In his homily on Sunday, Father Jose Mesa pointed out that the Transfiguration of Jesus prepares us less for the Crucifixion than it does for the Resurrection.  In both Matthew and Mark we read that Jesus cautions Peter, James, and John, who were witnesses to this manifestation of Jesus’ glory, not to tell anyone about it “until the Son of Man is raised from the dead” (Matthew 17:9).

Father Jose went on to say that in many ways the Resurrection is harder to deal with than the Crucifixion.  I nodded.  Yes, I do believe that is true.  Everyone has some experience of suffering.  And if as yet we have had no experience of death, we eventually will.

But resurrection? The victory of life over death?  The definitive triumph of goodness?  A radiance that will fill, not only Jesus, but us as well? How do we deal with this?  How do we even begin to describe it?  In the remarkable 15th chapter of 1 Corinthians, Saint Paul tries his best to tell us something of what the resurrection of the dead will be like, but ends up making it sound marvelously and totally incomprehensible.

When in the Presence of Mystery…

Faced with the dazzling glory of Jesus transfigured, Peter, who tends to rush in where angels fear to tread, says, “Rabbi, it is good for us to be here; let us make three tents, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah” (Mark 9:5).

Whereupon the disciples hear a voice from the cloud.

What do they hear?  Not “Nice idea, Peter,” or even “Let’s sit down and discuss what you are experiencing.” No, all three synoptic gospels record that the voice says something to the effect of “This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased;  listen to him!”

Or to be blunt, “Be quiet and pay attention to Jesus!”

What is the proper response when in the presence of great mystery —   whether we happen to be Peter the first pope, Benedict the current pope, or an ordinary person such as I am (and probably such you are, too)?

Stop talking and listen! Pay attention!  The time will come to proclaim the good news (for the Mystery of God is always good news).  But not yet.  Now is the time for listening.

_____

The following is Peter’s account.  Notice that he conveniently leaves out the part that suggests he was talking too much.

…we had been eyewitnesses of his majesty. For he received honor and glory from God the Father when that voice was conveyed to him by the Majestic Glory, saying, ‘This is my Son, my Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.’ We ourselves heard this voice come from heaven, while we were with him on the holy mountain.

So we have the prophetic message more fully confirmed. You will do well to be attentive to this as to a lamp shining in a dark place, until the day dawns and the morning star rises in your hearts.

2 Peter 1:16-19

It happens every so often that someone tries to get in that door, figures out that it is locked, and without further ado walks around to the main entrance. This time, however, the door continued to rattle and there was a clamor of voices — or at least what sounded to me like several voices.

What was going on? Was the building on fire? Had the construction workers next door dropped a slab of concrete on a row of cars in the parking lot? Were incompetent terrorists staging an invasion?

Everything inside halted as all attention was focused on that door. Finally Father nodded to the server, who left the altar and pushed the door open, apparently undaunted by a possible invasion. And in came, not terrorists, nor a group of construction workers confessing to flattening our vehicles, but a single weary middle-aged woman using a walker. She found a nearby pew and sat down. Our priest, only slightly discombobulated, began the Eucharistic prayer.

Lord you are holy indeed,
the fountain of all holiness.
Let your Spirit come upon these gifts
to make them holy,
so that they may become for us
the body and blood of our Lord, Jesus Christ.

Now, I ask you: was this incident a disruption of the sacred liturgy? Or was it an irruption of the sacred in the midst of the liturgy?

My first thought was that it had been a disruption. I was annoyed. The flow of the mass had been interrupted, not to mention the fact that I generally just don’t like clatter.

My second, reflective thought was that the sacred had irrupted in our midst. I remembered the words of Jesus from the book of Revelation:

Listen! I am standing at the door, knocking; if you hear my voice and open the door, I will come in to you and eat with you, and you with me. (3:20)

Yes, I know this was not only a standing and a knocking, but also a rattling and a calling out; but sometimes Jesus has to go to extremes to get our attention. And yes, I know that the one who entered and ate with us was a woman with a walker; but we also have these words of Jesus:

Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me. (Matthew 25:40)

O Jesus,
Teach us to be mindful and awake,
Always waiting for you,
That we may not be heedless to your appearing.

However, Christians believe that the Messiah has already come. So why are we still waiting? And for what — or whom — are we waiting?

