This sermon was very hard to write let alone preach, coming as it did the day after the news about Jean Vanier. I included within this sermon caveat that what I said was difficult; that we needed to check in with ourselves; that some of us might want to talk to someone (including our safeguarding officer).
Yes, the world is charged with the grandeur of God; there is a fragile beauty. There is also the reality of toil and heartache; harm caused by abuses of power; bewilderment at our fallen heroes; and the reality of our mixed motives. This is an attempt, however partial, to name some of that complexity; a complexity that is still infused with grace and hope.
The texts for Sunday, 23rd February were Exodus 24: 12-18; 2 Peter 1:16-21; Matthew 17: 1-9
Sunrise from my (former) kitchen window
There are over 65 millions posts on Instagram which include the #sunrise all of them seeking to capture the colour and light of the dawn.
What is it about the breaking in of a new day that gladdens our hearts?
Darkness is pushed back; there is a fragile beauty.
The world is, in the words of the poet Gerard Manley Hopkins, charged with the grandeur of God.
The world is awakening. For night owls, insomniacs, and early risers this moment is unbidden: glimpsing it a rarity for some, a source of energy or anxiety for others.
We treasure this grandeur with hope perhaps, or gratitude; a moments peace or the cue to press snooze: as the poem continues, it will flame out, like the shining from shook foil; /It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil / Crushed.
The grandeur of God.
Unbidden, never spent; brooding over us.
And yet, alongside this there are the things over which we labour; the toil of hands and lives. The things we struggle with; those things which mar God’s image in us; or scare the landscape of our world, diminishing its greatness.
There is hope and grandeur, yes; but there are also the dark places where light needs to shine.
Today, God’s grandeur and light and glory, is seen in flesh and blood: This is my Son, my Beloved, with whom I am well pleased. Listen to him.
Today, amidst the mess of this beautiful and challenging world, we are also told: You will do well to be attentive to this as to a lamp shining in a dark place, until the day dawns and the morning star rises in your heart.
Two things to hold on to:
My beloved Son. Listen to him.
Be attentive. As to a lamp shining in a dark place.
Transfiguration gives us a glimpse of light and glory on the cusp of Lent.
Transfiguration - Alexander Andreyevich Ivanov (1824)
We see God’s grandeur , the breaking in of a new dawn, in Jesus Christ: this hope is particularly poignant.
Yesterday morning, a report was published about one of my theological inspirations the late Jean Vanier.
A man whose commentary on John’s Gospel explored the challenge and beauty of God’s love; love revealed in Word made flesh, dwelling with us.
A man who founded a network of communities serving adults with mental and physical disabilities; treating them as equals, as children of God.
This same man has been accused of manipulative sexual relationships with colleagues; women have spoken out about the emotional and spiritual abuse they experienced.
This news is heartbreaking for it revealed the harm done when there is power and influence, without accountability. It was shattering because we want our heroes to be perfect; we make them saints. We fail to acknowledge, that they, like us, are flawed, with mixed motives.
It has also painfully revealed to us the damage that uncritical human regard and admiration can do. As Sr Catherine Wybourne reflects in her blog, when she heard Vanier speak, she half expected someone to genuflect before him. No-one did; but nor did anyone ‘challenge anything he said, either. Every word was received as incontrovertible wisdom.’
It does indeed feel as if we are in a dark place; what then are we to do; who then can we trust?
We are to trust in Jesus; God’s beloved Son. We are to listen to him. We are to be attentive to him in the dark places of our world and of our lives.
This listening begins with prayer:
We pray for the women who’ve carried the cost of their stories, the weight of a hidden truth, the pain of not being believed. For they have spoken and been heard.
We pray for the L’Arche communities; for wisdom and strength as they create safe spaces where all can flourish; for that work to not be discredited.
As we pray for forgiveness of Jean Vanier, we also pray for ourselves and all who’ve been inspired by him. For when our trust is undermined or when a hero falls from grace; when we see the suffering caused, we are also confronted with the reality of our human condition.
We are all flawed with mixed motivations: we are capable of doing good, but also of causing harm. We wrestle with our own desires and vulnerabilities; with temptations to take advantage or pursue selfish ends.
Lent brings this into sharp focus. What we call sin is the reality of things that distort God’s image in us; that we are capable of being wounded and wounding others. So we pray that God will reshape our wills, hearts and lives that we might love goodness.
We do not do this alone. At the very heart of the Christian life is the immense courage needed to be compassionate to others; it is risky and demanding. It is why, in our life together, we remain accountable to one another.
Before we begin our lenten journey of prayer, fasting and generosity, we are given a glimpse of the light of Christ to give us hope for the journey.
At this moment of transfiguration, Jesus is revealed in majesty before he suffered death on the cross. Our collect for today not only asks that we, like the disciples, may see that glory; but that also we might be strengthened and changed.
We are to be attentive to this light shining in a dark place: strengthened when we suffer and changed that we might reflect more of God’s loving goodness.
Todays’ readings are full of promise and give us a glimpse of that goodness.
There are echoes and parallels in what we’ve heard read today: words of commandments carved in stone; words of that same love poured out in human flesh.
Moses and Elijah remind us of God’s call to freedom and to faithfulness; to the commandant of love and the prophetic work of justice.
We hear words of glory reflected in Moses’ human face, a brightness which faded over time; we hear of that same glory reflected radiating in all its fullness in God’s beloved Son; it does not fade, it is who he is.
What we see in our Gospel, is not a change in Jesus but a change in the disciples’ understanding of who he was. Peter, quite understandably wants to hold on to this experience; to make it permanent.
Yet this is just the beginning of a journey: for this body, glimpsed in all its divine radiance, is a body which will suffer and die for us. This body will carry the weight of human violence and defeat its power. For this body will rise again.
The dying and rising of this body, gives hope to our bodies. It gives hope to the whole of creation - infused with God’s grandeur but also harmed by greed and carelessness. Frail bodies and bruised creation will be restored, transfigured, redeemed and made whole.
As he writes of this experience, Peter does so knowing it only made sense in all its fullness after Jesus’ death; this glory is only shared when resurrection life has broken the bonds of death.
As he writes, this experience becomes a gift to us; an image of God’s presence with us in Jesus which is to be a light in dark places. He gifts us this image that we might listen and pay attention - not to cleverly divided myths and untruths - but to the love that casts out fear.
We are to hold onto this light as we walk in the way of vulnerability and compassion; being courageous yes, but not alone. Sustained by the words of scripture and the grace of the sacrament. Before we depart today that we who’ve gathered at this table might reflect the life and light of Christ in word and deed. Knowing that it is not human fame and honour that saves, but only the power of God who can bring changes us. For it is only this light that can drive our darkness.
Transfiguration - Armando Alemdar Ara
The world is charged with the grandeur of God; and for all the toil and sorrow, Manley Hopkins gives us hope:
And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs —
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.
© Julie Gittoes 2020
