A long time ago, before we had refrigerators, people used icehouses to preserve their food. They had thick walls, no windows, and tightly fitted doors. In winter, when the streams and lakes were frozen, workers cut out large blocks of ice and hauled them to the icehouses, and then covered everything with sawdust. Usually, that ice would last well into the summer, keeping everything inside cold. Mainly meat and dairy, as well as lots of other important things, piled one on top of the other.
Once, a man lost an expensive watch in an icehouse. He searched all morning, carefully sifting through the sawdust, shifting through all the items on the shelves, but he could not find it. Others searched as well, but they couldn’t find it either.
Later, a young boy heard about what had happened and slipped into the icehouse by himself. About 5 minutes later, he emerged with the watch.
Amazed, the man asked how he found it. “Well, I closed the door,” the boy replied, “…lay down in the sawdust, and I didn’t move. Everything was cold, black, quiet… and that’s when I heard the watch ticking.”
I need to keep that story in mind. Too often, I’m moving around the shelves of my life, returning e-mails, writing, running errands, trying to figure out money problems, not being present. Way too busy to hear a watch ticking. Way too busy to hear the poor, the immigrant, the sick, the lonely, the abandoned, the broken. I can’t hear Jesus, the most important voice, the most important ticking.
You know, there are only three times that we hear God the Father speak in the New Testament — Jesus’s baptism in the River Jordan, the Last Supper, and here at the Transfiguration. And I never really paid attention to this one phrase — when God speaks specifically to Peter, James and John, proclaimed both in the Gospel and the 2nd reading today — “This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased; listen to him!”
God is asking Jesus’ three closest companions – Peter, James and John – to listen to His son. The same three who will follow Him to Calvary. Even though I thought they were listening, He’s asking them to lie still in the sawdust and shelves. Not to tell people about what they have seen, but stop, pray, and consider the glory of God.
It’s as if God is saying that it’s only through listening that we’ll see our lives infused with this incredible Divine presence. That God’s grace surrounds us, always waiting to transfigure our day. Our brokenness, our problems, our discouragements — all put in perspective when we hear God calling out to us “You are my beloved son — You are my beloved daughter.”
We can transfigure our lives by laying still and listening for God. There’s so much good in the world – so many watches ticking out there – we just need to go find them. Maybe that means deleting an app or two, and adding one that lifts our hearts to God. Or not chasing a Facebook, Twitter or Instagram link. Or pausing during your summer vacation to thank God for just how blessed you have been. Or even as you wait in the doctor’s office to hear if you need surgery or not.
It’s as if this Feast of the Transfiguration is asking us to catch our breath for a moment, as Peter, James and John did. Let’s find God in the cold and darkness. Let’s hear the good news. Let’s leave the judging, the busyness, the planning for just a moment, and find God again in our busy lives. Let that be the Spirit that drives us to feed the hungry, fight injustice, stand with the immigrants, work for health care. To be compassionate to all those suffering.
It’s as if we are being challenged in our readings today to lie still and hear the ticking of God’s heart. Maybe that’s your prayer after Communion in a moment, your quiet place where the Holy Spirit will say to you on this Feast day — “Rise, and do not be afraid.”
You can do this. We can do this.
We can all find our loving God, hidden in the cold, the darkness, the silence of our lives, if we just lie still and listen.
by Wendell Berry
If you are not to become a monster,
you must care what they think.
If you care what they think,
how will you not hate them,
and so become a monster
of the opposite kind? From where then
is love to come—love for your enemy
that is the way of liberty?
From forgiveness. Forgiven, they go
free of you, and you of them;
they are to you as sunlight
on a green branch. You must not
think of them again, except
as monsters like yourself,
pitiable because unforgiving.
by Ted Kooser
I like to watch an old man cutting a sandwich in half,
maybe an ordinary cold roast beef on whole wheat bread,
no pickles or onion, keeping his shaky hands steady
by placing his forearms firm on the edge of the table
and using both hands, the left to hold the sandwich in place,
and the right to cut it surely, corner to corner,
observing his progress through glasses that moments before
he wiped with his napkin, and then to see him lift half
onto the extra plate that he had asked the server to bring,
and then to wait, offering the plate to his wife
while she slowly unrolls her napkin and places her spoon,
her knife and her fork in their proper places,
then smoothes the starched white napkin over her knees
and meets his eyes and holds out both old hands to him.
After my father unhooded it, lugged it down
the steep path to the boat and clamped it on,
drew back the cord again and again like a pitch
about to be thrown, grimacing with each
whining refusal, and muttered, finally said
She doesn’t want to start, after it always did,
and we shoved away from the pier, rowed out of the dense
tangle of weeds and lily pads, not once
did our resting oars uncross their feet,
not even as we entered the shallow inlet
between our lake and the next, just purring through
the reeds in that narrow passage, over the billow
of silt, the rocks, never getting stuck before
we flew through the waves, his hand guiding the tiller.
O, Chicago, O’Hare
By April Ossmann
One among the shifting mass
of humanity intent
on countless destinations,
one hungry stomach
and dry mouth among many,
one brain dazed
by the speed and altitude
of flights unnatural
to any animal, by herding,
followed by waiting
succeeded by rushing,
and more flight
to any body contained
in this seemingly unwieldy
mass of metal lifting
improbably over Chicago,
where a misty orange aura
hovers over the city’s
brighter lights, as if
its soul sought ascension
it could only attempt,
as if the aura
might break free
and follow us,
wherever we might fly,
wheresoever we may rest—
one with the multitude
of humans en route