Lectionary Commentaries for February 11, 2024
Transfiguration of Our Lord (Year B)

Biblical scholar Ched Myers calls this Transfiguration Sunday text one of the three “pillars” of Mark’s apocalyptic Gospel. I see these three revelatory events—Mark’s baptism of Jesus, transfiguration of Jesus, and crucifixion of Jesus—as foundational for Mark’s way of understanding how “the gospel of Jesus Christ” (Mark 1:1) relates to Jesus’ own preaching of the “gospel of God” (Mark 1:14) in announcing God’s apocalyptic reign. In short, Jesus is the gospel, yet that gospel has as its horizon God’s purposes in the advent of God’s reign. We begin by noting Myers’ three pillars and their parallel elements:¹

The point here is not the perfect repetition of parallels, but the consistent apocalyptic character of these three defining moments for Mark’s narrative. In the beginning, middle, and end of his brief Gospel, Mark highlights three revelatory moments in an apocalyptic mode. We readers have the good fortune to witness all three and become privileged knowers in Mark’s narrative rhetoric.  We become insiders to the mysterious disclosure of Mark’s gospel—even when the disciples fail to understand.

The apocalyptic character of Mark 9:2-9

Turning to the Transfiguration Sunday text of Mark 9:2–9, thanks to Myers’ pillars we see a familiar story of the three-year lectionary cycle in a decidedly apocalyptic light. It is no accident that this story takes place on a mountain. Mountains are places of epiphanic disclosure throughout the Bible, but especially in the story of Moses. Anthropologists often tell us that mountains are places of meeting between heaven and earth.

From an apocalyptic perspective, it can be helpful to note that what is revealed is a mystery: something deeply true yet only in the process of becoming revealed. When we introduce this dynamic of present mystery and future disclosure, the apocalyptic tension of the Transfiguration story comes out clearly. Jesus’ garments turn dazzlingly white beyond any earthly fuller’s capacity. The great figures of Israel’s past, Moses and Elijah, join as cameos in a conversation with Jesus. Peter is so overwhelmed he wants to build dwellings for all three of them—though he does this because he is terrified (apocalypses feature a lot of very fearful human witnesses).

But just when you think you can’t outdo this apocalyptic picture, a cloud of divine presence overshadows them all and speaks. We notice that the voice speaks familiar words from Mark’s first apocalyptic scene in chapter 1: “my beloved Son.” This second pillar on the mountain is a confirmation of the revelation of the first at Jesus’ baptism. A crucial difference: the divine says directly to Jesus in 1:11, “You are my Son, the Beloved.” In Mark 9:7, however, the disclosure is spoken directly to the three disciples: “This is my Son, the Beloved.”

And then comes the kicker:  “Listen to him.” Apocalyptic visions give you a lot to see, but this one gives you something it really wants you and the three disciples to hear: “Listen to him.”

Mark 9:2–9 as a call to apocalyptic praxis

Visions, you see, are not mere visual spectacles but pictures that move toward action. In the commentary on Mark 1:21–28 we discussed the impact of apocalyptic praxis and drew on Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza’s example of hypomone, or what she calls “steadfast resistance” in her commentary on Revelation. The sense here in Mark 9:2–9 is different but just as decisively oriented to apocalyptic praxis.

We need to remember that the mountain epiphany of 9:2–9 is surrounded by two important elements on either side: two Markan passion predictions (8:34–9:1 and 9:33–37) and two nearly failed healings (Jesus Cures a Blind Man at Bethsaida in 8:22–26 and the Healing of a Boy with a Spirit in 9:14–29).

With the two passion predictions, everything that the disciples see on the mountain is qualified by Jesus’ death and resurrection. It’s not about glory, but an apocalyptic mystery that includes a cross and rejection.

With the two healing stories, Jesus has to intervene a second time to produce the expected therapeutic result. The young boy’s father may be baffled with the disciples’ inability to heal the boy with the spirit (9:18b) just after they come off the mountain, but Jesus completes it and reminds them that this kind of spirit takes prayer (9:29).

The revelation on the mountain is important to buttress the praxis of the disciples (and us) when the cross is forgotten or dismissed, and the healings start going wonky and require a second laying on of hands or ardent prayer. The point is that the vision serves to strengthen such praxis in the face of suffering and pain, or healings gone awry.

