“You will see greater things than these… you will see heaven opened and the angels of God ascending and descending upon the Son of Man.” Um, OK. That sounds pretty thrilling, but I can’t say that I’ve seen exactly that. And on the surface of things, vertical parades of angels over Jesus seems like a rather high bar for seeing greater things. Lord, maybe you would have more credibility if you’d promised that we’d see a good movie or a beautiful sunset? Or more prosaically, see lot of traffic on the Eastshore freeway?
The season after Epiphany is our Biblical reminder that we—along with so many of our forebears in faith—do actually see sacred things all of the time. And a lot of the holy things we see are utterly ordinary. The first or last light of the day, the stars of the night, a beautiful fragile bloom in our gardens, or the face of someone dear to us. If Epiphany teaches us nothing more than to look more clearly upon the beauty of holiness in our ordinary lives, that would be no bad thing. Don’t miss this opportunity to look at the world you already occupy with the eyes of love. Be blessed by the vision God gives you.
But what about the things we don’t see, or don’t yet see? As a young woman, I was trained as an architect. That was my first degree, and while I don’t use those professional skills—except that I retain some artistic handwriting—I do value the discipline of what’s called design thinking. That is, the training in being able to see, in my mind’s eye, something that doesn’t yet exist. That doesn’t mean that a designer’s vision is always or singularly original. In all humility, we who have been trained as designers know that we are standing on the shoulders of other giants. We look at precedent and adapt based on previous designs that address similar needs. But sometimes the vision that comes to a designer is strikingly new.
“There’s nothing like it,” said Yale Professor of Art History Vincent Scully, reflecting on the Vietnam Veteran’s Memorial on the Washington Mall. Designed by Maya Lin, a 20-year-old undergraduate architecture student in 1980, she imagined a war memorial like none that preceded it. In contrast to the prevailing model of triumphalist memorials, the Vietnam memorial is humble and solemn. I’m guessing that many of you have seen it, or at least heard it described, but just in case let me give you an overview. The monument is composed of two giant wedges of smooth black granite, embedded in the landscape and meeting at an obtuse angle. “I imagined it cutting open the earth,” the architect said. And on the polished panels are inscribed the names of 58,000 American veterans who died in combat. Listed in the order of their death, making the footpath alongside the memorial a chronological journey alongside those who gave their lives.
“You will see heaven opened and the angels of God ascending and descending,” said Jesus to those first brave disciples he called by name. Maybe they were as shocked by that prophecy as we ourselves might be. But—then again—maybe we disciples actually have been given visions like that, as in Maya Lin’s interpretation of the legacy of the Vietnam war. Maybe those fallen veterans are the angels—the messengers—ascending and descending: carrying messages of loss and love, and an invitation to turn from war and choose a path of peace.
To the degree that Maya Lin’s design engendered great controversy—which at the time it did—it’s a reminder that those who envision new possibilities are disruptive. They challenge the status quo, and often pay the price for it. Like the Biblical prophets, visionaries risk becoming lightning rods for all of our fears of change. But of course in a season of light, we would do well to remember that the lightning rod is a locus of power. It attracts unto itself the light and the energy of the heavens. Attracting light like the child prophet Samuel, who heard the voice of God even when elderly Eli’s senses were failing. He needed the lamp of the Lord—which had not yet gone out—to navigate the temple. And he needed Eli, even with his poor vision. God bless the elders who see and support the potential of the young visionaries, even when they might come as a threat to their power or to their sense of how things are supposed to be done.
God’s vision comes as a gift: like a lovely sunset, like the face of a friend, like a design without precedent, or like lightning bolt or a loud voice jolting us from sleep. All of God’s epiphanies—of which visions are literal examples—have within them the potential to heal the community. And while some visions may be more novel than others, none of them come to us entirely ex nihilo. Designers [mostly] build on precedent. Biblical prophets are apprenticed to the scriptures and in the temple. And even Jesus referenced a more ancient vision—that of Jacob’s dream in the Negev Desert—when he spoke of the disciples seeing angels ascending and descending. We are heirs of the dreams and visions of our forebears.
They teach us that no great vision can be fulfilled without the history, the blessing and the participation of the community. Maya Lin—who courageously withstood extraordinary criticism and racism in defense of her architectural vision for the Vietnam Memorial—was nevertheless supported by the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Fund, which raised the necessary money despite the controversy. Samuel the child prophet was supported by his mentor Eli, even though Samuel’s call did not reflect well upon the elder. All of us—dreamers, imaginers, teachers and laborers alike—have a critical role to play in discerning and implementing the healing and transforming vision of God.
Which brings me to the vision we might see here at Trinity. We’re blessed to have a Vital+Thriving team patiently looking for and listening to the hopes and dreams—already embedded within our community—that will reveal God’s promised and preferred future for Trinity Cathedral. Some of you may have shared your stories with them, and I’m profoundly grateful for that gift. Even when visions come from God, they are mediated through human beings.
The season after Epiphany teaches that we are surrounded by visions. The lamp of the Lord has not yet gone out on the Episcopal Church, and there is plenty of future to see. Let me suggest that the challenge for us is, then, lies in what are we willing to see and imagine. If what we see is a small and tired community of Episcopalians constantly wondering where everybody went after COVID, that can certainly become our story and our truth. If what we see is a miraculous gathering of people who believe that this multicultural ministry on the corner of 2nd and St. John matters for the community of San Jose and for the diocese and the church, then we can become that too. We have the power to choose what vision we’re willing to see, and what vision we’ll work together to implement.
Before I leave you with such a weighty challenge this Sunday morning, let me remind you that vision—both the seeing and the enactment thereof—is always God’s work. In and through us, yes, but God faithfully labors alongside us to bring vision to fruition. We are not alone. And today’s Gospel reminds us of this is in the way that Nathanial was called. Recall that before Jesus tells him—and the others—that they will see great things, he tells Nathanial that he has seen him. Under the fig tree, before Philip called him. That is to say, God sees us before we are given visions for others to see. Sees us in our weakness, and also as whole and beautiful people, capable of working miracles in Jesus’ name. And when we allow ourselves to be seen by God and share in God’s vision for the world, we become something like the Epiphany ourselves. We become light for the world.
