Yea! Today is August 6, the feast of the Transfiguration! It was on this day that the world saw a light brighter than it had ever seen before, a light like none other it had ever seen before.

But that light flashed not in Biblical times, but on a clear morning sixty-one years ago. It was then that Lt. Colonel Paul W. Tibbets dropped a bomb called Little Boy from a B-29 Super Fortress called the Enola Gay. Nineteen hundred feet above Hiroshima, Japan, it exploded — in the brightest flash of light the world had ever known.

Within a second, the temperature below rose to 7000 degrees Fahrenheit. Those near ground zero were the lucky ones; they were instantly transformed into carbon mummies. Some left permanent "shadows" in the concrete walls behind them. Those further away were permanently blinded by the flash. Their skin draped from them in sheets. Blind, dehydrated, dying, they stumbled around with their arms held in front of them—like in a bad monster movie—so that nothing would touch their burned flesh. One hundred thousand died the first day. Several weeks later, the death toll had risen to one hundred forty thousand. Of course, the radiation ensured that it would climb for decades.

This morning we celebrate the Transfiguration of Our Lord, which we do every year on August 6. It is one of the few feast days that, when it falls on a Sunday, is allowed to interrupt the regular cycle of readings appointed for Sundays. So in honor of the Transfiguration, we gather in this beautiful place where our windows overflow with colorful light, and we have all our candles lit so that their light bathes this pretty place.

This morning we hear readings filled with visions of light—Moses’ face shining; Jesus transfigured, shining dazzling white as God says, "This is my Son, my Chosen, listen to him;" and Peter telling us to let the light of Jesus’ transfiguration be for us as "a lamp shining in a dark place, until the day dawns and the morning star rises in your hearts." Isn’t that beautiful?

These are the images of light that our faith gives us, images of deliverance (Moses’ face), of salvation (Jesus dazzling white), of hope (a lamp shining in the darkness). And our faith calls us to embrace a strange claim. It is the claim that the light from Moses’ face, the light from Jesus’ transfiguration, and the light from a lamp shining in the darkness, can outshine the light of war and hatred and destruction and injustice represented by that flash sixty-one years ago today. And not just that flash, but the flash from the muzzles of Israeli tanks, the flash from the explosions of Hezbollah rockets fired into Israel, the flash from the M16 rifle of a U.S. soldier, and the flash from an Improvised Explosive Device planted on an Iraqi road to kill that soldier.

Our faith claims that the light from Moses’ face, the light from Jesus’ transfiguration, and the light from a lamp shining in the darkness, can outshine these flashes of war, hatred, destruction, and injustice that have lit the world for so long.

There certainly are times when I have a hard time believing it. It is, after all, quite counter-intuitive, this claim that the soft lights of our faith can outshine the muzzle blasts, the mortar blasts, the nuclear blasts. The more I learn about how deeply ingrained racial prejudice is in our culture, the brighter I see that flash. The more I learn about how deeply ingrained racial prejudice is in my own heart, where I don’t want it to be and do my best to get rid of it, the brighter I see that flash. When I learn that in this country the most accurate predictor of whether someone convicted of murder will be put to death is his race, I see the flash grow brighter. When I learn that the second most accurate predictor of who will be put to death is the offender’s net worth, I see the flash grow brighter. When I learn that twenty percent of our children live below the poverty level, I see the flash grow brighter. When I talk to lesbian and gay friends whose "loving" families and churches have disowned them, I see the flash grow brighter. When I hear the stories, so many stories, of child abuse, I see the flash grow brighter. When I learn that the largest provider of mental health services in the world – is the Los Angeles County jail, I see the flash grow brighter.

Everywhere you turn, you see flashes. Flashes of fear, flashes of hatred, flashes of pain. And it can feel overwhelming. It can feel like the world is bathed in such a bright light of evil that no light could possibly outshine it. Certainly not a shining face, or one shining man, or a shining lamp, not when they are contrasted with the atomic flash of evil.

That’s how Peter felt. Jesus had just told him and the others that Jesus was not going to be a messiah who was going to build a bigger bomb, make a brighter nuclear flash, start a revolution, lead a war; he was going to be a messiah who simply lit a candle, one single candle. And Peter, despairing, seeing the flashes everywhere, said, "Say it ain’t so, Lord." And Jesus stunningly rebuked him: "Get behind me, Satan!"

When we feel like Peter felt, and I think all of us feel like that at some time or another, that is when we need to see the light of the Transfiguration.

Jesus takes Peter and James and John up a mountain to pray. And Moses and Elijah, the traditional heralds of the Messiah, appear. And God says, "This is my Son, my Chosen, listen to him." And Jesus shines; Jesus is dazzling.

It is that vision of light that — years later — Peter says you have to hang onto as "a lamp shining in a dark place, until the day dawns and the morning star rises in your hearts." There again is that strange claim. How can the light of a single lamp, a single flame, a single candle, possibly compete with the muzzle, the mortar, the nuclear flash?

I don’t know. Up here, in my head, I don’t know. But I’ve seen it. One place I’ve seen it is at the pre-dawn Easter Vigil. We light a bonfire in the garden. It is burns bright—like the fire at Hiroshima, like the flashes in our lives. But through our prayers it is transformed. It becomes the light of peace and reconciliation. We light the Paschal candle from it and sing, "The Light of Christ." Then we come into the church by the light of that one candle, the candle of Christ. The room is dark, and the small flame makes the shadows dance. As many times as I’ve done it, it never ceases to be a beautiful and holy moment.

But the Paschal light is just one, single candle. It cannot light the room. If that’s all there were, Peter would be right to despair. But that is not all there is. Because, we each have candles, and each of our candles is lit from the Paschal candle. When all the candles take their light from the Christ candle, the room becomes bright. And when someone’s candle gets blown out (as happens), a brother or sister gives them a light.

I can’t really explain it, and I can’t defend it (at least not intellectually), but in the pre-dawn darkness of Easter morning, as I sit and look at your faces illumined by the candles you hold, candles lit from the single candle lit by our Lord, it is clear to me that the gentle light that begins with that one candle is ultimately stronger, ultimately brighter, than the nuclear flash.

The world is full of frightening flashes of fear and hatred and pain. But it is also bathed in the gentle light of the Lord, illuminating so many faces.

Which light will you look for?

Which light will you follow?

And which light will shine in your life?

The Rev. James H. Pritchett, Jr. St. John’s Episcopal Church, College Park, GA. If you would like to comment on this sermon or receive these sermons by email, contact me at rector@stjohnscollegepark.com.