I am sometimes struck by how little time most of us Catholics spend pondering the Second Coming of Christ. This is puzzling, because we proclaim it every time we go to Mass. For example, here are three of the Memorial Acclamations:

• “Christ has died, Christ is risen, Christ will come again.”
• “When we eat this bread and drink this cup, we proclaim your death, Lord Jesus, until you come in glory.”
• “Dying, you destroyed our death, rising you restored our life. Lord Jesus, come in glory.”

But more important than saying these words is the very action of receiving communion: “For as often as you eat this bread and drink the cup,” says Paul in 1 Corinthians 11:26, “you proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes.” Our own call is to share in the mystery of Jesus’ life, death, resurrection – and expected return.

When should we expect the Second Coming?

A Talmudic story goes something like this: Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi meets the prophet Elijah and asks him, “When is Messiah coming?”

“Go ask him,” says Elijah.

“But where will I find him, and how will I recognize him?” asks the good rabbi.

“He is sitting among the beggars,” answers Elijah.

Like the beggars, the Messiah also is covered with sores, but there is a difference, Elijah points out. When the others unbind their wounds, they unwrap them all at once, then bind them all up again. But the Messiah, instead of unwrapping all his wounds at once, unbinds just one at a time and then bandages that one up again right away. That is so he will be ready to make his appearance without delay, whenever he is called.

So Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi finds the Messiah and asks him, “Master, when are you coming?”

“Today,” he replies.

Rabbi Yehoshua returns saddened to Elijah and tells him that the Messiah has lied to him.

“He said he was coming today — and he hasn’t come.”

But Elijah explains that he has misunderstood. The Messiah was referring to Psalm 95: “O that today you would listen to his voice.”

We too must listen for Christ and look for Christ today, at this very moment. Not that there is any use trying to figure out the date of his Second Coming, for “about that day and hour,” he has told us, “no one knows, neither the angels of heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father….Keep awake therefore, for you do not know on what day your Lord is coming” (Matthew 24:36,42).

Perhaps he will come in glory within the next hour. On the other hand, perhaps he is calling us very quietly to let him come more fully into our hearts and into the daily events of our lives. If we are not paying attention, we may miss that silent coming.

Where should we look for his coming? Everywhere!

So, if they say to you, “Look! He is in the wilderness,” do not go out. If they say, “Look! He is in the inner rooms,” do not believe it. For as the lightning comes from the east and flashes as far as the west, so will be the coming of the Son of Man.
(Matthew 24:26-27)

It seems that the Second Coming will be as obvious as lightning illuminating the whole
sky and the land beneath — and very unlike that obscure birth in a stable in Bethlehem. Nevertheless, I imagine that all our expectations will be surpassed.

In the meantime, we must be attentive and look for Christ where we may least expect him. He may be found, as he was for Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi, among the beggars. He may make himself known to us today through a neighbor or a family member or someone whose beliefs are different from ours. He may come to us in an apparently insignificant event. Although the light of Christ already fills the earth, receiving him often requires being open to the surprises of the divine presence.

As we pray to be alert to the glorious appearing of Christ in the fullness of time, we ask also to be mindful of the holy Light that spreads over the most humble events of our lives, from east to west, from dawn to dusk, and through the night.

O that this very day we might listen to his voice. Come, Lord Jesus!

All-powerful God,
increase our strength of will for doing good
that Christ may find an eager welcome
at his coming
and call us to his side in the kingdom of heaven,
where he lives and reigns with you
and the Holy Spirit,
one God, for ever and ever.
Amen.

Opening Prayer for the First Sunday of Advent
(The Roman Missal, Copyright © 1973, International Committee on English in the Liturgy, Inc.)

(Lightning image courtesy of Microsoft)

What riches! Within ten minutes on an ordinary day, I was favored with three simple encounters of kindness — the grace of God’s presence in the gentleness of other people, making life a little easier.

Let mutual love continue. Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it.
(Hebrews 12:1-3)

O God,
make me mindful of your love
throughout the day.
May I bring your grace and peace to the strangers I meet.
(And may I bring your kindness
also to the people I know,
for sometimes that is harder!)

First, the escalator at Macy’s wasn’t working last week, so along with the other customers, I was walking down. Standing on the bottom step — as some sort of safety measure, I suppose — was a woman, an employee of the store. Between her feet was a shoe, so that she looked as if she had three feet. When I reached the bottom, I said to her, “You look like you have three feet.” She gave a polite, uncomfortable laugh, perhaps to acknowledge the obvious, or perhaps to humor someone who had just said something absurd. I walked on, pondering the mystery of the three-shoed woman.