My homiletics colleague Martha Simmons has a great way of describing the kind of praxis-oriented tension that all eschatology provides: it is, she says, “where the sweet by and by meets the nasty here and now.”² An apocalyptic vision like Mark’s in 9:2–9 is a revelation designed to buttress our discipleship and to keep it from slipping up when glory looks so much sweeter and failure so much more likely.

And what else does a North American church need to see and hear in its post-Covid stupor and real-life disappointment? It might be that all we need is a true vision of God’s purpose in Jesus and a brief command to go: “listen to him.” And then once you do it, you’re in it—the realm of apocalyptic praxis.

Notes

1. Myers, Binding the Strongman: A Political Reading of Mark’s Story of Jesus (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1988), 391. The scripture references for the columns and the bold highlighting for the purpose of emphasizing the Transfiguration text and parallels are my own.
2. Martha Simmons, “Introduction,” in 9.11.01: African American Leaders Respond to an American Tragedy, ed. M. Simmons and F. Thomas (Valley Forge, PA: Judson, 2001), x.

Elisha is the prophet Elijah’s disciple and successor. But Elijah is a little cool toward him. He tries to send him away three times. But Elisha won’t go; he promises to stay close. This sending away is still practiced in Judaism. If you turn up at a synagogue and say you want to convert to Judaism, the rabbi is supposed to send you away three times. “No, being Jewish is hard; go back to something easier, like not being Jewish.” Only if you persist past that are they supposed to let you prepare to convert. Elisha won’t go away.

Elijah and Elisha show us something about fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, mentors and students. Their relationship recalls Moses’ relationship with Joshua. Just before Moses dies, he hands leadership over to Joshua, who conquers the promised land. There’s a reason these two—Moses and Elijah—turn up at Jesus’ transfiguration. And Elijah never dies—he’s taken up into heaven in a fiery chariot—so he can turn up at odd moments in Israel. Jewish families leave a chair unoccupied for Elijah at Passover, because Elijah’s not dead. So you never know, he could turn up hungry.

As Elijah prepares to depart, Elisha asks a brave thing. He asks for a double portion of Elijah’s spirit. Literally, the Hebrew asks for a double mouthful of Elijah’s spirit.¹ A second helping, a bellyful. This is partly a reference to inheritance. Elisha is asking to be Elijah’s firstborn son. A bold ask.

Think of key moments in leadership succession—in politics or business or the military or a family. When we lose an elder, we feel that loss. We think, “No one can measure up; things will get worse.” But Elisha defies that logic. He says, “Elijah, whatever made you special, I want more than that. Double that.” Scripture is saying the next generation will be just fine.

Our prayers are often too small. We should ask God for so much that God says, “Woah, hey, that’s hard! Maybe ease up on me a little?” When Jesus tells the disciples he’s going away, he says, “Actually, you want me to go, because when the Holy Spirit comes, you’ll do greater things than I ever did.” Uh, greater than raising the dead? Feeding 5,000? “Yep. A double mouthful.”

And Elisha gets what he asks for. The rabbis count Elijah doing eight miracles in scripture and Elisha 16. Double. The transition from a beloved elder to a new and untested younger doesn’t have to be a loss. It can be a gain, a doubling, a greater portion. Religion is so often so deeply conservative—cherishing the past, fearing the present. But this is where Christian faith is radically hopeful. The best is yet to come. 

Elijah and Elisha here live out the story of Israel in a creative, counterintuitive way. Did you notice the place names? They go to Gilgal, Bethel, Jericho. Don’t skip over these. These are places Israel conquered coming into the promised land.² Elijah and Elisha are reversing Israel’s entry into the promised land. See, Israel is failing to live up to the covenant. Its kings are offering sacrifice to false gods, putting up pagan images for worship. And Elijah is blasting them for it. Here the two prophets roll back up Israel’s entry into the promised land. They reverse it. They are leaving. When they cross the Jordan, they do it in the reverse direction of Joshua did, backing out the way Israel came in.

The prophets arrive at the Jordan River. Elijah rolls up his mantle so it looks like Moses’ staff. Strikes the river. And it splits in two, like the Red Sea once did. And they moonwalk out of Israel’s promised land. And then the fireworks. A whirlwind. A chariot of fire. Elijah’s taken up, like Jesus would be later in the Ascension.

Elisha calls after him, more gibberish than complete thought: “Father! Horses! Chariots!” I mean, would you have a coherent thought? The mantle is left behind on the ground. Elisha takes it up. And Elisha strikes the Jordan with the mantle too, like Elijah just did. And it parts again. The Jordan River is getting a workout this morning. Elisha has the power Elijah had. Except neither of them owns it. It’s God’s power. Shared. That’s how you can tell power is God’s—God’s power is only and always shared.

