Dazzling Light

This winter, I’ve been taking a digital photography class at the Fleischer Art Memorial here in town. This past week, our instructor was talking to us about how difficult it is to shoot white. Don’t leave a lot of plain white in your shots, she said. First of all, while it might look great on the LCD screen on the back of your camera, when you go to make a print, all of that white will just look like the photo paper showing through. White doesn’t really work, she said, without a little bit of tone, a little shadow, and contrast. She then asked to see an example of a photo one of us had taken with lots and lots of white. And I had the perfect picture. My husband and I had recently been on vacation, and one of the shots I had taken was of a particularly bright scene of brilliant sunlight shining in a pale sky with just a little contrast down at ground level. Perfect! she said, it’s not a bad shot, but if you had just adjusted your exposure compensation (which I now know how to do, thank you very much), all of that washed-out color in the sky would appear richer, more peach – and, she said, you’d be able to more depth and contour in this snow down here.

Now this was a problem. Because the vacation my husband and I had taken was to San Diego. And the photo I had shown her was of Laguna Beach. Now maybe my teacher’s mistakenly seeing the white in my photo as snow banks instead of crashing waves means that I am some kind of prodigy of uniquely horrible nature photography, like the anti-Ansel Adams. If that’s true, thank God I’m taking her class. But I don’t think this is the case. I think my teacher’s mistake simply proved her point in a way even she couldn’t have imagined. With that much white, and that much sunlight, there was no way to see what I had been shooting. The stuff of my shot was fundamentally obscured, and we couldn’t see what was actually there in the photograph. We were left squinting, turning the monitor from side to side, trying to see what was behind all of that light. We were left dazzled and definitely confused.

Dazzling white. This is the phrase that’s used in every one of the synoptic Gospels to describe the moment of Jesus’ transfiguration. Matthew, Mark, and Luke all tell us that the clothes Jesus was wearing that day became dazzling white – so white, Mark says, that they were like no fuller could ever bleach them. In the Gospel we heard today, Luke chooses to leave out Mark’s little OxiClean commercial, but he still gives us this evocative phrase – dazzling white. And then Luke adds an important detail - that this bright, blinding light was a sign of Jesus’ glory – the glory perhaps of the Son of Man, who at the end of time will come down from heaven clothed in a white robe to judge the world. Or the glory of a human being who is also fully divine. Or perhaps this moment is foreshadowing – forelightening? – the glory of the day of resurrection.

Whatever the glory is that Luke is referring to – really any and all of these things – we do know for sure that this glory hurt to look at. The white of Jesus’ robes was brilliantly, blindingly, eye-squintingly bright. It was a color that made your eyes run, a color that made you snap your hand up and turn your face to the side. It was dazzling white – and not dazzling as a synonym for stunningly super-fabulous, but dazzling as a word that comes from the word “daze.” The sight of Jesus’ transfiguration was daze-inducing, and each of the Gospels wants to be sure that we know that.

But the disciples, God bless them, they just keep right on looking. They’re dazed and sleepy, to be sure, but the glare of the bright white is too powerful to be ignored. They look at the shining glory of Jesus and Moses and Elijah through the shield of their fingers, squinting and blinking, probably seeing a rainbow of neon every time they close their eyes. It’s no wonder poor Peter wants to build a booth – a booth, he thinks! – some shade, a tiny bit of shadow to save my wrecked retinas. But Jesus knows that this scene won’t work well in a booth. It just won’t be a good photo. There is no exposure compensation, no ISO setting, no F stop that will capture this scene without so many spectral highlights that you might think you’re looking at an Alpine ski resort instead of a Mediterranean mountaintop. This is not a scene that can be captured. But Peter doesn’t know that. He hardly knows what he’s saying – he’s a complete novice at seeing light like this, he’s just a student, and he has been completely dazzled.

But God knows. God knows what to say, and God knows what to do. God sends the disciples a shadow in the shape of a cloud from heaven, so that they can finally put down their hands and fully open their eyes. For God understands light; God made it, after all. And God knows that the best light is light alongside shadow, light that has tone and context, light that isn’t just white. God knows that an overcast sky is the best sky for camerawork – that images seen on a cloudy day show the substance of the object being shot, not just the light shining off of that object. And it’s the object, the person, that beloved Son and Chosen One, that God wants the disciples to see. So God sends a cloud to descend upon the bright mountaintop, and God speaks to them in the close hush of the misty fog, and the disciples listen, and the disciples see.

