Mount Carmel Magazine is a quarterly review of spiritual life

The transfiguration of Jesus is a prayer scene. Luke tells us explicitly that Jesus 'went up the mountain to pray' and that he was transformed 'as he prayed'. But Mark and Matthew also describe the scene and they, too, show us that the Tabor event has a profound lesson for us on prayer.

Beside Jesus on Tabor stand two of the great prayer-figures of the Old Testament: Moses and Elijah. Moses could easily steal the limelight from his companion. Lawgiver and leader of God's people, his presence reaffirms that 'the law was given through Moses; grace and truth came through Jesus Christ.' He is a powerful man of action. But the intimacy of his communion with God in prayer is also beyond question: 'There has never been such a prophet in Israel as Moses,' we are told, 'the man whom Yahweh knew face to face.'

Elijah is 'Father of all Carmelites'. He, too, is a man of stunning exploits. But he is, before all else, a man of prayer: a listener. On Tabor 'a voice came out of the cloud saying, "This is my Son, the Beloved; he enjoys my favour. Listen to him".' These words echo God's first command to his people: 'Listen, Israel!' The psalmist echoes the same lesson: 'O that today you would listen to his voice!' Elijah can teach us many things: not least, how to hear the word of God in prayer.

The fiery prophet of Carmel arrives unexpectedly on the stage of history, with these powerful credentials: 'As the Lord the God of Israel lives, in whose presence I stand'. That is where we ourselves stand when we listen to God's word. We are in God's presence, communing face-to-face, heart-to-heart with him: 'we accept [the word] for what it really is, God's word,' Paul tells us, 'and not some human thinking, and it is still a living power among you who believe.' Elijah 'arose like a fire' to proclaim the message of God to others, 'his word burning like a torch', enflamed with the fire kindled in the prophet during his moments of quiet listening to the word of God. Elijah appears suddenly, only to disappear again just as suddenly into silence and solitude. This is the recurring pattern of his life. It speaks eloquently of the quiet time and space the prophet needs to listen to the word and to let it journey from the head into the deep heart's core.

God speaks through the lips of Isaiah: 'As the rain and the snow come down from heaven and do not return there without watering the earth…so it is with the word that goes forth from my mouth.' This same word 'is alive and active, sharper than any two-edged sword'. Jesus invites all his followers to withdraw at times for prayer, even if only for a few precious moments snatched from a hectic round of busy chores: 'go into your room and shut the door and pray to your Father in secret'. This is the inner room of the human heart, the hidden sanctuary where God dwells. There we can be alone, listening in the stillness to the word at a level that only the heart can hear. God's words are words of love.

Elijah calls the people to conversion: 'Answer me, Yahweh, answer me, so that this people may know that you, Yahweh, are God and are winning back their hearts.' But the prophet who called others to conversion must himself in turn experience it. Conversion is an ongoing process. It is always taking place as we listen prayerfully to the word, with a heart alert and open to be changed. Elijah escapes into the wilderness, impelled by the fury of a woman scorned - the infamous Jezebel. Dejected, he lies with his face in the rubble of his life's achievement. Apparently, God has abandoned him. Despondent, he cries out, 'Yahweh, I have had enough. Take my life; I am no better than my ancestors.' But Elijah perseveres: he journeys on for 'forty days and forty nights to Horeb, the mountain of the Lord' - the place of his encounter with God.

Thérèse also knew this absence of God's presence and of his light while listening to the word of God: 'Frequently,' she reminds us, 'we descend into the fertile valleys where our heart loves to nourish itself, the vast field of the scriptures… this vast field seems to us to be a desert, arid and without water… At times, we believe ourselves abandoned.' Like her, we need patience, perseverance and resolve - that 'determined determination' which Teresa herself requires of everyone who embarks on the way of prayer. 'They ought always to pray and never lose heart,' Jesus told his disciples. The seed of God's word grows in us, edging its way silently, often painfully, through the darkness towards the light. As we listen to the word, still and alert, God cleanses the heart and refines the spirit, enkindling a fire in the darkness of faith. The Taizé chant captures the experience well: 'In our darkest night you kindle the fire that never dies away.' Powerless, Elijah discovers the new face of a tender God in 'a still, small voice' that speaks to him gently in the sound of silence. Thérèse records a similar experience in her weakness: '[Jesus] sees our sadness,' she tells us, 'and suddenly His gentle voice makes itself heard, a voice more gentle than the springtime breeze'.