This story is so different from some current “thought” in the U.S. about masculinity, leadership, power: if only men flexed more in our families, our social structures, everything would be fine. But that’s not how masculinity or leadership works in the Bible. Or in real life.

Here’s how it actually works: Sometimes you connect with someone. And you become friends, across generations. They notice things about you. You notice things about them. And they encourage you. And you, them.

Church is a place where those connections happen. I’ve had amazing and godly mentors in my life. And I only realized when I started mentoring others, “Oh, so the elder gets as much out of this as the younger—or more.” Some call it reverse mentoring.

Please—make yourself available for this sort of relationship. Notice someone. Ask them nosy questions. Offer to pray for them. Bring up things that are awkward or difficult. Not just sports! We men are terrible at this. Women often make and keep friends. We men, I don’t know why, we don’t. It’s our loss. Scripture shows us relationships between men that matter. More of this, please, God. In our day of crushing loneliness, it’d be a miracle indeed.

After Elijah and Elisha leave the promised land, Elisha comes back in. With a company of friends. Like Jesus with the disciples. Like us, the church. And despite all of Israel’s failures and compromises, they go on living the covenant amid a people who’ve forgotten how to. They’re going to model a different way of life. Fatherhood based on kindness, mentorship founded on love of enemies, masculinity soaked in the (often feminine) wisdom of the Bible. It’s church, it’s humanity done right, it’s what being alive is for.

Notes

1. It’s a common observation on this text, but I owe it to Peter Leithart, 1 & 2 Kings, Brazos Theological Commentary on the Bible (Grand Rapids: Brazos, 2016).
2. Leithart, 1 & 2 Kings.

First there is a blinding flash of light and then the thunderous sound of God speaking.¹ It’s the story of the Transfiguration, right? Yes. But it is also the beginning of Psalm 50.

A festival psalm

Psalm 50 was probably composed for use at the Festival of Booths—also called the Festival of Tabernacles, Festival of Sukkot, or Festival of Ingathering. It is a festival psalm, similar to the other festival psalms.

In ancient Israel, the Festival of Booths was the most important of the three pilgrimage festivals, because, as the word “ingathering” signifies, it was the festival associated with the autumn grain harvest. The importance of this festival is also indicated in the book of Ruth, chapters 2-3. For a narrative understanding of its importance, read the story of Ruth, Boaz, and the good times folks had at the fall harvest.

In the “book of the covenant” in Exodus 21-23, God commanded the Israelites to keep three annual pilgrimage festivals: one in spring (“unleavened bread,” or Passover), one in early summer (“harvest of the first fruits” or “weeks,” or Pentecost), and one in the fall:

Three times in the year you shall hold a festival for me. You shall observe the festival of unleavened bread; as I commanded you, you shall eat unleavened bread for seven days at the appointed time in the month of Abib, for in it you came out of Egypt.

No one shall appear before me empty-handed.

You shall observe the festival of harvest, of the first fruits of your labor, of what you sow in the field. You shall observe the festival of ingathering at the end of the year, when you gather in from the field the fruit of your labor. Three times in the year all your males shall appear before the Lord GOD (Exodus 23:14-17; see also Deuteronomy 16).

At these festivals, the heads of the families were to make pilgrimage to Jerusalem in order to bring their offerings—note that “no one shall appear before me empty-handed”—and to hear words from the Lord regarding the covenant between God and the covenant people.

Psalm 50 displays a clear structure and flow:

Part I—Psalm 50:1-6—God arrives and summons the covenant people to account

Part II—Psalm 50:7-15—God rebukes the faithful among the people for vain worship

Part III—Psalm 50:16-23—God rebukes “the wicked” for violating the covenant

The entire psalm really is ideal to be heard, sung, and preached in its fullness. I encourage worship planners and preachers to consider the whole psalm. But here I will focus only on the selected verses.

For the occasion of Transfiguration Sunday, only Part I—“the summons”—is assigned. Two poetic flourishes in this summons make the psalm fitting for Transfiguration Sunday—the light of God and the word of God.

The light of God

The mighty one, God the LORD,

speaks and summons the earth
from the rising of the sun to its setting.

Out of Zion, the perfection of beauty,

God shines forth. (50:1-2)

The psalm poetically and liturgically begins by ushering in the presence of “the mighty one, God the LORD,” who “summons” the earth. One can imagine a Levitical priest or worship leader stepping forward to announce the presence of God. This is not just any God, but the Lord God of Israel who “shines forth” from Zion—that is, from the Temple in Jerusalem.