Whether we know it or not, we worship in a place where that same cloud descends all the time. The presence of Almighty God moves over this place all the time, is moving over it right now. God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, blows in within a cloud of holiness that at this low altitude reaches a particular condensation point right there, on that altar. And in the midst of this cloud, under that shadow of the Most High, we can look up, open our eyes, and see – bread held out for you to hold, wine shimmering in the soft light of the chalice, hands lifted in absolution or lowered onto bent heads in blessing. The cloud is all around us, casting its shadows in all the right places so that we can see our salvation and hear his name – this is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him.

But on this day when we remember the light of the transfiguration, on this last Sunday after the Epiphany when we gather together the light that led the wise men to the manger, the light that shone upon Christ in his baptism and gave Simeon and Anna eyes to see, we remember that there is more than just what we can see here under this cloud of God’s presence. There is more light here. Here is the brilliant glory that shines at the heart of God and is revealed in his only Son. Here is the light that breaks into this world and turns the shadow of death into morning. Here is the light poured out upon us through cracks opened up by our prayer, our longing, our need, even our sin. Here is more light, more glory, than our eyes can take in.

And we are promised that one day we will stand in the presence of God and see that light face to face. But for now, we, like the disciples, cannot bear that light. We still need this cloud of stillness to help us see holy things – bread and wine, ash and oil, altar and tabernacle. For now we may see dimly, but we can still see. And so we give thanks for the cloud that swirls all around us, for the texture and tone that it gives to our faith. We give thanks for the cloud that transforms us into pictures of love, mercy, truth, and justice. We give thanks for the cloud that allows us to be a witness, to be a disciple, to be here, to listen and to look at the Son. Alleluia.

Preached by Mother Erika Takacs

7 February - Last Epiphany

Saint Mark's Church, Philadelphia

To Hold Him

It’s wonderful, really, how commonplace the Gospel account of the Presentation is. So much of this story is completely ordinary. So much of it is just what regular people do, or did, in Jesus’ time. The events of Jesus’ birth had all been so extraordinary – but those unexpectedly expectant mothers Elizabeth and Mary had had their babies now, the divinely muted Zechariah had found his voice again, the angels had swept their Glorias back up into heaven, and the shepherds had taken all of their flocks back home. Life had, for the most part, gone back to normal. And so when 40 days had passed, and, according to the law, it was time for Mary and Joseph to take their first-born son to Jerusalem, Mary and Joseph took their first-born son to Jerusalem, just like everybody did. And when they got to the temple, they presented him to the Lord, just like everybody else did. And when they made an offering for the gift of his life, they offered two young birds, just like everybody else who was poor did. There were no trumpeting angels to announce their presence at the temple gate, no gathering crowds on the Jerusalem streets. No miraculous golden coins appeared in their pockets as they reached the tables of the money changers, no booming voice from heaven showered praises upon a beloved son. Just Mary, and Joseph, and Jesus. No fuss. They were, for this moment, just what they appeared to be – a family, blessed with a newborn babe, being faithful to God in the simplest, most ordinary way possible.

But then, in the middle of this wholly ordinary holy moment, something extraordinary happens. Simeon, a devout and righteous man, has been led to the temple by the promptings of his prayer. He is aflame with the Holy Spirit, expectant, hopeful. He notices this ordinary family making their ordinary offering, and in a flash, Simeon is given eyes to see. He sees Mary and Joseph for who they are, sees Jesus for who he is and who he will become. And so he does what all good people do in the Gospel of Luke when they are confronted with the presence of the divine – Simeon sings. Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, according to thy word; For mine eyes have seen thy salvation, which thou hast prepared before the face of all people, To be a light to lighten the Gentiles, and to be the glory of thy people Israel.

But the song is not the extraordinary moment I’m talking about. The truly extraordinary thing happens before Simeon even opens his mouth. When the parents brought in the child Jesus, Luke tells us, to do for him what was customary under the law, Simeon took him in his arms and praised God. Simeon takes the infant Jesus in his arms. What a remarkable thing. I doubt that first-century customs were so different from ours as to make the practice of a strange man asking to hold your newborn baby a routine act. It would be one thing if Luke told us that Simeon was an old family friend, or if the temple priests had instructed Mary and Joseph to stop and see the old wise man on their way out the door. But nothing like this happens. Simeon approaches Mary and Joseph out of nowhere, comes up beside them and asks them, perhaps quietly, perhaps with eyes shining, Could I hold him?

