There’s a poem by the 20th century Scottish poet Edwin Muir, called “The Transfiguration” that offers us an image of the three disciples, Peter, James, and John, accompanied by Jesus, after they have been with together on the mountaintop where Jesus was transfigured, and shone with dazzling white light. The disciples have witnessed this amazing sight, they have seen the figures of Moses and Elijah talking with Jesus. They have gone within the cloud, where they were terrified to be so near the totality of the Divine Presence. They have heard the voice announce, “This is my Son, my chosen, listen to him.” They did not know what to do. They did not know what to say.
Muir, the poet, imagines the four of them (Peter, James, John, and Jesus) coming down from Mount Tabor together after this astonishing experience, and the disciples discovering that for a moment everything in the world is changed. This is how he pictures it:
And when we went into the town, he with us,
The lurkers under doorways, murderers,
With rags tied round their feet for silence, came
Out of themselves to us and were with us,
And those who hide within the labyrinth
Of their own loneliness and greatness came,
And those entangled in their own devices,
The silent and the garrulous liars, all
Stepped out of their dungeons and were free.
They all stepped out of the dungeons of their misery and were free! Muir imagined that the effect of the Transfiguration had transformed the whole world, if only for a moment.
But quickly the moment passes. The poet goes on:
If it had lasted but another moment
It might have held for ever! But the world
Rolled back into its place, and we are here,
And all that radiant kingdom lies forlorn,
As if it had never stirred;
“The world rolled back into its place, and we are here, and all that radiant kingdom lies forlorn, as if it had never stirred.”
If ever there was a mountaintop moment, as I believe there was, when the fullness of Christ’s being was revealed to three young men, beneath a cloud so thick that it could hide the visitation of the Lord of the Universe - a being, it has to be said, inextricably linked (and eternally, we must suppose) to the Jewish law and the Jewish prophets - a moment so bright that the One who made the light shone with light coursing through him, and around him, and within him, a moment so transformative that even the cruelest of men, the loneliest of souls, the most twisted and deceitful of us all, might have stepped our of their dungeons and been made free; if ever there was such a sublime moment, then, oh, can we ever be sure that when the moment was over, the world rolled right back into its place, and the light was hidden again deep within the cloud, and the dungeons claimed their prisoners again, and we are here, and all that radiant kingdom, with all its hope, and all its promise of light, and peace, and life now lies forlorn, as if it had never stirred. Yes, the world rolled back into its place, and we are here.
…
The news last week that Paul Farmer had died was a blow. An apostle to the poor, motivated by the Gospel, he believed that decent medical care should be a basic human right, and he set out to make it so with a vigor and a forcefulness that was inspired and inspiring. If you don’t know about him, you should. He was a kind of saint, and we are the worse without him. Paul Farmer was 62 when he died. His death, too soon, coming only months after Desmond Tutu’s death, makes me feel as if we are losing the great lights of our time. It makes me feel as if whenever the light starts to break through and really shine, before long, the world rolls back into its place, and we are here, and the light fades, as if it had never stirred.
Then, war in Ukraine. The lurkers under doorways, the murderers didn’t even bother to tie rags around their feet for silence. They barged right in as if it was their right. Those entangled in their own devices, the silent and the garrulous liars have not bothered to stop lying.
And the world just rolls back into its place, and we are here, watching from afar: the rockets’ red glare, the bombs bursting in air. But there’s nothing to sing about: only terror and tears.
…
Edwin Muir’s life spanned both world wars; he was a bit too young to fight in the first, and perhaps too old for the second. But he saw it all. He must have wondered about God’s purposes, God’s power. And although the world rolled back into its place, in his poem about the Transfiguration, God’s purposes did not come to and end. The poem ends looking toward the future. It goes like this:
In our own time,
Some say, or at a time when time is ripe.
Then he will come, Christ the uncrucified,
Christ the discrucified, his death undone,
His agony unmade, his cross dismantled—
Glad to be so—and the tormented wood
Will cure its hurt and grow into a tree
In a green springing corner of young Eden,
And Judas damned take his long journey backward
From darkness into light and be a child
Beside his mother’s knee, and the betrayal
Be quite undone and never more be done.
Thank God that Muir could see from Mount Tabor all the way to Eden. We need people who can see all that distance, and who can remind us, when we don’t know what to do, when we don’t know what to say, that Christ will come: Christ the uncrucified, Christ the discrucified, his death undone, Christ will come again. We need to be reminded that even Judas, damned, can take his long journey backward from darkness into light. And if there’s hope for him, there’s hope for anyone. There’s so much betrayal, so many pieces of silver changing hands, so many swords and staves and clubs drawn to beat each other to a pulp. Thank God for the reminder that it would be a good thing if Christ would come again, at a time when time is ripe; that he will come - uncrucified, discrucified, his death undone. Thank God for the insight that by the power of the transfigured Lord, even the most sinister betrayal can be quite undone, and never more be done. This is our hope, when light breaks through!
And light does break through! But the world keeps rolling back into its place, and we are here. We don’t know what to do; we don’t know what to say. Dammit, how the world keeps rolling back into its place!
Peter and James and John, surrounded by the light, hidden by the cloud, could not see, from the top of Mount Tabor, could not see all the way to Eden. They did not know what to do; did not know what to say. But with help, we can see all the way from Tabor, somewhere in the distance, a vision of the cross dismantled: the tormented wood cures its hurt, and grows into a tree in a green-springing corner of young Eden.
We hear about that mountaintop transfiguration, but the world rolled back into its place, and we are here; and we don’t know what to do; we don’t know what to say. Here’s where we might start:
Give thanks for the lights of the world in our generations that reflect the one, true light, and pray that God will send us new lights.
Pray for peace, and pray for the valiant people of Ukraine.
Pray for a time when time is ripe, that Christ will come again - uncrucified, discrucified, his death undone.
And whenever the world rolls back into its place, as it so often does, remember some green-springing corner of young Eden, and put our hope in the only One who can lead us on the long journey backward from darkness to light; and by whose light all this betrayal can be quite undone, and never more be done.
Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen
27 February, 2022
Saint Mark’s, Locust Street, Philadelphia
Edwin Muir