'The word of God came to Elijah', we are often told. His response was always swift, total, unconditional. As James reminds us: 'you must do what the word tells you and not just listen to it and deceive yourselves…not listening and forgetting, but putting it into practice.' When God speaks, Elijah obeys - in the literal sense of 'obedience': from ob-audire, meaning 'to listen', and to listen attentively. Immediately, the prophet springs into action. Teresa herself, for example, is not primarily concerned with degrees or stages of prayer, even though she has traced them for us with consummate skill and accuracy in her final masterpiece, The Interior Castle. Much more important for Teresa is what she designates as the fruit of all prayer and especially of the highest union: good works. 'This is the reason for prayer, my daughters,' she says, 'the purpose of this spiritual marriage: the birth always of good works, good works.' Everything is at the service of the church. Prayer is no exception.

On the peaks of Tabor, the light flashes, visible on the face of Elijah, bathed in the borrowed radiance of Jesus who is transfigured in glory. Indeed, it is a light that shines in every person of prayer. Paul reminds us: 'It is the God who said, "Let light shine out of darkness," who has shone into our hearts to enlighten them with the knowledge of God's glory, the glory on the face of Christ.' Elijah wrapped his face in his mantle as the Lord passed by on Horeb. But 'we all, with unveiled face, beholding the glory of the Lord, are being changed into his likeness from one degree of glory to another; for this is the working of the Lord who is the Spirit.' Jesus speaks of this same glory: 'The glory which you have given to me I have given to them.' It is already ours.

It is not the visible radiance that matters, the blinding light. This may come and go. It does on Tabor. The vision fades; quiet envelops the scene. Jesus orders his disciples: 'They kept silent, and told no one anything of what they had seen.' But the glory that shone on Tabor is always present in the hidden mystery of the church, the body of Christ, and still shines deep within the praying hearts of all believers.

AN ICON OF ELIJAH:
A GRADUAL REVELATION

The author is a member of the Carmel of Our Lady of Walsingham in Langham, Norfolk, and a painter - technically 'writer' - of icons; her Elijah icon appears on the front cover of this issue. In this article, Sr Veronica explains how working on that icon opened up to her the story of Elijah in scripture; and of how certain details, almost hidden, gradually came into focus to reveal the richness of living in God's presence.

VERONICA COMER

Friendship evolving

For the past few years, I have been painting, or rather 'writing' icons. Traditionally, icons are symbolic drawings - sometimes narrative, visual theology and visual scripture. This is why one 'writes' rather than 'paints' an icon. It is a privilege, a spiritual experience, not without struggle and effort. It consoled me to read, in an icon catalogue, about the monks who paint icons 'out of a labour of love and the ascesis or struggle/dark time' involved. So, after all, I am not alone. It seems to me that there is some degree of 'struggle/dark time', every time I write an icon. Nevertheless, I find myself, each time, drawn more and more to icons, and likewise to learning more about the eastern church - its theology, spirituality and liturgy.

Icon-writing calls for prayer, throughout the various stages, at both the personal and the liturgical level. When I was working on Archangel Michael, for example, I prayed to the Holy Spirit to be at my fingertips; and to Michael, as my prototype, for his assistance too. In this way, a friendship evolves. Secondly, I studied the scriptures which refer to the Archangel: the Book of Daniel and the Book of Revelation as Michael, too, is part of God's loving, revealing plan, coupled with the theology and symbolism behind it all. To write an icon calls for a silent environment - to observe the work of the early iconographers, and simply to contemplate.