And, amazingly, Mary lets him. She who has done nothing but protect this tiny little thing, during the days spent traveling heavy on the road to Bethlehem, during the hours spent in labor in an animal’s shelter, during the moments spent hosting shepherds and angels at the side of the manger, during these last days spent journeying again to Jerusalem with a newborn and a new husband and so much news to ponder in her heart, she sees a man she does not know asking to hold her son and her heart tells her to let go. And so she does. She hands her Jesus over and watches a stranger’s arms wrap around his tiny, fragile frame; watches a stranger’s hands touch his cheek and the still-soft crown of his head; watches her son change a life simply by being there, offer a gift simply by being held.

What a thing to hold Jesus. What a thing for Simeon to recognize who he is and still to have the courage to take him into his arms. He stands in the temple singing songs about how the child he holds carries with him the salvation of his people and yet seems unafraid that it is he and he alone who holds this child safe, he alone who in this moment protects this tiny Lord, who weighs, what, ten pounds?, with ten tiny fingers and ten tiny toes. Simeon stands with his hands cradling the one he knows bears a light so brilliant and so clarifying that it will burn into the darkness and dissolve the shadow of death, even his own death, and he feels no fear, only humility and a deep, final settling. This is the one he has been waiting for. And so he will no longer be afraid. He will risk reaching out to hold him, even if that means bearing responsibility for the truth that he holds. He will risk reaching out to touch the hem of his garment even if that means being touched by the refiner’s fire. He will take him into his arms, this tiny Christ-child, and worship the weight that he holds.

It seems like too great a risk sometimes to hold Jesus. We feel the weight of responsibility for his message, and we wish to simply put it down, give him back to his mother, to history, to the Church. Or we feel the heat of that great light that burns away everything in us that is even a little bit impure, even a little less-than, and we wish we could simply hand him back and worry about having a clean heart another day. But Jesus will not have this. Jesus wants to be held. And the reason we know this is that he commanded us to do so. On the night before he was crucified, he took bread, blessed, and broke it, and gave it to his disciples, saying, Take, eat. Reach out your hands, my beloved, and hold me.

Hold me. And yes, this means that as you bear me in your arms and in your heart, you must also bear me into the world. And yes, this means that the light of redemption that you now carry in your body will burn, not just burn into the darkness in the world but also burn away the darkness in you. Yes, and yes. But I am here to be held, he says. The Holy Spirit has moved upon you in your baptism, rests upon you, calls you again and again to this altar. You have been given the eyes to see me in the bread and the wine, to know that this is not only your salvation but the salvation of the whole world. You have seen Mary, our Mother, lifting me up to you, letting me go, into your arms and into your heart.

And this is what we do here, each week, each day – we hold him. We come, we worship, we eat and drink. We hold Jesus in our hands, and we become a family, blessed with a newborn babe, being faithful to God in the simplest, most ordinary, most wonderful way possible. You have come tonight to this temple; come and hold him, and when you do, know what it is you hold – the salvation of the world, the one who offers a gift just by being here. How extraordinary.

*I am indebted to Fr. Martin L. Smith for one of the themes of this sermon.

Preached by Mother Erika Takacs

2 February 2016, Candlemas

Saint Mark's Church, Philadelphia

Love, Actually

“Say nothing at all,” a mother once said,

“If the thing that you’re saying makes your face turn all red.

Say only the nice things, the things that are kind.

Leave the harsh things unspoken: leave those hard words behind.”

Clichés are so common, they’re so matter of fact,

that to say them suggests you have not too much tact.

A long time ago, this was still clearly true,

when Jesus was teaching old friends that he knew.

“Where’d this attitude come from,” they asked of Joe’s son.

“Who died and made him king?  Who made him the One?”

“Heal thyself, dear physician, before you heal us,”

was the proverb he mentioned amid all the fuss.

No prophet is welcomed among his own peeps,

not when old friends are wolves merely dressed up like sheeps.

But it’s not just in Naz’reth that this was the case;

Jesus’ message is thwarted all over the place.

In our own day and age, we just take it for granted

that the Gospel of love is not easily transplanted

from the lips of the Master to the world that we live in,

which we seldom admit is disfigured by sin.

In that cliché of weddings, First Corinthians, thirteen,

we hear Saint Paul polish to an ultra-high sheen

the new law of love that replaced all the rules

that were taught in the seminaries and theology schools.

