“In the Cloud”
Exodus 24:12-18
Matthew 17:1-9
I don’t know that I’ve ever heard someone wish for a cloudy day.
I’ve never heard anyone long for clouds on their wedding day, for an overcast commencement ceremony, a foggy Easter Sunday, or a gloomy day at the beach.
Even our scriptures are all but bursting with images and metaphors of light.
Joni Mitchell sang about clouds getting in the way, and Johnny Nash sang about the gift of seeing clearly once the clouds and rain had cleared away. “It’s gonna be a bright, bright, sun shiny day,” he said, praising the blue skies all around.
That’s certainly what my friend Charlotte and I were hoping for as we hiked to the top of Ireland’s Croagh Patrick, the place where—according to legend—Saint Patrick fasted for 40 days in the year 441, the place where people have been making pilgrimages—sometimes on their knees—for at least 5,000 years.
I’ve told you before how Charlotte and I were guided to Croagh Patrick less by devotion than by a desire to discover what all the fuss was about and, even more, to experience the magnificent views of Clew Bay promoted by all the guidebooks.
Like most people most of the time, we were hoping for a sunny day.
Instead, by the time we finally reached the top of the mountain, the summit was totally socked in by clouds.
Both our Hebrew Bible reading and our gospel story for today involve a pilgrimage, a mountain, God, brightness, and . . . a cloud. And . . . divine presence and blessing, transcendence, and glory—and a cloud.
In Exodus, we’re told that a huge cloud covered Mount Sinai, where Moses was going to meet God and receive God’s commandments for the well-being of God’s people. Everyone could see the cloud covering the mountain, and still Moses committed himself to the climb. He entered the cloud and remained in the cloud until, after a time, God called to Moses from the cloud. It seems that God had been in the cloud, too.
In the gospels, Jesus takes his closest followers—Peter, James and John—up onto a high mountain. We get the impression it is already a sunny day, and then things get even brighter. Jesus’ clothes become bright as light and his face shines like the sun—all the better to see Moses and Elijah when they join Jesus on the mountaintop.
That would have been enough; that would have been more mountaintop experience than enough.
But then—but then, the story says—a bright cloud overshadowed them. They were enveloped in brightness, but a brightness through which they could not see.
But they could hear.
And from within the cloud, the disciples heard a voice, saying: “This is my Son. Listen to him!”
At this point I should probably mention that one of the classic works of contemplative Christian spirituality is called The Cloud of Unknowing. Written in the late 1300s by an unknown author, The Cloud of Unknowing warns readers against thinking that connection with the Holy One is based on knowledge or intellect.
Instead, the writer suggests, God is to be found and experienced in the darkness of a cloud, the mystery of unknowing, the agony of absence, the ache of silence. The mystery that is God is less to be known, it says, than to be revealed. The love of God is not something to be known and controlled and shared or withheld, but rather something that is always with us in myriad forms, waiting for us to notice, waiting for us to open ourselves to it, waiting for us to give ourselves over to it.
What does all this have to do with us? What does it have to do with loving our neighbors in an increasingly cruel and hateful world?
Well, while leaving room for unknowing, I want to suggest this morning that we, much like Moses and Peter and James and John—are enveloped in a cloud. I’m speaking primarily of our collective cloud, but you may also feel that you are living in your own personal cloud—a darkness, overshadowing, or unknowing that is particular to you and your life right now.
And the cloud in which we live, the cloud that overshadows us and so much of the world right now, feels pretty dark. It both overshadows and overwhelms, and it’s hard to see through it or beyond it. So oppressive and impenetrable is the cloud that it is easy for us—much like Peter, James, and John—to be overcome with fear, to be overwhelmed by all we don’t know or understand, to be paralyzed by a new awareness of our powerlessness and apparent insignificance.
Moses seems to have had the advantage of knowing that God was in the cloud with him. Peter, James, and John knew only that in one moment they could hardly believe their eyes and in the next moment they couldn’t see a thing and had no idea what was happening.
The voice they then heard, telling them to listen to Jesus, only heightened their fear. But then there was a touch and a tenderness, and there was Jesus, looking normal again and telling them not to be afraid.
Friends, in addition to acknowledging that we and our neighbors are living now in a thick, dark cloud, I want us to remember this morning that clouds do not last forever. Whether it is from the force of a fierce wind, shifting temperatures, or the beams of a mighty love, clouds lift, dissipate, break up, move on.
If you are feeling crushed or blinded by a cloud, I invite you to name what the cloud is—what it’s made of, where it has come from, and where it might be going. Notice how it makes you feel. I encourage you to look for signs of the Holy in that cloud, and to listen for the tender voice of Love. Remember that you are not alone in it.
And when the cloud lifts, or when there is a break in the clouds that allows us to see the light, we may be left transformed—transfigured, even.
When my friend Charlotte and I found the summit of Croagh Patrick fully enveloped in cloud and fog, we were deeply disappointed and, oddly, alone. We decided to sit down for a while to drink some water and eat a snack before heading back down the mountain.
And then, as we stared into the thick gray cloud, an opening appeared, as if a window onto the heavens. Through the veiled window we could see the brightness caused by the sun and captured by the cloud. The glory of the moment was not to be seen in a spectacular view or limited to a particular place; it was all around us.
Friends, God’s glory is in us and everyone and all around us—whether or not we can see it, whether or not we can feel it, whether or not we feel it has been overtaken by a thick cloud of evil power. Especially at times like these, when God’s glory can be hard to see or feel, we must choose to trust that it is there and that it will be revealed to us.
Even when we’re in the dark, even when we’re enveloped by grief or fear or oppression, may we never stop looking for glory and grace. And when we find it, may we surrender ourselves to its healing, transformative powers.
