Imaginal Cells ©
Reverend Janet Parsons
Gloucester UU Church
March 3, 2024
He was an enemy of the earliest Christians, a Pharisee named Saul of Tarsus, who was charged with hunting down the apostles and their followers, and ordering them dragged off to prison. He was resolute in his mission to stamp out Christianity. Preparing for a trip to visit synagogues in Damascus, Saul received permission from the high priest to continue capturing early Christians along the way, and returning them to Jerusalem for prosecution. As the story in the Bible continues, suddenly a bright light from heaven flashed around Saul, and he was knocked to the ground, hearing a voice calling, “Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me?” It was the voice of Jesus, telling him to rise and continue on to Damascus and await further instructions. Saul was able to stand, but was unable to see. His traveling companions led him by the hand to Damascus, where it took days to recover his sight. As soon as he recovered, he changed his name and immediately began to preach that Jesus was the son of God. (Book of Acts, chapter 9)
This, of course, was the story of the conversion of St. Paul to Christianity, and it must be counted as one of the most dramatic conversion stories, or transformations, in recorded history. The account helps to create a narrative, an expectation, really, about what it means to be transformed. The story tells us that transformation is an earth-shattering event, where people walking along the road they have chosen suddenly are blinded by the light, suddenly find their feet on a new path. Something dramatic happens to us, and suddenly we are not who we were. Such moments are often called epiphanies; a sudden flash of insight; a moment of such clarity that a new reality is made visible. The Bible, of course, contains many such stories: Adam and Eve taking a bite of the forbidden fruit and realizing that they are naked; the Angel Gabriel appearing to the Virgin Mary, or the discovery of the bright star that led the Magi to the newborn Baby Jesus. This last story so important that it is itself called the Epiphany.
These transformations, epiphanies, are a common plot device in literature as well. There was Elizabeth Bennett in Pride and Prejudice, discovering that the man she enjoyed detesting, Mr. Darcy, was worthy of love, and perhaps she herself had best tend to her own growth.
Dramatic flashes of insight occur in film as well. An old favorite is Groundhog Day, when a narcissistic weatherman named Phil Connors seems doomed to repeat the same day over and over again for the rest of his life, until it finally occurs to him that in order to change his circumstances, to break out of the never-ending repeating loop he’s in, to win over his love interest, he must change – himself.
What all of these events, these transformations, have in common, of course, is that they are dramatic, life-changing, instant, and permanent. They are course-corrections. Often they are described as a change of heart. I like thinking of them that way: a change of heart.
But the question for us today, as we begin to look at transformation this month, is this: is it always like that?
Must transformation take place with trumpets blaring, with blinding flashes of light, and humans falling to their knees? Or, can transformation happen little by little, almost imperceptibly, especially at first?
“Look at the bud,” wrote our poet,
“emerging on the bare branch of the brittle sapling.
It’s a dot, a bit of nothing…” (Diego Valeri, “You Who Have Eyes to Witness Miracles”)
The metamorphosis of caterpillar to butterfly is one of the most dramatic transformations we can imagine: the emergence of a wholly different creature. It’s absolutely magic. And yet, while the process ends with something dramatic: the emergence of a butterfly, it begins with imperceptible cells that were first embedded in a minute caterpillar egg laid on a leaf waiting to hatch. Those tiny cells, aptly named imaginal cells, are present to foster the transformation, to imagine something new into being. And yet, they are virtually invisible.
Perhaps there are other kinds of transformation than what we are used to seeing at the movies or reading about in books. Maybe a profound change of heart can start small: with a mild sense of wanting something different. “A dot, a bit of nothing.”
And perhaps there is more to transformation than passively receiving a blinding flash of insight. Granted, those sudden insights can be welcome! But what if transformation requires our participation, our active involvement?
It’s a conundrum, really. If we’re asked to participate in our own transformation, where might that lead us in this consumerist culture we live in? If we’re not careful, we could focus on easy changes, much like New Years’ resolutions. I think of face lifts, or liposuction. We need to be very careful, and very discerning about how we think about transformation. For superficial changes are not transformational; they are merely fixes, likely intended to make us feel happy. But new cars or houses are unlikely to lead to spiritual growth, to a change in heart. They originate from outside, and will only change the surface.
True transformation, a change of heart, for humans is deep spiritual work. It emerges as we hear a call toward wholeness, a call to discover our truest selves, and to gradually find a way forward to inhabit that self.
The late Irish poet John O’Donohue described this call, this process, this way:
“In out-of-the-way places of the heart,
Where your thoughts never think to wander,
This beginning has been quietly forming,
Waiting until you were ready to emerge.” (To Bless the Space Between Us, p. 14.)
“The beginning has been quietly forming…”. The imaginal cells have been waiting.
True transformation emerges. There might be an event that precipitates the change of heart or form, but much like what takes place inside a chrysalis, the rearrangement of cells, or thoughts, or the change of heart begins deep within. Something asks our own imaginal cells to become active. And along the way of our lives, new facets of ourselves can emerge. Who are we meant to be? Perhaps we find that the chosen career doesn’t reflect our truest self. Perhaps we come to understand that the gender we were assigned at birth simply doesn’t reflect the truth of who we are in our deepest heart. But how do we find our way to this new self?
Two things are needed in order to foster this growth, the change of heart. First, we must be willing to pay attention. This isn’t the movies, or ancient mythology: it’s highly likely that we will be knocked to the ground and blinded by a flash of light, or terrified by the loud voice of the Holy. But the work of transformation requires that we develop our awareness, that we notice that something might be happening. We have to tune in to our own imaginal cells, tiny receptors that might be offering the faintest of nudges, or slight discomfort, or the glimmer of a new idea.
We pay attention, listening and observing. As the poet told us,
“You who have eyes to witness miracles,
look at the bud
emerging on the bare branch of the brittle sapling.
It’s a dot, a bit of nothing…”
We pay attention to what might feel like a bit of nothing. And second, we also learn to be patient. We remember the slow movement of a caterpillar, making its way to a safe branch, attaching itself securely, and forming a chrysalis. And we wait while the transformation takes place beyond our view, bit by tiny bit. This is such a delicate balance: on the one hand waiting, on the other hand being as observant as we can, in order to find opportunities to foster this spiritual growth and change. It is the work of a lifetime. How do we know when to simply wait, and when to make a small movement forward? When does the caterpillar know to form a chrysalis?
March is a perfect time to be asking ourselves these questions. The month of March, here on Cape Ann, is an exercise in patience, as winter lingers, retreats for a bit and then returns. New life is slow to unfold. We wait, and watch. We cope with the need for patience by becoming observant; looking each day for evidence of emergence, of life returning. We see again the necessary balance – of passively exercising patience on the one hand, and pursuing change on the other, even in tiny ways: brushing aside some dead leaves, searching for hints of green. Waiting, and watching. Watching, and waiting.
Are there dry brown leaves hiding something in your hearts? Do you feel stirrings of new life for which there is not yet a name, but just a sense of quickening? Is this a time for you to pause, to become quiet and patient, and search your heart?
Stanley Kunitz tells us:
“Yet I turn, I turn,
exulting somewhat,
with my will intact to go
wherever I need to go,
and every stone on the road
precious to me….
Though I lack the art
to decipher it,
no doubt the next chapter
in my book of transformations
is already written.
I am not done with my changes.” (Stanley Kunitz, The Layers)
Blessed Be.
Amen.