His provision was hope

When I wrote the icon of Elijah, it seemed to me like a gradual revelation. Or perhaps it could be called something of an epic, as more than one event in the life and mission of Elijah seemed to be present; pictorially, there were parts of scripture from both Testaments. I therefore began to reread Egon Sendler's excellent book, to discover and learn more about the style of icons.

After enlarging and photocopying the original print, which was done in the School of Crete in the sixteenth or seventeenth century, I traced the lines onto my gesso-ed board, becoming aware that the lines of the rocks seemed to point or converge on the figure of Elijah and then on the raven, the main theme of the icon: 'hide yourself by the brook Cherith…' (1Kgs 17:3-7). Recently, I learnt that there is some similarity between the words 'raven' and '(dark-haired) Bedouin'. Was Elijah, then, fed by God through the hands of a Bedouin woman? Later on, certainly, he was fed by a woman of Zarephath, a non-Israelite, in a time of drought and famine; and does not Jesus remind the people of this in the Nazareth synagogue, centuries later? Basil, reflecting on Elijah in the desert, says: 'The wilderness received the hermit… the provision of his life's journey was hope in God.' And that is relevant in every age.

Mantle of fire

Icons have been described as 'windows into heaven', the iconographer being just an instrument to let the image emerge. Colours are significant - such as blue, denoting mysteriousness and contemplation; and red being the most active of colours. Action and contemplation are combined in the life of Elijah, and we can see them symbolised in the colour of the clothes he is wearing in the icon: a blue tunic and a reddish mantle.

The vestments used for Elijah's feastday are red because he was a martyr; prophecy is associated with being a witness or martyr (cf. Rv 11:3). Fire is an element often linked with this prophet because, to quote from the eulogy of Ben Sirach (Ecclus 48:1-14): 'Elijah arose like a fire, his word burning like a torch… he brought down fire.' And, as this passage continues: Elijah prays for fire to consume the sacrifice on Mount Carmel; then finally, he is taken up to heaven in a fiery chariot. In this icon, his mantle is red-brown, and its contours remind me of a flame. Sometimes, the background in an icon can also be red, for the same reason.

The person of Elijah would be identified by the fact that his cloak or mantle is made of hair (cf. 2Kgs 1:8) - probably camel-hair skin, such as that worn by John the Baptist in the desert. As we know, Elijah's mantle falls to Elisha after his successor has requested 'a double share of [his] spirit' (2Kgs 2:9). It is incredible to think that, after nearly three thousand years, we as Carmelites are privileged to wear the traditional mantle - albeit in cream polyester! It seems that the early Carmelites changed from a striped one to a white mantle in about 1287.

Illumined by the word

Looking, now, at Elijah in his cave, we see a listening gesture. The ear is exposed to make this clearer, as often occurs in icons to show that the person is listening to the word of God. In the First Book of Kings, Elijah lodges in a cave on Mount Horeb, or Sinai, like Moses in earlier times; and both encounter the living God. The author of Kings is writing salvation history: that is, the story of God's intervention in history and in individual lives such as that of Moses and Elijah. Both men veiled their faces. Moses' face shone; and here, in this icon, the face of Elijah seems to be illumined, transfigured. We can also observe other parallels - an approach taken by the evangelists. In iconography, for example, a cave denotes darkness, a place of non-redemption. We remember the icon of the nativity: Jesus, the Light of the world, has come to dispel its darkness, and enters right into the darkness to do so.

In the icon, we see Elijah emerging. Or rather, the rocks are shattering open as in an earthquake - 'but the Lord was not in the earthquake' (1Kgs 19:11). Not in the earthquake, not in the fire, but in the still, small voice. 'What are you doing here, Elijah?' asks the Lord on Mount Horeb (1Kgs 19:9.13). The prophet eventually emerges from the cave, with his mantle covering his face out of fear of the majesty of the Lord; this is just as Moses had done years before him, only Moses was sheltered in the rock crevice by the hand of the Lord (cf. Ex 33:18-23).

