I mark the anniversary of The Perverse Lutheran on or around Transfiguration Sunday every year, rather than on the specific date of the first post in 2006. So we'll call today, Transfiguration 2021, the 15th anniversary of my blog, even though it's two weeks before the actual date.
I read that first post a few minutes ago and did not find it embarrassing, which is my standard for judging my writing from the past. I'm not sure if it's a low standard, or a high one. Did I step around cliches? Do I sound honest? Not too eager to please? Not too desperate for attention? Is there a little bit of originality in there, even if it's just a smidge?
That first post -- on banishing the alleluia during Lent -- is not too bad. I'm not cringing here in 2021. In fact the post ends up with a rhetorical question that works ieven better in 2021, especially if you substitute "the pandemic" for "Lent":
How could we go through Lent if we didn’t know that we can still get that alleluia out when we need it?
It's crazy cold here in Chicago and the snow and winter weather advisories just keep coming. Leaving a warm bed in the morning for another day of the same old going nowhere feels heavy, hard, and never-ending. In my view Ash Wednesday should carry a whiff of spring or come in the middle of a muddy February thaw. Not this year. I have a new understanding of C. S. Lewis's Narnia, where it's always winter but never Christmas.
Today in Sunday School I told the story of Jesus transfigured on the mountaintop, with Luke open in my lap but with frequent interjections and questions. Why would you go up a mountain to pray? Who are Moses and Elijah? What does "dazzling" make you think of?
And while he was praying, the appearance of his face changed, and his clothes became dazzling white. (Luke 9:29)
Shiny, said one girl, Bright, said another child. Good answers, I said, but privately I was thinking, gosh, dazzling is not a very heavenly word. A honky-tonk beat from the musical "Chicago" played in the back of my mind: "Give 'em the old razzle-dazzle, razzle-dazzle 'em." The song doesn't make your toes tap so much as it makes your shoulders shimmy and your feet snake along the stage, maybe with a little wink at the audience. Because in this context razzle-dazzle is what you do when you've got some skill but maybe haven't got a lot of substance to work with.
Dazzling -- it's a word for something that leaves people wide-eyed, gaping, wordless. Dazzling displays of derring-do. Dazzling lights of Broadway. Dazzling displays of bravado or speechifying or driving to the basket in an NBA championship.
"His clothes became dazzling white." So often for us, Jesus in paintings and illustrations is already dressed in white, pristine white for holiness. It also makes him stand out in the crowd. Maybe for James, John and Peter "dazzling white" was totally outside their experience, so that when they told the story later they chose an unusual word that now gets translated with the zip and electricity of "dazzle." Jesus and his band of disciples would have been dusty and dirty most of the time, didn't often get their clothes washed. A poor carpenter's grimy garments transformed into dazzling white was a whole new reality, way beyond an illustrator's convention. Dazzling. They saw his glory.
And later, they saw his suffering. There, too, on the cross, it was God's beloved, dazzling son.
Here's our Sunday School project from today, Jesus' hands raised in blessing. (Thank you, Mrs. Modrich, for the photo.)
