A Light in Darkness: Feast of the Transfiguration
Homily for the Feast of the Transfiguration
(Final Draft. And by the way, thanks to Vic for pointing out the weak transitions in the first draft. His observations made me realize that the logical progression of images and ideas was in bad shape. If you wish to compare, the weak version is posted directly below this one. If you wish to hear the delivery, it’ll be posted on the St. Aloysius web page on Monday. ---JMS)
Memories are important.
I have a sister whose pastime is genealogical research.
An entire room in her house is stacked full of
old photographs, correspondence, newspaper clippings…
all kinds of memorabilia related to the history of our family.
Memories are important.
In our church office, we have file drawers designated:
“The Archives of St. Aloysius Parish.”
Like my sister’s genealogical collection,
these drawers contain lots of pictures:
pastors and school principals,
students and festival workers.
Along with maps of the parish and minutes of meetings;
lists of baptisms, confirmations, weddings and funerals.
Memories are important.
I’m sure that every house, apartment and condo in this parish
has a similar place set aside
for the preservation of certain memories:
the fireplace mantle with its photographs of weddings and graduations;
a chest at the foot of a bed that holds a quilt
stitched by Grandma Neiheisel or Grandma Nusekabel,
perhaps a soldier’s rosary from 1945,
a mother’s day card from 1957,
a ticket stub to a Red’s game at Crosley Field.
I mention these items because,
as we look into today’s passages from God’s Word,
we come across an ancient letter from St. Peter.
And as we open its brittle pages yellowed with age,
we find Peter reflecting on a memory of an eventful day.
He describes the day of the Transfiguarion
on which he and James and John
climbed Mt. Tabor at the side of Christ
and, at the peak of the mountain, witnessed extraordinary, dazzling events!
“With our own eyes,” he says,
“we saw his majesty.
We ourselves heard the voice of God!”
Imagine what that day must have been like
for those Jewish men of that time and place!
They had witness God’s confirmation of the long awaited Messiah!
This Jesus—this rabbi
who fished with them
and laughed with them
and had chosen them to be his friends and disciples—
this rabbi was actually the Anointed One of God, the very Son of God.
They saw it!
They heard it!
The glory of heaven!
A brilliant, dazzling light!
They could barely believe it!
They wanted to shout it!
How could they possibly contain it?
How could they keep it to themselves?
Yet, that is what they were instructed to do.
That was the order Jesus gave them
the strict policy he handed down
as they made their way
back down the mountain.
And now, after all those years, Peter knew why.
And that’s what he’s reflecting on in this letter.
You see, at the time the vision took place,
they were not far from Jerusalem.
Soon Peter and his fishing buddies
would have their faith tested and their hopes dashed.
Soon the dazzling light of salvation of the world
would sputter beneath the shadow of the cross…
not reappear until the morning of the Resurrection.
So, if you ask me, Peter sounds a bit melancholy
as he writes this letter.
Like someone sifting through old memories in an attic,
there’s a tinge of sadness.
His memory of that burst of heaven’s light
has turned into “a small flame,”
a flickering light pushing aside the darkness of the night.
“Keep your eyes on the promise,” he writes,
“as you would on lamp shining in a dark place.
Remember the promise…
hold on to the promise….”
There is wisdom here.
Peter’s pointing to the hope and reassurance
that strong memories contain.
(And we all know how powerful some memories are.)
Like the love scribbled at the bottom
of a Mother’s Day card,
like the courage soldered into the metal
of a Purple Heart…
Well, Peter is telling us to rely on the memory he’s passing on to us.
The memory of how God’s promise of light
did not give way to the power of the night.
“Hold on to the promise,
do not forget the promise!”
….
So, be thankful for the memories Peter has left us.
Be grateful that the voice of Peter
echoes strong within the Roman Catholic Church.
Be thankful also,
that we are not left with memories alone.
Rather, the light of the risen Christ shines on in our world today,
As the Bible say, “no darkness can ever extinguish it.”
It lives in lives of people like you and me…
lives lived with hope…
hope in the promises of Christ.