After the encounter with God, Elijah is commissioned to go back where he came from: he is to anoint two kings, and also to anoint Elisha to be his successor. We notice the greying hair in the icon - it seems to denote that his earthly mission is coming to an end. In the desert environment, both Moses (with his people) and Elijah had been provided with food: manna, bread, and water from the rock. To the right of the rock in the icon there is, it seems to me, a meandering trickle of water coming down from the rock face and into the Cherith brook.

Revealing the Three

By deciphering more clearly the black and white image of the photocopier, I discovered aspects I had not noticed beforehand. Mountain landscapes are symbolic of the ascent to the divinity; and if, for instance, we look to the left of Elijah's head, to the 'high mountain apart' (Mt 17:1), we see three small oval shapes on the rock edge. These ovals reminded me of a mandorla, which one sees in the icons of the transfiguration and resurrection. So I read again the gospel account of the transfiguration: Jesus was conversing with Moses and Elijah, speaking of the death he was to accomplish in Jerusalem, and he was transfigured before them. Then Peter said, 'It is good for us to be here. Let us build three tents, one for you, one for Moses and one for Elijah' (Lk 9:33).

As one descends the mountain, those three ovals recur. And to the left of the three oval shapes can be seen a cross-like form in the rock. We think of the words of Jesus: 'Tell no one about this vision until the Son of Man has risen from the dead' (Mt 17:9). Did the original artist, then, intend to portray this event, and in this symbolic way? Three shapes are also inside the cave to the right. Can this be God's continuing Triune revelation?

For a long time, I was puzzled about the two little trees, of which the one in the foreground is apparently axed off. What did these represent? Then I was reminded of the two olive trees mentioned in the Book of Revelation (Rv 11:4), which denote two witnesses or martyrs. One commentary suggests Peter and Paul, who were martyred at Rome. Peter and Paul, then, would be described in terms of Moses and Elijah, the two witnesses of the transfiguration. In the eastern church, Elijah is a popular figure and the feast of the transfiguration is a solemnity. It is a very ancient feast, judging from the early patristic homilies, such as those of John Damascene, John Chrysostom and Gregory of Nazianzen.

The shoot has flowered

As for the axed branch itself, does it not perhaps imply the gospel words: 'the axe is laid to the root' (Lk 3:9)? Would this not be, then, a parallel between Elijah and John the Baptist? The prophet Malachi declares that Elijah would return before 'the day of the Lord' (Mal 4:5, RSV). Indeed, Jesus confirms this prophecy when he says, 'Elijah has already come, but they did not recognise him' (Mt 17:12). I looked at icons of John the Baptist from the same period, and there was the tree - together with the axe in it! In the icon of Elijah, we notice near the trunk of the tree a tiny shoot growing. The shoot of Jesse has flowered again. Indeed, Jesus himself was thought by some of his contemporaries to be Elijah (cf. Mt 16:13-14).

So, Elijah and John the Baptist were definitely linked in scripture. They were also held up as models for the very early monks. Gregory of Nyssa, for example, says: 'look to Elijah's way of life as in a mirror.' And we also read that: 'The Byzantine monks of Mount Carmel rapidly added a "sacred topography" to the [Elijah legend]… Episodes, real or imaginary, in the life of Elijah and Elisha, were localized to various sites on the mountain.' The early monks developed the tradition still further, though we do not know how it transferred to the Latin hermits on Mount Carmel.

In the presence of God

I feel that icons are a means of drawing the churches, denominations and religions closer together, and hope that we can be little instruments in the process. And, in the case of Elijah, both Jews and Muslims alike revere him, which makes him quite an ecumenical figure. So, in conclusion, as the gold background symbolises the presence of God, may we pray to Elijah for the grace to stand and live in the presence of God, and to worship in spirit and truth.