
world today simply must toil on until their bodies give way. But for all people, life is unpredictable,
full of unexpected shifts, confusing blessings and overwhelming sorrows. We long to understand where our lives are
headed, how their true meaning will be revealed. But so often, in the end, there is only
confusion. We see ourselves only through
clouds of smoke, beset by doubt and fear.
Jesus
stands at the center of the Gospel reading assigned for today’s feast. His face shines like the sun, radiating out
God’s glory. On either side of Him are
Moses and Elijah, two of Israel’s greatest heroes. In the art associated with the scene. The
rays of Jesus’ glory touch Moses and Elijah’s bodies, drawing them towards
Him. He is transfigured, but they are
transfixed. Their eyes focus on Him,
their arms gesture toward Him. In Him,
they see a destiny they had always expected, yet never fully understood.
God
sent Moses and Elijah to His people at crucial points in the history of
salvation. Moses led the people out of
slavery and through the wilderness for forty years. The commandments were given to him on Mount
Sinai and at his direction, the people renewed their covenant with God. Elijah was a worker of wonders and a prophet
of great boldness. At his command, fire
came down from heaven and kings quaked before him in fear. They were both great men, revered in their
generations, and according to Scripture in Elijah’s case and legend in Moses’,
God took them both to Himself in a glorious ascension.
But
both Moses and Elijah also struggled throughout their careers to understand
God’s will. Both of them were often
overwhelmed by their responsibilities and resented by those they came to serve. Their earnest words fell on plenty of deaf
ears. And both left without things fully
settled, handing on authority to leaders who were not quite their equals. Moses was denied entry to the promised land
for an act of disobedience, and his last words to the people are full of warnings
about the perils of idolatry and distraction.
Elijah left with Israel’s king still unconverted, the prophets of the
Lord living in hiding. His departure was
glorious, but there was only one witness.
Surely,
both Moses and Elijah were grateful for what God had allowed them to do. They had seen His power and wisdom in so many
ways. But for both of them, there must
have also been a sense that God intended something more. The trajectories of their lives pointed to
something beyond them, a hope that wasn’t quite clear yet, but was solid at the
same time. The author of the Epistle to
the Hebrews, in a marvelous survey of the heroes of Israel, says that they
“died in faith, not having received what was
promised, but having seen it and greeted it from afar.[1]”
But
on the Mount of Transfiguration, Moses and Elijah see that promise. The goal of God’s long plan of salvation, His
final word is revealed in this well-beloved Son, the world’s true Savior. The same radiance Moses and Elijah had
glimpsed in the most dramatic moments of their lives, they now see here, poured
out completely in the flesh of Jesus.
St.
Luke says in His introduction that it was the eighth day when Jesus was
transfigured. The eighth day is the day
after the cycle of the week has passed, the day of fulfillment, final purpose,
new creation. In the transfigured Jesus,
Moses and Elijah see the eighth day of their lives. All the uncertainty and confusion comes into
focus in this man and the work God is sending Him to do, this final exodus that
will banish sin forever and set the world free for eternal life. Moses and Elijah speak with Jesus about it, St.
Luke says, this departure, this exodus that lies before Him. They urge Him on and assure Him. They speak on behalf of God’s people in every
age, all those who, like us, wait to see the eighth day fully accomplished, in
our flesh as it has been in His.
We
too long for this light. We are drawn
toward the glory of God, that was revealed on the holy mountain and by the
empty tomb. We long for the glory that
we will share at the final resurrection, when we will stand with Moses and
Elijah, with Peter and James and John.
We will behold Him face to face, who has made us and rescued us and who
draws us to Himself with unbreakable bands of love. The light of His glory and the truth of that
final day alone will draw our scattered lives together and give them their true
purpose.
“Our
lives, like those of Moses and Elijah,” writes Archbishop Rowan Williams, “may
have meanings we can’t know of in this present moment.. What we think is
crucially important may not be so; what we think insignificant may be what
really changes us for good or evil.
Christ’s light alone will make the final pattern coherent, and that
light shines on the far side of the world’s limits, the dawn of the eighth day.[2]”
Surely,
like Moses and Elijah, none of us fully understands his or her own life. But unlike them, in the midst of this life,
we have seen the Word made flesh. We
have heard the words of God’s well-beloved Son.
This day, we gaze upon Christ, hidden beneath the form of bread and
wine. We sing the songs that will echo
down the wide vaults of heaven, “Holy, holy, holy, Lord God of Sabaoth, heaven
and earth are full of the majesty of thy glory.” We feast on the riches of the world to come. We look up with Peter and say, “Lord it is
good to be here.” As a wise monk has
written, “The
liturgy is a time to practice living in the New Order of creation, the Eighth
Day that is now silently permeating and renewing all things for those who have
the eyes to see it.[3]”
The loving
and transforming presence of God revealed in the flesh of Jesus is present here
with us now, if we would have eyes to see it.
That doesn’t mean that our lives will always seem fair, or that we will
always be able to predict what God wants from us next. That knowledge won’t shield us from pain or
take away all our disappointments. But
it does set before us a profound hope, a goal that will satisfy every longing
and bring to completion whatever we have accomplished and endured. Often, like the disciples on the mountain, we
see all this only in quick glimpses, through the clouds. We speak of it like people half-asleep,
confused, overwhelmed. But what we have
seen is true, beautiful and enduring. We have seen Jesus. And no matter what comes, that is more than
enough.
[3] Peter Funk, OSB, “Going to the Father II,
the Land of Unlikeliness.” The
Prior’s Blog, http://chicagomonk.org/about-us/the-priors-blog/going-to-the-father-2-the-land-of-unlikeness/ 5 July 2015.
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