________________________
FIRST DRAFT:
Homily for the Feast of the Transfiguration
[Your feedback and constructive criticism is invited. Please e-mail me at jms48@fuse.net]
Memories are important.
And some memories are more important than others.
I have a sister whose pastime is genealogical research.
An entire room in her house is stacked full of
old photographs, correspondence, newspaper clippings,
copies of deeds and all kinds of memorabilia related to the history of our family.
In our church office, we have file drawers designated:
“The Archives of St. Aloysius Parish.”
Like the room housing my sister’s genealogical collection,
these drawers contain pictures of pastors and school principals,
students and dances and festivals
as well as maps of the parish and minutes of meetings
and lists of baptisms, confirmations, weddings and funerals.
And I’m sure that every house, apartment and condo in this parish
has a similar place set aside
for the preservation of certain memories:
the fireplace mantle with its photographs of weddings and graduations;
a chest at the foot of a bed that holds a quilt stitched by Grandma Neiheisel,
a box with a hand-carved pipe from Ireland,
a soldier’s rosary from 1945,
a mother’s day card from 1957,
a ticket stub to a Red’s game at Crosley Field.
I mention these items because,
as we look into today’s passages from God’s Word,
we come across an ancient letter from St. Peter.
And as we open its brittle pages yellowed with age,
we find Peter reflecting on memory of an eventful day.
He describes the day on which he and James and John
climbed Mt. Tabor at the side of Christ
and witnessed that extraordinary, dazzling event called
The Transfiguration.
“With our own eyes,” he says,
“we saw his majesty.”
“And we ourselves heard the voice of God!”
Like an old man holding a silver medal in the palm of his hand,
you can hear the melancholy in his voice.
The event is now long in the past,
but the memory of that amazing day remains:
the dazzling light blazes anew!
The powerful Voice reverberates again!
But it is all a memory now, a distant memory.
In his own words,
Peter describes the light
no longer as a burst of sunlight crowning the hilltop,
but rather a small flame pushing aside the darkness of the night.
“Keep your eyes on the promise,” urges the aging saint.
“Keep you eyes on the promise as you would
a lamp shining in a dark place.”
He nods and his fingers tap the parchment.
“Until day dawns,” he says,
“and the morning star rises in your hearts.”
There is deep wisdom here in the memory of St. Peter.
Because, as you know, back on that mountaintop day
of majestic power and brilliant light,
Peter and James and John were inclined to shout out the wonder of it all.
Indeed, their hearts were pounding in their chests!
They had witness God’s confirmation of the long awaited Messiah!
This Jesus—this rabbi who fished with them and laughed with them
and had chosen them and was not in the process of teaching them—this young rabbi
was the Anointed One of God, the very Son of God.
They saw it!
They heard it!
They could barely believe it!
How could they possibly contain it?
How could they keep it to themselves?
Yet, that is what they were instructed to do.
That was the order Jesus gave them as they came down the mountainside.
And now, after all those years, Peter knew why.
For on that day, up ahead, lay Jerusalem.
The city that slaughtered prophets
and would soon crucify the Son of God.
Soon he himself would witness
the dazzling light of salvation
sputtering beneath the shadow of the cross…
seemingly extinguished…
not reappear until the morning of the Resurrection.
How hard a lesson to apprehend,
this prophetic message of promise amid a pressing darkness.
Yet, such is the message we’ve been given
and it’s one to which we cling.
Like the love scribbled at the bottom
of a Mother’s Day card,
like the courage soldered into the metal
of a Purple Heart…
like the endurance written into a contract,
like the memory of youthful exuberance reflected in a trophy…
like these memories, strong and vibrant memories,
so too the proclamation of the ancient Word of God
shores us up!
Not only that, there’s more!
The salvation made tangible in the Sacraments of the Church
also keeps strong our faith…
no matter the times or circumstances in which we live.
Yes, the voice of Peter echoes strong within the Church.
And the light of faith will lead us to Christ.
We are not left with memories stuffed away in an attic chest.
Rather, we live in the light of the risen Christ.
The promise inscribed in the Word of God assures us of this:
the light of our faith “shines on in darkness,”
truly it’s a light that “no darkness can ever extinguish.”
