The Rev. Sara Warfield
There was this time that my former partner, Rachel, and I were driving to a wedding with a friend of ours. It was an evening wedding on a weekday, so we were racing after work to get there and were likely to arrive just in time for the ceremony. We pulled into the parking lot of this country club, got out of the car, and smoothed our dressy clothes down after the long-ish drive. Then Rachel turned to me and asked, “How do I look?” I paused, took her in, and replied, “Your hair looks a little weird.” Her face fell, and she turned to walk to the ceremony.
I was totally confused. She’d asked me how she looked. Didn’t she want an honest answer? Then our friend, Adam, jogged up to me, and as we walked in together, he said, “Sara, when your partner asks how they look when there’s literally no time to change anything, you tell her she looks great.”
This is an example of what has been one of my lifelong learnings: figuring out that raw honesty and factual correctness are only one part of caring communication.
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Today is Transfiguration Sunday, and the theme is the shining glory of God—a different form of communication, if you think about it. Moses comes down from Mt. Sinai after speaking with God, and his face is shining. It scares Aaron and the Israelites so much that they refuse to come close to him. Moses has to convince them to come near and hear what he has to say, but whenever he isn’t speaking God’s words to the Israelites he wears a veil on his face, presumably to keep the Israelites from freaking out as they all go about their business.
And then in the gospel, Jesus brings Peter, John, and James onto the mountain where “while Jesus is praying, the appearance of his face changes, and his clothes become dazzling white.” Moses and Elijah appear, and Jesus talks to them. Peter, in his sweet eagerness, says, “let’s make three dwellings, one for each of you, and capture this moment forever.” It would be like asking the two people getting married to hold their kiss a little longer so you could take a photo with your phone.
But God has other plans. “A cloud comes and overshadows them; and they are terrified as they enter the cloud. Then from the cloud comes a voice that says, ‘This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!’”
And honestly, it all does sound terrifying. I’d be terrified. And I think it was meant to be terrifying, or maybe the better word is awe-inspiring. Because Peter is just about to miss the point, so God terrifies him back into the present moment.
But I wonder why Jesus only brings Peter, John, and James onto the mountain for that incredible moment. Why not all his disciples? I wonder if—even for all of Peter’s blunderings—Jesus believes that these three disciples are the only ones who can take in that experience at that time. Like the Israelites, maybe the other disciples couldn’t have handled the brightness of the glory of God. At least not yet.
Now Moses could have decided to refuse to wear the veil. He could have told the Israelites, “You’re going to deal with my sun face whether you like it or not. That’s God shining through me, and I don’t care if it scares you.”
And Jesus could have hauled all 12 disciples onto the mountain and said, “Ready or not…”
It sounds like that’s what our dear apostle Paul would have done. In today’s second letter to the Corinthians, he writes: “Since, then, we have such a hope, we act with great boldness, not like Moses, who put a veil over his face to keep the people of Israel from gazing at the end of the glory that was being set aside.” Paul has some feelings about covering up the glory of God.
But this is also the same person who wrote:
“If I speak in the tongues of mortals and of angels, but do not have love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal. And if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. If I give away all my possessions, and if I hand over my body so that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing.”
Paul’s saying here that all the raw honesty, all the factual correctness, even all the most fervent and steadfast faith all come to nothing without love.
Maybe the veil Moses wears to keep the Israelites from being afraid is an act of love. Maybe Jesus leaving the other nine disciples in the valley because they aren’t quite ready to take in that glory, that truth, is an act of love.
Yes, part of good communication is being honest and truthful, and sharing accurate information. But so much of it is about meeting people where they are, which means being curious about where they are.
There’s this old adage in craftsmanship that you can only have two of these three things at the same time: quality, low price, and speed. If you want a high quality rocking chair that you can pass down the generations and you want it fast, it’s probably going to be very expensive. If you’re willing to wait awhile, maybe even months, you might get the same product for less money as the woodworker works on it in between more pressing projects. Or you can get a cheap rocking chair fast, but it’s not going to be the highest quality.
I think communication works the same way. You can’t have all three of these at the same time: substance, speed, and love. And by love I mean what I said last week:
“…seeing someone who is created in God’s image; recognizing that they have deep fears and struggles, just like you; that they crave to be known and to belong, just like you. And the container for love is relationship.”
Jesus only brought three disciples because he already trusted his relationship with those three and knew their capacity to take in God’s glory in the moment—the substance. He knew they could handle his transfiguration and hearing God’s voice. But he had already built up those relationships—which took time. So he sacrificed speed in this situation. And he knew and loved the other disciples enough to know that they wouldn’t be able to handle that substance.
On the other hand, Moses veiled the glory of God—sacrificed the substance—which poured out immediately from his face—speed, because he wanted to keep the relationship, the love he had with the Israelites intact.
So when it comes to communicating, you can only have two of these three things: substance, speed, and love. When I told Rachel that her hair was a little weird, I sacrificed love for speed and substance. When I could have sacrificed substance for speed and love.
That was a very particular situation where speed was non-negotiable. That happens. That’s what was happening with Moses.
But as we move into Lent next week, I invite us to consider how we tend to prioritize speed above most else when our faith calls us first and foremost to love.
How many times have you been annoyed at the grocery store because someone is digging through their purse for the dozens of coupons they want to use, and the cashier has the audacity to be sweet and patient with them—even though there are eight people in line.
How often do you bang out a Facebook comment as soon as you read a post without really considering the impact it might have on the other people who see it. In fact, how often are many of us seeking to actively trump another person on social media (no pun intended)—actively ignoring care and relationship.
Honking at the person in front of you because they did not immediately take their foot off the brake when the light turned green. Watching tv while scrolling through Instagram while talking to your friend on the phone, not really giving any of those activities your full attention. Yes, that’s a form of prioritizing speed, too.
How many times every single day do we prioritize speed over love?
Lent starts this Wednesday. It is a liturgical season to prepare for Easter, and for converts to prepare for their baptism. During the Ash Wednesday service, I will invite you into “the observance of a holy Lent, by self-examination and repentance; by prayer, fasting, and self-denial; and by reading and meditating on God's holy Word.”
So often what is emphasized during Lent is the self-denial. Giving up something. But I think the real practice of Lent is slowing down. The giving up of, say, coffee or Facebook or television, is not just an act of self-denial. It’s an opportunity to slow down when you experience a craving and reflect on what that desire is really pointing you to. When you don’t have that thing, what is it that you’re actually longing for? Comfort? Then your Lenten practice would be to ask: What is making you uncomfortable? Distraction? Then your Lenten practice would be to ask: What don’t you want to face?
To ask those questions is to first of all get curious about the substance of what’s going on for you. And that curiosity is an act of prioritizing love—for yourself and quite possibly for others. It’s a way of building authentic relationship—with yourself and quite possibly with others.
So this Lent I invite you to give up speed, to slow down, to prioritize relationship. To prioritize love. Amen.
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