"Seeing Visions"

Sermon preached by John C. Hall on February 22, 2009

Text — Mark 2:2-8

Six days later, Jesus took with him Peter and James and John, and led them up a high mountain apart, by themselves. And he was transfigured before them, ³and his clothes became dazzling white, such as no one on earth could bleach them. ⁴And there appeared to them Elijah with Moses, who were talking with Jesus. ⁵Then Peter said to Jesus, ‘Rabbi, it is good for us to be here; let us make three dwellings— one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.’ ⁶He did not know what to say, for they were terrified. ⁷Then a cloud overshadowed them, and from the cloud there came a voice, ‘This is my Son, the Beloved; listen to him!’ ⁸Suddenly when they looked around, they saw no one with them any more, but only Jesus.

Transfiguration Sunday is the last Sunday before Lent. In our text, Jesus appears to his disciples on top of a mountain in a way that is clearly reminiscent of Moses’ appearance on Mt. Sinai. The passage has many “interpretive possibilities” and can lead in many directions, but this year I want to focus on the disciples experience.  The disciples had a “vision.” What does it mean to see or have a vision?

To see a vision is to see something more than what is physically present in front of you.  You can see something in the future, that hasn’t materialized. You can see a possibility, or something that’s bound to happen but just hasn’t happened yet. You see the deeper meaning of something. You see connections that make reality appear different and richer.

In this case, the disciples see Jesus, but they see more. They see who he really is. They see him standing with, or in connection with, Moses and Elijah. And the presence of Moses and Elijah helps them see Jesus’ significance. They see him in a glorified way. They “get” who Jesus is. Then the vision passes, and they see (with their eyes, materially) only Jesus.

Visions function in all our lives.  I say that because we all have imaginations. Fear is a kind of vision (not a kind we enjoy) because it’s based on imagining something that has not happened (and something we don’t want). We don’t see only physical reality. We see connections, we see meaning — everywhere. That’s what special about the human mind.

Some people are more visionary than others.  I guess we could be too visionary. We can be overwhelmed by things we imagine — bad or good.

I’m going to speak here about vision as a good thing, as “seeing deeper” — seeing more reality and meaning than the bare physical reality would suggest. My point today is: If we pay attention, and if we help each other look deeper into our lives, we can be more visionary. Our reality can come alive in a powerful way.

Here’s a very simple example. Just before the election last November, I saw a picture of Barack Obama in St. Louis, standing on a platform surrounded by a very large crowd.  In the distant background there was a white building, but the building wasn’t something you would even notice in a quick glance at the picture. This is all the physical reality of the picture.

How does it change your experience of that picture to know that the building in the background is a courthouse? What happens when you learn that the steps of that courthouse were once a place where slaves were auctioned?

Here’s another example. Joe and Connie were an older couple in a previous church of mine. They were in their 80s, and sort of “salt of the earth” people. Joe had a tool sharpening business. For years, he mowed the church lawn in the summer, and shoveled the walks in the winter. Connie had worked for many years in the school cafeteria.

Joe was showing some signs of memory loss and confusion. Connie was a diabetic.  Two of her toes and been amputated, and she wasn’t steady on her feet. They both had some other medical problems. Connie had spent a few nights in the hospital recently. Other church members were worried about them because they lived out in the country. Maybe they should think about moving in the senior apartments in town. They didn’t have any children, but only a nephew that lives an hour’s drive away.

So I went to see them. They lived in a little ranch house on the side of a hill out in the country. Joe’s shop was in the basement. I went to the door, Joe let me in, and we went in the living room.

Connie was on the couch and she told Joe to move a stack of newspapers and magazines from a chair so I could sit there. It wasn’t a messy house, but rather full.  There were a lot of things they hadn’t gotten to. I was all ready to get into a chat about how they were doing health-wise, and with the everyday tasks of life. That was my agenda.

But Connie and Joe weren’t the only ones living there. They had a dog. A little dog.  As most of you know, I’m an animal lover. I’m inclined toward sympathy and appreciation for any living creature. I’ve caught a significant number of bugs and spiders and put them outside rather than take the violent option. But I have to confess, this dog was ugly. It was a strong candidate for the ugliest dog in the world. 

It was some kind of Chihuahua-rhodent mix.  It was supposed to be a long-haired dog, but it had large bald patches, reddish sores, could hardly walk, and what I’ll call here simply “digestive problems.” I heard all about this in detail — more detail than I needed, and more than you need. The dog had lost most of its teeth, had bad breath. I’m sure you get the picture.

And now that I’ve painted the picture, I’ll tell you the dog’s name: Happy. Happy had a little dog bed in a basket in the living room, but Connie liked Happy up on the couch next to her. So she had Joe lift him up to the couch. I was glad Happy was up on the couch with Connie because I wasn’t hoping he’d cuddle up with me. This was not a cute dog.

I heard all about Happy’s medical problems, visits to the local vet, salves, ointments, pills, carpet cleaning, and so on. So, I’m sitting there thinking, “Here are Connie and Joe who can barely take care of themselves, and they’re pouring all this all this attention and energy and money into this arthritic, mangy, ugly, sick, unlovable dog. In my view, Happy was not doing anybody any good. Even Happy wasn’t happy. And the thought crossed my mind (I admit it) they should put Happy out of his misery — for everyone’s sake. That would make sense!

But —Connie and Joe really loved Happy. I couldn’t see how, but I could sure see that they did. They said it.  “We love Happy.  We’re so worried about him.” So I just sat there and pondered that reality.

And then I had a vision. Suddenly, something clicked in my head and I saw that whole situation very differently. I saw that Happy wasn’t dragging Joe and Connie down, or adding to their burden. Happy was not a problem for them.  Happy was a problem for me. Happy was keeping them going. They loved Happy.

So it finally hit me: what I should focus on wasn’t only, or mainly, Connie’s diabetes and Joe’s mental lapses and Happy’s sores. What I saw instead was: there was a lot of love in that house. And their love for Happy was connected with a lot of other things in their lives that I didn’t even know about — just as the meaning of that picture of Barack Obama was connected with the memory of the slaves bought and sold on the courthouse steps in the background.

So there I was in a new way with Connie, Joe, and Happy. And seeing that different “vision” of their life together made a big difference in how it felt to be there. There’s a “transfiguration” lesson in that. What we see, what we notice, what we look for, what we pay attention to, makes a huge difference in what it’s like to be in the world.

At the time, I didn’t think of Connie, Joe, and Happy as Jesus, Moses, and Elijah. That thought never occurred to me. But now I sort of do see them that way.  Jesus, Moses, and Elijah are “Christ figures.”  And Connie, Joe, and Happy were Christ figures for each other.  They struggled, and they kept each other going. That’s what Christ figures are.

When have you seen a “transfiguration”?  I’m sure you all have. You might not have thought about it in those terms, but you could think of it that way. When was a time when you realized that there was more to “see” than you saw at first, and that “more” made a difference in what it was like to be in the world?