(Final Draft. And by the way, thanks to Vic for pointing out the weak transitions in the first draft. His observations made me realize that the logical progression of images and ideas was in bad shape. If you wish to compare, the weak version is posted directly below this one. If you wish to hear the delivery, it’ll be posted on the St. Aloysius web page on Monday. ---JMS)
Memories are important.
I have a sister whose pastime is genealogical research.
An entire room in her house is stacked full of
old photographs, correspondence, newspaper clippings…
all kinds of memorabilia related to the history of our family.
Memories are important.
In our church office, we have file drawers designated:
“The Archives of St. Aloysius Parish.”
Like my sister’s genealogical collection,
these drawers contain lots of pictures:
pastors and school principals,
students and festival workers.
Along with maps of the parish and minutes of meetings;
lists of baptisms, confirmations, weddings and funerals.
Memories are important.
I’m sure that every house, apartment and condo in this parish
has a similar place set aside
for the preservation of certain memories:
the fireplace mantle with its photographs of weddings and graduations;
a chest at the foot of a bed that holds a quilt
stitched by Grandma Neiheisel or Grandma Nusekabel,
perhaps a soldier’s rosary from 1945,
a mother’s day card from 1957,
a ticket stub to a Red’s game at Crosley Field.
I mention these items because,
as we look into today’s passages from God’s Word,
we come across an ancient letter from St. Peter.
And as we open its brittle pages yellowed with age,
we find Peter reflecting on a memory of an eventful day.
He describes the day of the Transfiguarion
on which he and James and John
climbed Mt. Tabor at the side of Christ
and, at the peak of the mountain, witnessed extraordinary, dazzling events!
“With our own eyes,” he says,
“we saw his majesty.
We ourselves heard the voice of God!”
Imagine what that day must have been like
for those Jewish men of that time and place!
They had witness God’s confirmation of the long awaited Messiah!
This Jesus—this rabbi
who fished with them
and laughed with them
and had chosen them to be his friends and disciples—
this rabbi was actually the Anointed One of God, the very Son of God.
They saw it!
They heard it!
The glory of heaven!
A brilliant, dazzling light!
They could barely believe it!
They wanted to shout it!
How could they possibly contain it?
How could they keep it to themselves?
Yet, that is what they were instructed to do.
That was the order Jesus gave them
the strict policy he handed down
as they made their way
back down the mountain.
And now, after all those years, Peter knew why.
And that’s what he’s reflecting on in this letter.
You see, at the time the vision took place,
they were not far from Jerusalem.
Soon Peter and his fishing buddies
would have their faith tested and their hopes dashed.
Soon the dazzling light of salvation of the world
would sputter beneath the shadow of the cross…
not reappear until the morning of the Resurrection.
So, if you ask me, Peter sounds a bit melancholy
as he writes this letter.
Like someone sifting through old memories in an attic,
there’s a tinge of sadness.
His memory of that burst of heaven’s light
has turned into “a small flame,”
a flickering light pushing aside the darkness of the night.
“Keep your eyes on the promise,” he writes,
“as you would on lamp shining in a dark place.
Remember the promise…
hold on to the promise….”
There is wisdom here.
Peter’s pointing to the hope and reassurance
that strong memories contain.
(And we all know how powerful some memories are.)
Like the love scribbled at the bottom
of a Mother’s Day card,
like the courage soldered into the metal
of a Purple Heart…
Well, Peter is telling us to rely on the memory he’s passing on to us.
The memory of how God’s promise of light
did not give way to the power of the night.
“Hold on to the promise,
do not forget the promise!”
….
So, be thankful for the memories Peter has left us.
Be grateful that the voice of Peter
echoes strong within the Roman Catholic Church.
Be thankful also,
that we are not left with memories alone.
Rather, the light of the risen Christ shines on in our world today,
As the Bible say, “no darkness can ever extinguish it.”
It lives in lives of people like you and me…
lives lived with hope…
hope in the promises of Christ.
________________________
FIRST DRAFT:
Homily for the Feast of the Transfiguration
[Your feedback and constructive criticism is invited. Please e-mail me at jms48@fuse.net]
Memories are important.