The image of God “shining forth” is a fairly rare word in the Hebrew Scriptures. It indicates the presence of God in a powerful and redeeming way—not just in an accompanying way. The psalmist in Psalms 80 and 94 pleads with God to “shine forth.” In Moses’ final blessing for the people before his death, he begins by reminding the people of how “the LORD came from Sinai, and dawned from Seir upon us; he shone forth from Mount Paran” (Deuteronomy 33:2).

The image of God “shining forth” is the image of a theophany—the sudden and real apparition of God to a person or group of people. Such a moment is what Peter, James, and John experience at the Transfiguration. The psalm enacts such a theophany liturgically—that is to say, the psalm is not an actual theophany but a liturgical enactment or reenactment of the original theophany. As such, this psalm is perfectly suited to our Transfiguration worship services, which are liturgical enactments of Christ’s transfiguration/theophany.

The word of God

We can then imagine the Levitical priest or worship leader crying out:

Our God comes and does not keep silence,

before him is a devouring fire,
and a mighty tempest all around him.

He calls to the heavens above

and to the earth, that he may judge his people:

“Gather to me my faithful ones,

who made a covenant with me by sacrifice!”

 The heavens declare his righteousness,

 for God himself is judge. Selah. (50:3-6)

The arriving God, who shines forth with light, then speaks: “Our God comes and does not keep silent.” God’s real presence at the Festival of Ingathering is not for the comforting sense of protection, such as one finds in psalms of trust such as 23, 27, or 46. Here, God’s arrival is terrifying—“before him is a consuming fire, a wild tempest is all around him” (my translation). Like the prophet Micah in Micah 6, God summons all of creation to serve as witnesses to a trial. In this trial, God himself will “judge his people,” and all creation will be witness to this judgment.

In this lectionary selection, we hear only the summons: “Gather to me my faithful ones [my Hasidim], who cut a covenant with me by sacrifice.”

It is worth pursuing that in Part II of the psalm, the “faithful ones” are rebuked for vain worship. God does not rebuke them for bringing their sacrifices and offerings—God does not require them, after all—“I will accept no bull from your house,” God says, according to the older Revised Standard Version translation.

Rather, God wants a “sacrifice of thanksgiving,” and God wants people to keep their promises. Given the whole slew of recent research into the positive power of gratitude rituals in a person’s life, this section of the psalm is worth reading and preaching.

In Part III of the psalm, God rebukes the wicked for breaking the basic commandments of the covenant, specifically mentioning making friends with thieves and adulterers (you shall not steal; you shall not commit adultery) and speaking violently against family and neighbor (you shall not bear false witness against your neighbor).

The psalm then ends with an appeal to “discern” or “understand” the gravity of what God has said (the New Revised Standard Version has “mark this, then, you who forget God”).

The reading for Transfiguration Sunday has only “the heavens declare his righteousness” (verse 6). The obvious referent here is Jesus, of whom God says, “This is my Son, the beloved; listen to him!” Like the psalm, the gospel calls the disciples—and us—to listen to God’s Word.

And what does he say next in the Gospel of Mark? The exact words are not recorded, but the Gospel says, “He ordered them to tell no one about what they had seen, until after the Son of Man had risen from the dead.”

It is a minor passion prediction. What does Jesus say? I am going to Jerusalem, where I will suffer, be put to death, and rise from the dead for you and for your salvation.

Notes

1. Commentary first published on this site on Feb. 14, 2021.

A preliminary remark: “Unbelievers” in 2 Corinthians 2:4 is a misleading translation of apistoi, giving an impression of Paul as an unfeeling dogmatist. This is especially the case in the context of today’s political and cultural polarization. While the term apistoi had an active connotation (mistrustful, incredulous, suspicious), the passive meaning (not to be trusted, faithless, shifty, unreliable)¹ fits better with the polemical context of 2 Corinthians.

In this letter, Paul is at war with the self-important super-apostles (2 Corinthians 11:5 and throughout chapters 10–13), a ridiculing name for rival missionaries whose moral severity, authoritarianism, and desire to lord it over the church proved attractive to some persons in Corinth. These rivals to Paul are the apistoi. Paul alludes to them in 2 Corinthians 4:5: “We do not preach ourselves as … Lord.”² But they did. Ironically, the translation “unbelievers,” with its implied opposite “believers,” puts in Paul’s mouth the divisiveness that the super-apostles manipulated to establish their power over the church in Corinth, to Paul’s consternation.