Second, while I was in Florida visiting my father, I took a walk to the pond. A bird hopped down beside me and began following me — a rather nondescript bird, a little larger than a mockingbird, with dark wings, a brown breast, and a beak which looked very sharp. He hopped alongside me, and then his family joined him. Soon he flew up to a branch, but he continued to follow me, flying from low branch to low branch. I asked him if he had anything to tell me, but if he did, I didn’t hear it. My dad, who is very practical, commented later that someone had probably been feeding him, but I couldn’t help but wonder. After all, this was not a pigeon, a seagull, or even a sparrow: that is, not the kind of bird I usually associate with begging for food.

A woman with three feet and a bird hopping along beside me are probably not mysteries of the caliber of a burning bush. However, I can’t help but feel that if we don’t pause and take off our shoes before these small mysteries, we may miss the large ones.

“Should we call ahead and make a reservation?” we asked each other. We finally decided that with several motels in Waycross, which is not exactly the tourist capital of the Southeast, it was more than likely that vacancies would be a dime a dozen.

We arrived in Waycross about 7:00 p.m., and the first motel we approached simply waved us away with no explanation. At the second one we were told that everything in town was booked, with the possible exception of one suspiciously timeworn place.

“Why,” I asked, “are all the motel rooms in Waycross, Georgia, filled on a Tuesday night?”

It appeared that there was some sort of housing convention going on. Who would have thought?

The two employees at the desk asked if we would like them to call ahead and make a reservation for us in a nearby town.

“Where would you suggest?”

Two small towns were mentioned, and we settled on Jesup, which turned out to be not so near at all — about an hour away from Waycross and on a different highway from the one on which we had come. By this time Sister Elizabeth and I were both tired, but off we went toward Jesup, trying to look on the positive side of events.

Between Waycross and Jesup we glimpsed a small sign on the left side of the road. “CHAMPION TURKEY OAK,” it read, with an arrow pointing to the left. What was a turkey oak? I made a vague resolution to check it out.

To make a long story short, we arrived in Jesup, where the motel was spotlessly clean, where lights had been turned on to welcome us, where the small staff was exceptionally caring, where we tumbled into our beds exhausted, and where the next morning we had a complementary breakfast better than any I’ve ever eaten in a motel.

On the road again, backtracking toward Waycross and the Okefenokee, we passed through a town called Screven. There we saw the sign pointing toward the champion turkey oak, so we made a sharp turn in the direction of the arrow.

However, after proceeding for some way, no turkey oak was to be found (assuming we would have recognized one had we seen it), so we stopped to ask directions from an elderly woman coming out of a school building. We headed off again, soon to find ourselves wandering fruitlessly around the quiet streets of Screven.

As we were beginning to despair of finding the turkey oak, along came a car which to our surprise turned out to be driven by the woman we had met outside the school. Having realized that she had given us the wrong directions, she had chased us down. She called out, “If you’ll follow me, I’ll lead you to the turkey oak” — which she did.

It was not a beautiful tree, although it is the largest of its kind in the country. Nevertheless we were duly impressed and took pictures to record the event. (Later we learned that this tree is called a turkey oak because its leaves resemble a turkey’s foot.)

The night before, we had been sure that not calling ahead to make a motel reservation had been a mistake. We had traveled more than two hours out of the way by the time we finally got to the Okefenokee. But despite everything, I am certain that we were on the right road.

In Jesup, we had the consolation of tender loving care by the operators of the motel, and they had the consolation of providing that care for us and receiving our gratitude. The Screven resident had the consolation of showing us kindness beyond the call of duty, and we had the consolation of receiving her kindness. What was bestowed on us was of far greater value than the ordinary comfort of stopping early in the evening without fatigue and without incident.

It is important not to forget moments like this: occasions when we seem to be off course, only to discover that we are just where we were meant to be. Perhaps we had been on the right road all along. Or perhaps we really had made a mess of things, and God, always eager to do good for us, transformed what could well have been a road fraught with peril into a path radiant with grace. Those who have eyes to see, let them see.

Having eyes do you not see, and having ears do you not hear? And do you not remember? (Mark 8:18)