Well, here we stand on the threshold of Lent, facing that dark day—Ash Wednesday—when evangelicals lob tweets back and forth about whether or not it is acceptable to observe the moment with the imposition of ashes. What you think about the matter is not quite as important as letting other people know. Let your theological feelings be known before men, that they may glorify your Father who is in heaven.
But we’re not there yet. Today is about glory—the unveiled glory of Jesus transfigured before the inner circle of his disciples—in a mashup, no less, with I Corinthians 13. This is serendipitous because love and glory are the two beloved unicorns of our time. Love is for everyone, but especially me, and glory is also for me. I will have them both, and so will everyone else as long as I remain preeminent.
I didn’t know we were allowed to read that chapter in Corinthians outside of a wedding. I feel almost as stunned to see it there on a regular Sunday morning as Peter, bumbling on about wanting to build a tent. It is the perfect chapter for this week, though. The current moment’s hue and cry about what constitutes love is a nice parallel to the confusion and frustration the crowds, and even the disciples, feel in the presence of Jesus. The transfiguration is right in the middle of Luke 9, which is a chapter veritably overflowing with angst. Everyone is stressed and disappointed. Every time it seems that Jesus will do a nice thing he spoils it by speaking about himself and his death. If only he would be quiet for a few minutes and just heal and make bread. But he always doubles down and increases everyone’s sadness by upping the cost of knowing and following him.
We don’t like things to cost so much. Love in particular. Love, to the modern heart, is the thing that you deserve more than any other thing. Indeed, you are owed love. You might have to work to get it, but the cost should certainly never be yourself. Love is about acceptance—you accepting yourself first and foremost, and then going on to accept others, however they choose to identify. It might be hard to love yourself, but if you work at it you’ll be fine. It will help if other people accept you for who you are, or who you feel like you are.
Love, then, measured out and defined person by person, comes to be strangely mixed up with disappointment and then ultimately with anger.
This all unfolded at the UMC conference. Half the church said a resounding No to the other half, and there was a weeping and gnashing of teeth. There was even that meme of Jesus on the cross, pierced so that a flow of rainbow colored blood flowed out of his side. ‘Look what you’re doing! You’re so unloving, so unaccepting,’ shouted an embittered western church, convinced of its superior definition of love.
It did used to be that I Corinthians 13 would be read aloud in every marriage service in every place, to the point where if you heard it one more time you would lose your tiny mind. Now we read other things in marriage ceremonies—poems and snatches of whatever it was that caught the fancy this morning on Pinterest. Or we don’t bother with the marriage part at all because there’s no point.
It can’t be read in the modern wedding because embedded there in the middle is that horrible line, “it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth.” There is no such thing as wrong doing if you are being true to yourself. So how dare you even suggest such a thing.
Which means that no one knows how to rejoice about anything any more. We are all too upset about everybody being wrong. Indeed, none of the chapter makes any sense—all the patience, kindness, long suffering, forbearance, putting aside the self for the sake of other people—these are not to be comprehended in our time.
Jesus doesn’t even have to be transfigured for us to be confused in his presence. His ordinary, unadorned words are unfathomable. At least in the text Peter wanted to build tents, or booths. He wanted Moses and the Elijah to stick on for a while. He didn’t really want to go back down the mountain. He might not have wanted Jesus to die, or to have to die himself, but he didn’t let go, no matter how much Jesus offended him. Whereas for us, Jesus, like Moses, should put a bag over his head and be quiet. He should not say that He, Himself, is The Truth. That to be with him everything else that you love has to fall away. That it’s not about your glory and your personal truth. That your sexual proclivities are not the definition of love. That following yourself down any road will not lead you up the mountain to live in a peaceful and comfortable house with everything you want and everyone congratulating you.
He won’t though, thank heaven. His words, his life are plain there on the page. If you are disappointed and angry, read them over and beg him to build that tent in your mind, in your heart. Moses and the Prophets can come in and arrange the furniture, sweep out the dust, illuminate and cast out the offense, and teach you to rejoice.
What was it that Peter said, so long after that amazing moment? That we, who were not there, have it better than he did, who was. Not because the experience of seeing Jesus resounding in light was not amazing, but because the prophetic word, the scripture itself is a light shining in a dark place. As you read it over and over and over, even with a heart full of disappointment, angst, and even sometimes anger, a more sure love that cannot be shaped and fashioned according the preferences and inclinations of the day takes hold of you. And if once he takes hold of you, well. That’s what you were grasping for all along.
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