The parallel between today’s readings—Moses on Mt. Sinai and Jesus’ Transfiguration—has been drawn for centuries. Paul, in his letter to the Corinthians, created an analogy between Moses-the-man, whose face shone so brightly after encountering God that it had to be veiled, and “Moses”-the-text (i.e., Torah), which highlights so brightly our inability to fulfill the Law that our impulse is to hide from it and, “when Moses is read,” to “put on a veil over the minds” (2 Cor 3:15). Decades later, Luke, likely familiar with Paul’s writings, showed that both Moses and Jesus embarked on an exodus from enslavement to fulfillment, performed signs and wonders, led multitudes, fed them the bread of heaven, controlled bodies of water, and acquired the radiance of the divine glory upon mountains, as witnessed by close followers. There, Aaron received instructions for the Tabernacle, while Peter, eager to build three shrines, was instead tasked with building the Church, becoming its foundational “rock”, as his name reflects.

As such, the Transfiguration is one of the most symbolically rich stories, in which I find new insights each year. This time, I also discovered a new to me poem on the same theme, Edwin Muir’s “The Transfiguration” (1943). I was particularly struck by its line, “Was the change in us alone?” which hints at the disciples’ experience of returning from the mountain to an unchanged world. It reminds me of the dissonance I felt on my childhood birthdays or New Year’s Days—feeling inwardly changed while the world remained the same. In adulthood, we most often experience this in the negative, many of us asking in times of grief, “How dare the world carry on unchanged when my loved one is gone, or after such a tragedy happened?” 

Muir (1887–1959) was known for exploring the intersection of the divine and mundane, and often wove both his own transformative experiences and tragedies into his poetry. His “transfigurations” included his baptism at age three that he remembered, a vision of creation at fourteen, encounters with art in Rome, dreams analyzed through a Jungian lens, watching a church being built in Boston, and many more. On the other hand, his idyllic Orkney childhood ended abruptly when his family was forced to move to industrial Glasgow, which to him was like a movement from paradise to hell. Tuberculosis claimed his parents and siblings, and he worked in factories and offices under difficult conditions. Since then, his poetry reflected a life-long search for lost Eden, and glimpses of its rediscovery.

“The Transfiguration” unfolds from the moment of experiencing such a glimpse of the transcendent, to the realization of its fleeting nature, and ending with the longing for lasting transformation. The opening, “the source of all our seeing rinsed and cleansed, / Till earth and light and water entering there / Gave back to us the clear unfallen world” evokes baptism, renewal, and recognition of the divine in the world, self, and others. The desire to cast off the clothing recalls the longing for the reversal of the Fall, when Adam and Eve were given garments as they left the garden: “We would have thrown our clothes away for lightness, / But that even they, though sour and travel-stained, / Seemed, like our flesh, made of immortal substance.” Like the poet, I like to imagine that on the mountain, the disciples’ clothing reflected some of Jesus’ radiance, as God’s presence infuses our own lives with light. The Fall is undone, creation reconciled, and all divisions erased: “Flax and wool lay light upon us / Like friendly wonders, flower and flock entwined.” What a contrast with the second half of the first stanza, which could well describe Muir’s first encounter with the underbelly of Glasgow!

It is this contrast between transfigurative moments and the unchanged world that raises a question: if given the chance to begin again, would we make the same choices? History compels us to ask this of seemingly irredeemable figures (e.g., Hitler)—what were they like as children, where did things go wrong, could their personalities and values develop differently? And do we believe in radical transformation and forgiveness, including for ourselves? The poem suggests, “yes”, as it ends with the vision of Judas retracing his steps to childhood at his mother’s knee, returning to innocence. I read this as an allusion to both the hope of personal transformation and the eschatological hope that Christ will one day return to restore eternal Eden on earth.

Yet, for now, glimpses of eternity slip away. Muir laments, “If it had lasted but another moment, it might have held forever.” I suspect that Moses may have wanted to veil his face not just to hide the radiance, but also its inevitable fading, to avoid disappointing his people. Have you ever experienced a moment that you prayed would last forever—perhaps in worship, nature, or deep friendship? For me, that was holding my children for the first time at their births, which I worked very hard to preserve in memory, but to my dismay, have already faded over “the days that are long, but the years are short”. In another poem, Muir asks, “One glory of the everlasting world / Perpetually at work, though never seen / Since Eden locked the gate that’s everywhere / And nowhere.” Where is your own gate between heaven and earth? Sensitive to such moments, Muir preserved them through poetry. How might you capture them? What medium—writing, music, art—might help you hold onto and share them?

Muir’s life and work exemplify how each paradigm shift contributes to the refinement of our understanding of God. His spirituality evolved from childhood beliefs steeped in both Norse folklore and Calvinist rigidity, through agnosticism and socialism, to a mature, mystical faith. The poem begins with, “our hands made new to handle holy things,” reflecting the awareness we all have, even as we come down from each mountain top, that we are made for something greater than what we often settle for. What are the truly holy things with which we have been entrusted? What have we mistaken for holy—perhaps the myths supplied by the contemporary culture, or rigid religious rules, false beliefs about God, the world, or ourselves; or the various “veils,” the protective mechanisms such as cynicism and distrust that we construct to prevent future hurts and disappointments, reinforced by each negative experience? What aspects of our faith might need to evolve? Where in your life do you find love, peace, self-giving, and trust? May we hold onto these and continue to live with, as Muir put it in his most famous poem, “one foot in Eden.” May we remain open to the wondrous experiences that sustain our faith as “evidence of things unseen” (Hb 11:1).

Questions to Consider

Have you ever experienced a moment of deep change, only to feel disoriented when the world around you remained the same?

Have you ever had a moment that felt like it could last forever—perhaps in worship, nature, art, or deep connection with another person?

Do you believe that transformation is possible for everyone, even
those we struggle to forgive?

What are the “holy things” you have been entrusted with in your life – how can you cultivate greater reverence in the way you handle your relationships, your faith, and the world around you?