By The Rev. Lindsey Altvater Clifton
I don’t know about you, but in the midst of a particularly disturbing, violent, chaotic week in the world, I’ve found myself asking a lot of questions: What is happening? Where is God? Who are we? – as humans, as people of faith, as followers of Jesus.
Today, we shift gears and ask “Who is Jesus?” At this point 
in Luke’s Gospel, we aren’t the only ones asking such a question: having given the twelve disciples power to cure diseases and offer healing in addition to sharing the good news, at the beginning of this chapter, he sends them out through the villages commissioned for such work.
As word spreads of what Jesus and his disciples are up to, the ruler Herod wants to know who Jesus is. And after a great crowd is fed with five loaves and two fish with 12 baskets of leftovers, Jesus puts the very same question to his disciples: “Who do the crowds say that I am?” And after answering that, he gets even more personal: “Who do you say that I am?” Peter answers: “The Messiah of God.”
But Jesus insists on keeping that quiet, and “he sternly ordered and commanded them not to tell anyone” the text says in v. 21. Not one, but two verbs: ordered and commanded.
It’s about eight days later that Jesus, Peter, John, and James head up the mountain to pray at the start of today’s text in what is perhaps a familiar story, widely know as the transfiguration of Jesus. Even our denomination’s planning calendar identifies this as “Transfiguration of the Lord” Sunday.
Interestingly, though some bibles label this chunk of Scripture as simply “The Transfiguration.” Now maybe they’re expecting us to fill in the “of Jesus/our Lord” part for ourselves, but I’m choosing to wonder if it might not be because Jesus isn’t the only one transfigured on the mountaintop.
Sure, Jesus is the only one who sparkles, shines, dazzles and changes appearance. But as far as I know, there isn’t a single story in Scripture of someone encountering the glory of the divine walking away unchanged.
Even though the three disciples are drowsy and struggling to keep their eyes open when Moses and Elijah show up to talk with sparkly Jesus, it’s clear that at least Peter knows something has happened: “Master, it is good for us to be here; let us make three dwellings, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.”
And then things get even weirder… they all get enveloped by a cloud with a voice. Needless to say, they’re overwhelmed and afraid. “This is my Son, my Chosen. Listen to him!”
Terrified though they were, I can’t help but imagine that when a holy cloud tells you to listen, you listen, gosh darnit. Yet the text tells us: “When the sound of the voice died away, they saw Jesus there alone.” He says nothing: not right away, not after a few minutes to process what just happen, not at all. Silence. Listen? Listen to what? The sound of silence.
The text continues: “They were speechless. And they continued speechless, said not one thing to anyone during those days of what they had seen” (The Message). Maybe it was because nothing was said, but maybe, just maybe it was because of what they heard, because here’s what the Psalmist reminds us:
Out of the Silence, your Word can
be heard in the land
inviting the nations to live
in peace.
Listen O you people! Open your hearts
to the Beloved,
that Truth may be born anew!
Right now for so many Ukrainians huddled in subway stations and school basements – makeshift bomb shelters – the hope of peace is literally the sound of silence. But in Russia, the hope of peace is far louder: it is in the chanting of “no to war” and the demonstrations of brave citizen facing almost certain arrest.
Our Afghan friends Baz and Mursal ache for a day when peace might be found for their siblings and parents and nieces and nephews still in Kabul; but for now they lay low at home and stay quietly out of sight for fear of Taliban retaliation. Closer to home, across the U.S., our lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender youth and their families long for the peace of no longer being threatened, erased, and silenced. The collective whole of creation is groaning, and what can we possibly do?
Friends, in moments or seasons of transfiguration, and change, we are invited to listen. To listen deeply to the voice of God found in the sound of silence. To listen deeply to the holy silence found in ourselves, below the noise of our anxiety or fear, our skepticism or critique, our certainty or plans. To listen well to the life of Jesus and other prophets whose witness surrounds us and whose way beckons to us. To quiet the voices of who we think we should be as a community of faith, and to listen instead for the endless possibility in the stillness of God.
While listening doesn’t seem like nearly enough…in the sound of silence, in the voice of God, there is wisdom, there is comfort, there is hope. In the sound of silence we might get in touch with the intuition, the calling, the gut of our sacred imagination. In the sound of silence, we might catch the hum of what can be, the hints of a melody of mercy, the tones of justice and true peace. What a gift that would be for us, for our community, and for the world!
As we seek to do so, the Psalmist also reminds us that we are not pioneers in the spiritual practice of holy listening; instead:
Many who have gone before you followed
the Beloved’s Voice.
the unknown saints of all
generations.
They surrendered themselves into
the Beloved’s hands,
and walked with confidence.
They were guided through difficult times,
keeping to Love’s way,
and trusting in Love’s promises…
inviting them to new life.
Dear ones, Zora Neale Hurston reminds us that there are seasons that ask questions and seasons that answer. As we head down the mountain with Peter, James and John, transfigured and speechless, and as head toward the start of the difficult Lenten road with Jesus, walking a path that is both an ending and a new beginning, let us listen and listen well.
Because my hunch is that Lent just might be a season that will answer if we let it, and we will be transformed by what we hear. So may we listen to what holy silence says, may we listen for the Beloved’s voice. Though the path isn’t easy, may we keep to Love’s way and trust in Love’s promises which invite us to new life, which compel us toward peace, and move us toward justice and flourishing for all creation.
Listening deeply for God’s voice may not come easily without a bit of practice, so I want to invite us into a time of holy listening together with a spiritual exercise called Lectio Divina. I’ll read a poem of blessing for you once through, we’ll share a period of silent listening, and then we’ll hear it once more.
Both in the reading and in the silence, you’re invited to soften or close your eyes, to sit comfortably with feet on the floor to ground you in your body, hold an open posture, maybe with hands up-turned, and most importantly, to listen. You might pay attention for a word or phrase that stands out to you; it might shimmer in your mind’s eye as you hear it or remain with you in the silence… you’re listening for whatever word or image of wisdom, courage, peace, or challenge God might be offering to you. So friends, let’s get comfortable and listen for God’s voice together:
Dazzling
Believe me, I know
how tempting it is
to remain inside this blessing,
to linger where everything
is dazzling
and clear.
We could build walls
around this blessing,
put a roof over it.
We could bring in a table, chairs,
have the most amazing meals.
We could make a home.
We could stay.
But this blessing
is built for leaving.
This blessing
is made for coming down
the mountain.
This blessing
wants to be in motion,
to travel with you
as you return
to level ground.
It will seem strange
how quiet this blessing becomes
when it returns to earth.
It is not shy.
It is not afraid.
It simply knows
how to bide its time,
to watch and wait,
to discern and pray
until the moment comes
when it will reveal
everything it knows,
when it will shine forth
with all it has seen,
when it will dazzle
with the unforgettable light
you have carried
all this way.
– Jan Richardson
May it be so. This day and each day. Amen.