11/24/12 – Matthew 17: 1-8 with dad as my accomplice

Our tour bus dropped us at the foot of Mt. Tabor so we could board taxis to take us up the narrow winding road to the Church of the Transfiguration.  The church was built in the 18^th century to celebrate Jesus revealing himself as the son of God to three of his disciples by transforming (transfiguring) into a bright light before them.

Dad and I wait for the bus

Church of the Transfiguration

Church exterior

We toured the church using the available daylight but stopped short of the smaller chapels because the lights had not been turned on.  We asked the resident Franciscan monk if he could flip the switch, to which he replied “The lights are finished”.  We half joked that the church had forgotten to pay its electrical bill.  Mary Ellen couldn’t get over the fact that she had seen a monk… a real monk.  “John, that’s a real Franciscan monk.  You should take a picture of him!”  I couldn’t help but be dismissive with her and said “A Franciscan?  My portfolio’s full of pictures of them.”  All that she could offer after that was silence and it was golden.

Dad and I went exploring while the group looked for light switches.  I found a locked staircase that looked like it led to the balcony.  Dad helped me hop the gate and agreed to keep watch while I went on my own type of pilgrimage… a trepassgrimage of sorts.  I climbed a number of staircases and after squeezing myself through a small half-door I ended up on the roof opposite the bell tower.  But on the bell tower is where I wanted to be so I tried a different route without success.  The hatch to that part of the tower was locked.  I came back down to meet my father who asked “Where did you go?  I was calling you.”  I must have been up there longer than I thought.

The "off-limits" balcony... not for me

Interior pic taken from up top

Dark chapel...light switch nowhere to be found

We met our group in the garden as they gathered to say a prayer.  Sr. Jocelyn threw me a curveball and asked me to do the reading.  I politely declined, but she was adamant.  So at the foot of the Church of the Transfiguration I underwent my own temporary metamorphosis and became a preacher.  I read Matthew 17: 1-8 with passion and employed a liberal use of the dramatic pause (or at least as much as you can use in 8 verses).  By the time I had finished, the light drizzle had turned to rain with thunder in the distance.  I wondered to myself how long it would be before I was struck by lightning.

Dad feels the rain on his head