His blood, living water, a fountain of living water springing up on this day from his pierced side, for us! For us! Even for this his people, who have chosen Caesar. So that we might come back to him; so that we might take and eat and live. Here the living water bubbles up – right here, at the cross that is the work of our hands. So that we might live and sing to him; so that we might learn to say, “my Lord.” My Lord and my God.
Catherine Sider Hamilton
In Jesus Christ God is for us and he is with us; our Accuser and our Redeemer both. In his crucified hands the wrong we have done, our capacity to turn away. In his risen hands, God’s enduring faithfulness, and our hope.
The women came to the tomb in the crepuscular dawn with desolation in their hearts. They came with spices, in sorrow, to anoint the body they know they will find.
But they do not find it. They do not find him. There at the tomb they do not find the body of their Lord. They find only an impossible word.
You seek Jesus of Nazareth who was crucified. He is risen. He is not here.
We see the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ, and we think we know what this means.
What we know, though, is what we want glory to mean. It is we who want success and a throne. This is the whole problem.
We can launch a car toward the sun and that is dazzling to our eyes. But in the infinite reaches of the universe it is a movement so small as to be imperceptible.
It is something like this, something on this scale, that we meet today on this Feast of the Transfiguration, in the face of Jesus Christ.
We are caught up in a will to destroy day by ordinary day. The crazy man in the synagogue is not crazy. He’s just the one who sees that there is a reason to scream. There is a power for evil, and it grips our own lives too. His scream is true. He sees the darkness in the ordinary day; he feels it in the anguish of his own distorted soul. And he sees that Jesus has come precisely into his darkness, to overturn it, to cast darkness out, to say in the place of anguish, let there be light.
This morning we have the star, and the magi and their faith; they live before us; we can see their hope and their wonder and their journey. And right here at the beginning of the story we hear the promise: this is the path that leads to joy.
And in the night, a child’s voice rises. In the night a baby crying, a mother singing, a father full of wonder standing by. One small family and a few shepherds in the quiet of the night—and in this ordinary, an explosion of light, the night sky lit by the angels of God, the armies of heaven singing glory to God and news of peace on earth. The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light. It is here that it begins—not with Caesar and his power, but with a mother who heard God’s word and said “Yes,” with the father who stood by her, and with the child who was born.
Mary was on all counts a person of no particular account. She was no king like David. And yet it was in her that God’s Word came to fruition. Why? Because she waited upon the Word, and when it came she said, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord.” She did not set out to build God a house. It was God who reached out and touched her, who claimed her in his Word and for his Word, who made his dwelling place in her.