And some memories are more important than others.
I have a sister whose pastime is genealogical research.
An entire room in her house is stacked full of
old photographs, correspondence, newspaper clippings,
copies of deeds and all kinds of memorabilia related to the history of our family.
In our church office, we have file drawers designated:
“The Archives of St. Aloysius Parish.”
Like the room housing my sister’s genealogical collection,
these drawers contain pictures of pastors and school principals,
students and dances and festivals
as well as maps of the parish and minutes of meetings
and lists of baptisms, confirmations, weddings and funerals.
And I’m sure that every house, apartment and condo in this parish
has a similar place set aside
for the preservation of certain memories:
the fireplace mantle with its photographs of weddings and graduations;
a chest at the foot of a bed that holds a quilt stitched by Grandma Neiheisel,
a box with a hand-carved pipe from Ireland,
a soldier’s rosary from 1945,
a mother’s day card from 1957,
a ticket stub to a Red’s game at Crosley Field.
I mention these items because,
as we look into today’s passages from God’s Word,
we come across an ancient letter from St. Peter.
And as we open its brittle pages yellowed with age,
we find Peter reflecting on memory of an eventful day.
He describes the day on which he and James and John
climbed Mt. Tabor at the side of Christ
and witnessed that extraordinary, dazzling event called
The Transfiguration.
“With our own eyes,” he says,
“we saw his majesty.”
“And we ourselves heard the voice of God!”
Like an old man holding a silver medal in the palm of his hand,
you can hear the melancholy in his voice.
The event is now long in the past,
but the memory of that amazing day remains:
the dazzling light blazes anew!
The powerful Voice reverberates again!
But it is all a memory now, a distant memory.
In his own words,
Peter describes the light
no longer as a burst of sunlight crowning the hilltop,
but rather a small flame pushing aside the darkness of the night.
“Keep your eyes on the promise,” urges the aging saint.
“Keep you eyes on the promise as you would
a lamp shining in a dark place.”
He nods and his fingers tap the parchment.
“Until day dawns,” he says,
“and the morning star rises in your hearts.”
There is deep wisdom here in the memory of St. Peter.
Because, as you know, back on that mountaintop day
of majestic power and brilliant light,
Peter and James and John were inclined to shout out the wonder of it all.
Indeed, their hearts were pounding in their chests!
They had witness God’s confirmation of the long awaited Messiah!
This Jesus—this rabbi who fished with them and laughed with them
and had chosen them and was not in the process of teaching them—this young rabbi
was the Anointed One of God, the very Son of God.
They saw it!
They heard it!
They could barely believe it!
How could they possibly contain it?
How could they keep it to themselves?
Yet, that is what they were instructed to do.
That was the order Jesus gave them as they came down the mountainside.
And now, after all those years, Peter knew why.
For on that day, up ahead, lay Jerusalem.
The city that slaughtered prophets
and would soon crucify the Son of God.
Soon he himself would witness
the dazzling light of salvation
sputtering beneath the shadow of the cross…
seemingly extinguished…
not reappear until the morning of the Resurrection.
How hard a lesson to apprehend,
this prophetic message of promise amid a pressing darkness.
Yet, such is the message we’ve been given
and it’s one to which we cling.
Like the love scribbled at the bottom
of a Mother’s Day card,
like the courage soldered into the metal
of a Purple Heart…
like the endurance written into a contract,
like the memory of youthful exuberance reflected in a trophy…
like these memories, strong and vibrant memories,
so too the proclamation of the ancient Word of God
shores us up!
Not only that, there’s more!
The salvation made tangible in the Sacraments of the Church
also keeps strong our faith…
no matter the times or circumstances in which we live.
Yes, the voice of Peter echoes strong within the Church.
And the light of faith will lead us to Christ.
We are not left with memories stuffed away in an attic chest.
Rather, we live in the light of the risen Christ.
The promise inscribed in the Word of God assures us of this:
the light of our faith “shines on in darkness,”
truly it’s a light that “no darkness can ever extinguish.”
posted by BlueCollarPreacher at 10:02 AM
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