On Sunday, I may speak of mountaintop miracles, the art of the divine fuller, bleaching all blemishes out of our vision of God Incarnate, revealing glory.
But today is Friday. The week was long and the mountain high and hard. I hardly recognize the air I breathe, let alone my words. He ordered them not to talk: I can do that.
The Feast of the Transfiguration is in August, and here in the frozen north we are half an orbit away from such light streaming straight from the heavens; we are behind the pale side of the sun. The ground is littered with the detritus of white garments, blanketing the earth with its burning cold, the fire that does not consume.
I am ready to give up glory for Lent, to lay down among the crumpled alleluia, make a nest, a dwelling place of sorts.
This is not Sunday’s sermon, but for a Friday, it may make do.