Years ago, the New York City subway cars had poems displayed on signs in those places above the windows where today there is only advertising. On one of those subway cars I came across a poem that left a strong impression on me. It’s by the American poet, A.R. Ammons, and the title of it is, “Reflective.” Listen:
I found a
weed
that had a
mirror in it
and that
mirror
looked in at
a mirror
in
me that
had a
weed in it
Every time I read this poem, I picture myself stooping to inspect carefully some leafy weed growing somewhere: maybe growing in the crack of a sidewalk, or maybe amid an otherwise perfect lawn, where its weediness causes it to stand out. I see myself on my knees looking carefully at the weed; perhaps with a magnifying glass. The weed in question is non-distinct, except that it clearly has a flower or a leaf structure or something that I can look into. That is to say, there is more to its plant structure than just a blade, more than just a stalk, so that it is capable of enclosing or encasing something. With my magnifying glass, I can see, inside the weed, the twinkle of glass, and the reflection of the mirror. It must be a very small mirror. No wonder I need the magnifying glass.
But with the glass I can see what’s reflected in the mirror that’s inside the flower or the leaves of the weed. You would think that it would simply be the image of me, staring back at me through my round glass. But there is more. The weed’s mirror captures the reflection of another mirror somewhere within me. That mirror inside of me must reflect something. And what it reflects is a weed. Is the image of the weed in that mirror, the weed outside of me looking in at its own reflection in me? Or is it the image of a weed inside of me, where its weediness causes it to stand out? Does it really matter?
Since we reflect one another, I can see that the weed (that I am inspecting with my magnifying glass) and I are not so different, though clearly we are not the same. But whatever it is that we have in common, is not superficial or insignificant, for it is found only by looking deep inside of each of us - me and the weed. The reflection would be easy to miss, if we were not looking.
And somehow I am not cheapened by discovering how much I have in common with the weed - or that there is a weed inside of me, or at least that there is a reflection of a weed visible inside of me, if you look. And I think it is not a matter of pride to say that the weed, conversely, is, somehow, elevated or ennobled (at least in my eyes) by the discovery that it contains a reflection of me. And I wonder if after seeing each other this way we could ever be the same again.
I found a
weed
that had a
mirror in it
and that
mirror
looked in at
a mirror
in
me that
had a
weed in it
I have no reason to suspect that A.R. Ammons was thinking of the Transfiguration when he wrote this poem. Quite the contrary, the onus is on me to show cause why his intention might align with my kooky homiletical approach to the mountaintop scene that we are invited to inspect carefully this morning. Ammons was influenced by the Transcendentalist poets, so I think it’s fair to look for deeper reflections in his work.
So, when I look into this poem, I think I see a mirror in it, that looks in at a mirror that has a mountain on it, and on that mountain is a man, the appearance of whose face has changed, and whose clothes have become dazzling white. Three men are there looking on at the scene. And amid all that light, when they look, do they see a mirror on that mountaintop that looks in at a mirror inside of each of them, that reflects a dazzling light, and carries with it the promise of change?
St. Paul put it this way: “... all of us, with unveiled faces, seeing the glory of the Lord as though reflected in a mirror, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another.”
When Jesus took Peter and John and James up on the mountain to pray with him, there unfolded this incredible scene: Jesus’ entire appearance transfigured, the presence of Moses and Elijah, the dazzling light, the glory of the Lord, and the voice from the cloud that said, “This is my Son, my Chosen. Listen to him.” Theatrics on a large scale for a very small audience. As a rule, the church assigns a version of this story to be read twice a year; she asks us to look into the drama of its details, to see what we can see.
And as a rule, I suspect we see very little. We don’t really know why Jesus’ face is changed. We don’t know what Moses and Elijah are doing there. We don’t really know what Christ’s glory looks like. And we don’t really care. Is it time for Coffee Hour yet?
And we don’t see the mirror that St. Paul wrote about, when we look. And if we don’t see the mirror, then we don’t see the glory of the Lord as though reflected in a mirror. And we don’t realize that that mirror looks in at a mirror that’s within us. And we don’t see that we are being transformed into the same image, from one degree of glory to another. And if we don’t see the reflection of glory that’s within us, then I guess it might as well not be there, since it’s made almost entirely of light.
Sometimes when I sip from the chalice, I notice the reflection in the sliver. But I seldom think to stoop carefully in my mind, and to look into the wine, that gift of Christ’s own Blood.
there I might
find a savior who
has a
mirror in him
and that
mirror
looks in at
a mirror
in
me that
has a
savior in it
God made us in his own image and likeness. We are the crowning glory of his creation, and the object of his profound love. We amount to more than weeds - with all due respect to the Transcendentalists, and to the weeds. We can do so much better than merely trying to sell things to one another. We can be changed from one degree of glory to another. Indeed, this appears to be what God made us for: to reflect the image of his glory, from the inside out.
You and I are not so very different from the image of God’s glory, though clearly we are not the same. Whatever it is that we have in common is not superficial or insignificant, for it is found only by looking deep inside of each of us. And it would be easy to miss, if we were not looking.
And somehow God is not cheapened by what he has in common with the likes of you and me. And I think it is not a matter of pride to say that we, conversely, are elevated and ennobled by the discovery that within us can be found the reflection of God’s glory.
If only we could stop and see this, we would never be the same again.
Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen
3 March 2019
Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia