Six days later, Jesus led them up a high mountain.
And he was transfigured before them,
and his face shone like the sun,
and his clothes became dazzling white.
Six days after what? And were there trumpets?
Hallelujahs loud? Bright lights? No, Jesus was
bright enough, it seems. But not some photo op,
dear Peter, sorry, not his great acceptance speech.
Six days after what just happened, happens always?
No, no speech at all but this brilliant silence, light
as of death surrounding him, the dead doing all
the talking: other greats, like him, but not the CEO’s,
the billionaires, the victors, no: just old ones, tired
of seeing the vision greater than greatness,
weary of dragging us toward heaven, six days after
what? Jesus talking about his death, the death of all
of them, all of us, the lost, the martyred, the sold,
the lynched, the shot, the Trayvon, the Sandra,
the witness, the prophet, the truth-teller, the weary,
six days —though it takes longer than that to do justice—
after he said —though words aren’t enough—
you have to die, taking up your cross, resisting evil
with nothing but love, shining with light, Beloved,
blessed and appointed—listen, keep listening—
surrendered, scrubbed and resurrected from the start,
heading already down the mountain, down into the valley,
into the darkness, the trouble, the woe, shining.
February 18, 2020