It must be said: 2 Corinthians 4:3–6 is difficult to understand. Part of this difficulty is that 4:1–6 summarizes one of the most challenging sections in all of Pauline literature (2:14–3:18) and, simultaneously, makes a transition to an equal tour de force (4:7–6:10) culminating in Paul’s impassioned plea for forgiveness and reconciliation (6:11–13). There is a lot going on in 4:3–6, where ideas/emotions/experiences of the sacred expose the triumphal hatred aimed by “those in the know” against the other (the Jew, the foreigner, the migrant, the poor, the not-my-people).

Hating “unbelievers” has plagued Christianity, or worse, has defined Christianity, since its inception. No doubt, such hatred will soon be repeated throughout the land when preachers of the gospel, thinking it a fine representation of Paul’s mind, pour down words like these from the pulpit: “There is a great divide between us Christians and unbelievers. Satan rules in the hearts of those who do not believe in Jesus Christ. They have been blinded. The true God, the God of glory and might, rules in the heart of believers and enlightens them so that they can see what God sees and know the world as God knows it.” In the rest of this essay, a fragment of 2 Corinthians 4:3–6 will be thrown against this flood of divisive words.

Here is the fragment: the glory (doxa) of God in the face of Christ. What if doxa also (although not instead) meant “hope”? Indeed, doxa did mean “hope” in Paul’s Greek, the language he shared with millions of others. Elpis is a well-attested synonym of doxa.³ So run with “hope” for a moment. It won’t be easy, because hope throws itself, or throws the one who hopes, against the divisive theology that has been quite popular in the history of Christianity and that pictures God ruling over a world split between believers and unbelievers.

Hope is a paradox, a logical impossibility that contradicts the self whether the self is human or divine. Hope’s impossibility is its possibility. Hope is not optimism. Hope hopes against itself (Romans 4:18). Hope hopes for what is not present and not seen (Romans 8:24–25), for when the hoped-for thing is seen, hope itself evaporates. Even God’s relation to creation is a matter of hope (Romans 8:20).

Now plug hope’s self-contradiction into the glory (doxa) of God in the face of Christ. Warning: You now might discover your inner blasphemer: God’s doxa/hope mixes with God’s doxa/light/beauty/splendor. Hope pollutes the light, disperses the glory, and smears the splendor. And more, in the murkiness of hope the beating heart of the unbeliever is indistinguishable from the beating heart of the believer. We see nothing as we walk in pistis. Hope frees us from knowing so we can feel the other’s pulse, their life.

A step further: What if this unthinkable mixture of hope and beauty/light/splendor does not attach itself to God as if it were God’s possession but, as Paul writes, rests on the face of Christ? A face is what it is not only by its gaze but also by its being looked upon. Where does theological thinking go when it confesses that a face is double in nature, looking and looked upon? I am the object of the gaze of the one who is simultaneously the object of my gaze.

This simultaneity means my gaze changes the other just as the other’s facial expressions change me. Mutual gazing means unplanned and endlessly open metamorphosis, the infinite deferral both of knowing the other and of being known by the other. This mutual gaze amounts to an absolute prohibition against dividing the world into believers and unbelievers, and even of thinking of the church as a community of believers in the first place.

Instead, for Paul the church is an event of not knowing even as we desire to know ourselves, others, God, you name it. This backing away from certainty but never backing away from the other is the heart of the argument in 2 Corinthians 2:14–3:18. In 3:16, Moses looks God in the face as God gazes at Moses, although the New Revised Standard Version updated edition obscures the Greek text in which he, Moses (not the vague “one” but he, Moses) turns and faces God.

Long story short: To preach on the glory/hope of God on the face of Christ is to throw Paul’s words into the world, words that have divided the world into believers and unbelievers, winners and losers, citizens and migrants, the innocent and the condemned. To preach in this way, with or without words, is to repeat the summation of 2 Corinthians 3 in 3:18. In that single verse Paul brought home to his readers the heartbeat of the church. Gazing into one another’s face, any other’s face, is the life, the beating heart, of the church.

Notes

1. Henry George Liddell, Robert Scott, and Henry Stuart Jones, eds., Greek-English Lexicon (New York: Clarendon, 1961), in reference to the term apistos.
2. My emphasis. See also 2:15–16 and 6:14–18.
3. LSJ Lexicon, in reference to the term doxa.