And its words have become so familiar, so common,

that it seems no more special than a hot bowl of ramen,

when in fact it’s worth pausing; it’s worth being specific,

to say they’re stupendous, fantastic, terrific!

I’m a gong; I’m a cymbal!  Hear me roar; hear me clang!

Without love all I do is cajole and harangue!

Without love it’s as though all I have has been filched!

Without love, I’ve got nothing, I’ve got nada, I’ve got zilch!

Love is patient and kind; love’s not boastful or rude;

love is lovely and blind; it’s not sneaky or shrewd.

Love believes all things, bears all things, doesn’t gripe or complain;

love endures all things, hopes all things; but gets wet in the rain.

Love’s not pushy or greedy; love tells you the truth;

love’s not touchy or needy; nor the domain of the youth.

love’s lasting, it’s endless, goes on, never stops;

love’s eternal, not friendless; hate’s the bottom: love’s the tops.

Love’s the answer, the way; it will keep us together;

love’s a dancer, it’s gay; makes you light as a feather!

Love’s splendors are many, and love’s all you need;

Love’s genders are any: love can never mislead.

I digress from the pattern of Paul’s well-known letter;

and not because ever could I do it better,

but only because love is more than a trope:

love’s a marvelous, a wordy, and a slippery slope.

All our knowledge is partial, it’s the best we can do;

all the smarts we can martial, and still hardly a clue;

and the words of the prophets o’er centuries accrued,

are like ceilings whose soffits have all come unglued.

When I was a child like a child I spoke,

childish thoughts were the best that my mind could evoke.

But now that I’ve cast off my childish ways,

I feel I could preach about love here for days!

But time won’t allow it, there’s Mass to be sung,

there are prayers and anthems, there are bells to be rung.

There’s incense, communion - not just bread nor just wine -

it’s love all-excelling, that same love divine.

For now we can see in a mirror most dimly,

and so to our vision, God’s love can seem primly

to meet our desires, our dreams and our yearning,

but somehow we know something greater is burning

within us: the chance that some day by God’s grace

we’ll stand in his Presence and see Love face to face.

In that day what to us in this moment looks woolly,

will at last be available to be looked at fully.

Now faith is important, it’s great, and it’s grand;

the thing on which Luther could take quite a stand.

Saved by grace through our faith, that’s been done once for all,

since the tree and the apple, and the serpent, the Fall.

And hope springs eternal for sure, does it not?

It’s about what comes after the grave, if not rot.

It’s a new holy city, where saints all in white

sing praise to the Lamb who conquered in the fight.

There’s faith and there’s hope, these two still abide,

but the thing about love is, it’s deep, high, and wide;

it connects us to others, to those far and near,

and in moments of terror, perfect love casts out fear.

My song is a song about love to us shown,

I sing of a Savior’s love known and unknown.

I might stay and sing here, for who, who am I

that for my sake, Love should take on flesh and die?

So maybe these verses of Paul’s have grown old

in a world that revolves ‘round what’s bought and what’s sold.

If we fight about carrying guns in the open

then maybe we’re almost beyond being holpen

by God, who is love, (meaning love is God, too);

and maybe we think we could all just make do

in a world where some preacher wouldn’t natter and natter

on and on about love, as if love just might matter.

And maybe we see things through just the same lens

of those people in Nazareth, Jesus’ old friends,

who hearing him teach, went off in a tiff,

and tried, but then failed, to throw the Lord off a cliff.

Love isn’t easy, it’s hard, it’s demanding;

for love doesn’t shrink, it’s always expanding;

it’s not just for family, for sisters, and brothers;

it seeks out the lonely, the lost, and all others.

Remember that love was Christ’s only command;

they’ll know we are Christians, if on love we do stand;

it’s our watchword, our motto, our only true light,

and by love we will manage through any dark night.

Love, they say, if you let it, will soon find a way;

love brings peace, for which daily in this place we pray.

Love’s a four-letter word, said fast or said slowly;

Letting love in your life will make all things holy.

If love is clichéd, well, I don’t mind at all;

Love’s the cream in my coffee, the response to my call.

Of preaching on love I shall never grow weary;

love’s the one single note that will never get dreary.

So faith, hope, and love, they abide, these three things,

despite life’s hard fortunes of arrows and slings,

but here in the Name of Son, Father, and Dove,

the greatest of all of them has to be love.

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

31 January 2016

Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia