The fiery force - from the Lionesses to Hildegard of Bingen

2 March, Sunday next before Lent: Exodus 34:29-end, 2 Corinthians 3:12-4:2, 

and Luke 9:28-36

On Wednesday, there was a moment when the lights went out at Wembley. Only briefly.

Under the famous arch,  the crowd was buzzing. Long term fans, first timers, school groups, families and a cohort from Hendon had gathered to cheer on the Lionesses. 

Approaching Wembley

The European Champions were taking on Spain, the World Champions. The lights went out, phone torches lit up the stadium; the power came back, and there was, in the words of defender Millie Bright ‘fight and desire’. 

The ‘fight and desire’ for the team to ‘defend for each other, work hard for each other.’

Bright spoke of ‘togetherness’ and being on ‘a new journey’; ‘building connections’ and ‘creating even more chances’. 

What is true of football might also resonate with the life of faith - and indeed the new journey, connections and chances that Alma, Aryaneh and Yasamin embark on today. 

Today is just the beginning: you have promised to support them and build connections or togetherness as members of this household of faith, the body of Christ. 

In a moment, you will support them as they fight valiantly as disciples of Christ. This is not about matches or battles, but the fiery force of God’s love.

A love that sets us free and yet binds us together; a love that defends us and also builds deeper connections; a love that shapes our desires and creates more chances for forgiveness, possibility and new hope. 

In the words of another woman - not a lioness but a doctor of the church - Hildegard of Bingen:

This image of Divine Love spoke: I am the supreme and fiery force, who sets all living sparks alight.

Hildegard was one of the most influential women of the medieval period; or rather, one of the most influential figures of that age. 

She was a mystic and poet, composer and scholar. As Abbess of she was concerned about women’s health and wrote robustly to the then Pope about matters concerning her, her companions and her community.

In her ‘Book of Divine Works’ she records ten visions of encounter with God - beginning with a majestic figure of divine love, the life-giving force permeating the world.

We encounter such light, life and love in today’s readings.

There is pure joy and wonder, as if nothing would ever be the same having drawn near to the divine. 

Before we begin our Lenten journey, we are reminded of the ways in which humanity has encountered the glory of God.

For Moses, it was an experience that altered his very appearance. His face shone! He adopted a veil so that others might not be afraid to approach him.  Yet his face reveals a glimpse of God’s light and dazzling brightness visible to others. 

Paul though speaks of seeing God’s glory in the unveiled faces of others. He speaks of the way we are to mirror God’s love in our expressions, gestures; our body language and way of being. By the power of the Spirit, transformation is possible as we glimpse glory reflected in each other. 

Divine love - that fiery force - sets all living sparks alight. 

In our gospel, Peter and the other disciples glimpse something of the fiery force of divine love in such a way that it alters their perspective, rather than their circumstances. 

Jesus is seen alongside Moses and Elijah: in him is the fulfilment of the law of love and the prophetic vision of justice and mercy. Peter is so overwhelmed by the dazzling glory of this moment that he cannot simply allow the joy to enfold him.  

Insead, he wants to hold onto it, to capture it; he talks of creating dwelling places to fix the memory, akin to our tendency to see the world through the lens of a camera phone. 

We see through a filter rather than gazing directly; we capture the moment rather than being present in it.

Perhaps we can be too concerned to work hard and defend what is in front of us - to be consumed by pressures and deadlines - that we miss the spark, our heart’s desire, the love.

Peter reminds us that sometimes, we are invited to appreciate moments of joy and wonder for what they are. To appreciate them, to acknowledge the depth of feeling in that moment; to allow the goodness of the reflections of divine love we see in others to change us. 

After this mountain top experience of glory - more akin to Hildegard’s vision of divine love than the fleeting joy of a goal at Wembley - Jesus and the disciples return to the valley. They return to ordinary life - and to people longing for peace and wholeness, comfort and strength. 

We are to reflect light and love at those moments when the power goes out - when we face trials, uncertainties and disappointments. We encounter the living presence of God - the force that sparks life and light - in the ordinary stuff too. 

Our life together is built around the equivalents of the routine drills and training before the lights go on at Wembley: prayer and fellowship, breaking bread and practicing habits of gentleness, patience, kindness; in being forgiven and being a blessing.

When we’re shopping in Co-op or litter picking the churchyard; when we’re writing words for a deadline or supporting each other; a word of courtesy, noticing the other; our advocacy for someone else and their needs. 

We need joy and glory in our lives. The moments when divine love speaks saying ‘I have called you by name’; ‘you are beloved.’ Moments when we feel  ‘the supreme and fiery force, who sets all living sparks alight.’

But we cannot box it in or capture it. We cannot domesticate the wonder and beauty of God’s love. We cannot make that fleeting ‘high’ permanent. We won’t always leave the stadium on the winning side.

And yet, we will come down the proverbial mountain and know the joy and glory of the valley. 

Moses learns this as he teaches people how to live out the commands of love; shaping a community where there is honour and rest rather than lies and jealousy. 

Peter learns this as he walks with Jesus along the way of the cross: through brokenness and suffering to death and burial. His own denial must have felt a million miles away from the dazzling brightness of the mountain top. But the same Lord who’d told him to listen recalls him and restores him. 

Paul learns it as he writes to the Corinthians about not losing heart, seeking the truth and renouncing shameful behaviour; or, elsewhere, teaching them about sharing hospitality and being just and equitable in their dealings with others. 

This is the challenge of the journey we share together with  Alma, Aryaneh and Yasamin as those who are baptised: it is about bringing the love of God to places of sorrow and raising the sorrows to the heart of God. 

Our fight and desire is to defend and uphold the vulnerable; to work hard for each other - stranger or friend. 

Together we are to build connections of compassion; to create chances for cohesion. This fight and desire is that no one is left hurt and suffering. That is hard to imagine or make possible. And yet, that is where we are - more often in the shadow than the dazzling. 

There will be mountain top joys and valleys of struggle and the days of ordinariness or contentment. In all that Jesus abides with us. We are to keep looking for the sacred - the fiery force of divine love, no matter where the journey takes us. We are to walk in the light - noticing the other living sparks. 

I end with a quote from James Rebanks - reflecting on his experience of glory on a remote island, with Anna who cared for the eider ducks: 

We have to start somewhere… to go to work in our own communities and landscapes. We have to show up day in, day out, for years and years, doing the work… And we have to accept and keep faith in each other, and somehow work together. 

Like Alma, Aryaneh and Yasamin, we show up. We accept each other. We keep faith. We work together. Not in our own strength but as those who gather around one table to partakes of one bread; reflecting Christ’s life in word and deed; trusting the Spirit to change and make whole.

© Julie Gittoes 2025

Human life: more than getting to the top of the mountain

Sunday before Lent: Exodus 24:12-18, 2 Peter 1:16-21 and Matthew 17:1-9

Sir Edmund Hilary was one of the most famous explorers and mountaineers - receiving a coronation medal for his ascent of Everest 70 years ago. 

He was honest about some of the misery of high altitude climbing and the dangers that went with  it. He spoke of being sensible, prepared as well as the  compulsion and thrill . He saw adventure as something open to the ordinary, the mediocre and the fearful. 

Image of Sir Edmund Hilary

Perhaps the perspective of his experience says something about today’s readings. However challenging or modest the climb, you cannot stay at the summit forever. Mountaineers, hikers and walkers all have to descend; but as they do so, they bring with them what they have seen. Hilary said:  ‘Human life is far more important than just getting to the top of a mountain’. 

Today we are taken to the summit - to a place regarded as holy, where heaven touches earth. But we are also drawn into the reality of human life, touched by Jesus, before returning to the valley. 

Six days before he was led up a mountain by Jesus along with James and John, Peter had declared that Jesus was the Messiah, the Son of the living God. Peter had also challenged and resisted when Jesus explained that he must suffer, die and be raised to life. 

Now, echoing Moses' experience of waiting on a cloud covered mountain, the glory of God was revealed on the seventh day. Now, that inheritance of the law, given for instruction, is transformed in Christ. As Elijah too joins Moses, the legacy of the prophets, calling people back to ways of love, mercy and justice, is also transformed. 

This is a moment of glory, of dazzling brightness, a radiant darkness: something spectacular, overwhelming; a moment infused with the grandeur of God. 

No wonder Peter embraces this with eagerness - declaring that it is good to be there and longing to create dwelling places there. He kinda gets it - he is far more inspired by this experience of glory than Jesus' words of suffering and passion. 

Before he even gets all the words out, he’s stopped in his tracks. Now is a time to listen. 

Image of the transfiguration found here

Listen to the one who is beloved, the Lord who is the servant; listen to the beloved Son, the servant who is also Lord. 

Listen. For God comes to us in Jesus in humility and vulnerability, in flesh of our flesh. God comes to us and shares our human experience - the joys, adventures and wonder; the isolation, pain and sorrows.

It is good to be here, for this is the glory which assures us that the home of God is among mortals; that there will be a time when tears will be wiped away, and death will be no more. It is a glory which points towards a creation renewed. 

It is good to be here, but this is the glory of the one who both commands the waves and shares bread with the crowds, who sees the humanity of the widow and tax collector and restores the sick and overburdened.  

It is good to be here on the mountain top: to contemplate and gaze on glory; to inhabit the wonder of a world transfigured. But we cannot stay. We cannot confine, secure or domesticate the wild and unpredictable spirit of God’s presence. 

The disciples fell to the ground overcome by fear when they heard a voice telling them to listen to God’s beloved Son. 

It is then that the beloved Son reaches out and touches them; he says, do not be afraid. Jesus knows that there is something more important than getting to the top of the mountain.  He knows that that means descending to the valley where human life unfolds.

Jesus knows that Peter and the others will not only listen to him - his teaching, the stories, the debates - but they will also follow. They will walk this way of loving sacrifice, of costly generosity, of self-giving care. 

He knows their fear - that suffering is harder than glory. And he places his hand on their shoulder. He allows the warmth and weight of that to be felt. He is with them - quieting their hearts and stilling their minds.

Listen. Do not be afraid. He leads them back to the rhythms and routines of everyday life. He invites them to live out the commands to love God and neighbour - given for our instruction. To do that may not be spectacular; but that is the way of life we’re called to, step by step.

Today we do not climb out to a literal summit; but we do have the opportunity to draw near to the source of life. To extend our hands - to touch, taste and see how gracious the Lord is. To be fed, blessed, loved; to be strengthened and changed, to find reassurance in our fear. 

For here in our worship - in word and sacrament, music and fellowship - we glimpse a holy light. We might hear a reassuring word - human and divine; we might receive a hand on the shoulder, the courage to have no fear.

We stand beyond the moment when the disciples had to keep their silence about their vision. They were given a glimpse of glorious majesty before he suffered on the cross. But  Christ has been raised from the dead.  It is good to be here. To be attentive to the glory - to be attentive to this ‘as to a lamp in dark places until the day dawns and the morning start arises in our hearts’, as Peter puts it. 

It is a light which confirms a prophetic message; which opens us up to the breath and movement of the Spirit in us. A Spirit which nurtures acts of faithful listening in goodness and self-control, in kindness and patience, in generosity and mutual affection. 

Such ways of living and loving are kindled as we come to the Eucharist, our summit and source, in cross-light. But human life is more than getting to the top of the mountain, we go out into the world and see God’s light reflected in a band of colour. We out to bring a touch of love which dispels fear; a word of comfort that restores hope.

© Julie Gittoes 2023

Where can we find light?

 Sunday, 14 February: 2 Kings 2:1-12 and Mark 9:2-9

When day comes, we ask ourselves,

where can we find light in this 

never-ending shade?

It was a little over a month ago that the poet Amanda Gorman spoke at the inauguration of the 46th President of the United States. 

Her poem was entitled “The Hill We Climb”. 

Her words embraced themes which resonate beyond the steps of the Capital. She allowed space for grief and growth, hurt and hope; purpose and promise; truth and trust. She picture of what stands before us rather than between us; acknowledged that norms and notions of what is ‘just’ isn’t always justice. 

Her words were infused with passion and joy; woven together with the vision of our Scriptures - that everyone shall sit under their own vine - their own fig tree - and be unafraid. 

Armando Alemdar Ara - The Transfiguration of Jesus 

The hill we are invited to climb today is one of transfiguration; of transformation; of unsettling, overwhelming and dazzling radiance.

A hill where perhaps we can say with Gorman:

For there is always light, 

If only we’re brave enough to see it.

If only we’re brave enough to be it. 

We come to this light: sharing with the disciples in this private moment. 

A moment of bewilderment and glory.

A moment Peter at least wants to hold on to.

Yet as they rise up from their fear, perhaps they ask what kind of love is this?

What kind of love?

Charles Pabst - the luminous mysteries

This is love incarnate - God’s beloved Son. 

This love is the fountain of mercy and justice.

This radiant moment connects us to promises and renews our purpose. 

Here we too are refashioned. 

At the feet of Moses who led a people to freedom, alerting them to the presence of God in cloud and fire; who called out the dangers of false idols and golden calfs; whose face glowed with God’s glory; who brought the commandments down from mountain top to the valley.

At the feet of Elijah who defended the worship of the Lord God; who called out the evil deeds of rulers and brought hope to the fearful; whose words of prophecy called people back to mercy and justice; who departed in glory, leaving Elisha a double portion of his spirit.

At the feet of Jesus we see the fulfilment of the law and the prophets; who came from glory as love incarnate; who stood alongside fragile and fractured humanity on muddy river banks; whose presence brought God’s Kingdom near in words, whispers, sighs and signs of compassion, welcome, healing, challenge and hope.

Now he sets his face towards Jerusalem: walking a path of suffering, rejection and death.

No wonder Peter wants to hold on to this sacred and wondrous moment; to hold onto this vision of glory.

A cloud overshadows them. 

A voice speaks.

This is my Son, the beloved.

Listen to him.

Found of mercy and justice.

And now, only Jesus. 

What kind of love. 

A love that raises the disciples up from a place of fear.

A love that takes them back to the valley.

A love that gives them a glimpse of glory; a glimpse of risen life. 

A light in shade: if we’re brave enough to see; brave enough to be.

Transfiguration - James B. Janknegt, USA

To rest in the Lord is to commit our way to him, and to trust him. 

To abide in radiance calls forth a response. 

And in commitment and trust, Jesus points the disciples - and each of us - back to this messy world. 

A world where the fault lines of social and economic circumstances collide with the stories we tell of past and present and future; where structures and legacies can be deployed to bind or to set free. 

A world where there are tensions, inequalities and injustices; where polarisation and privilege threaten to disfigure or diminish the dignity we have as human beings. 

Jesus takes us from radiance and reality. 

He brings us back to those who need us: the sick and sorrowful, the restless and vulnerable. 

This is the kind of love we see incarnate with us and acting for us. 

Love that liberates and brings life.

 

Dare we pray for a portion of God’s Spirit?

Truth to guide us and love to free us. 

Dare we become the light we seek?

With compassion, courage and resolve to see dignity restored. 

When it comes to racial justice, this is not a zero sum game - where someone else’s gain is our loss. We are invited out of apathy into equality. We are invited to a kind of love that reflects God’s glory as we honour one another.

In the words of my dear friend Anderson Jeremiah - a member of the Archbishop’s Antiracism Taskforce: the ‘way of the cross cannot be privatised as an individual spiritual journey. The cross becomes a dynamic public pursuit of fraternity, liberty and justice rooted in love. The cross and subsequent resurrection has overcome the world’s power game of domination, exploitation, greed and deception.’

Will we rise from fear - being the light we see and the love we receive?

Today we are gifted a glorious vision - in a world such as this.

Love incarnate: fount of mercy and justice 

In a world of inequity and pain, may our actions be our prayer. 

May we seek to honour one another and rise from fear. 

May we labour unto to the the glory of this kind of love.

© Julie Gittoes 2021

Expansive Dreams

A sermon preached at Magdalene College, Oxford for Evensong on the Sunday before Lent. 

The texts were  2 Kings 2:1-12 and Matthew 17: 1-23

It’s been described as ‘furiously fast, furiously funny and still not for the faint-hearted’; ‘a magnificent comedy that us good for both heart and the soul’.  

Sex Education is now in its second series, explores significant questions beyond teenage sexual escapades. It talks about mental health, bullying and parental pressure; it handles addiction, assault and consent. It frames questions of identity, belonging and inclusion. 

The search for intimacy is seen as something serious and good, which can’t be reduced to sex. There is hope as well as heartache. The characters are open to growth and change, acceptance and forgiveness. 

For Maeve Wiley this means, in part, deciding whether to rebel or excel; whether to be defined by her past experiences of rejection or by the potential she’s invited to explore. Teetering on the cusp of self-sabotage she faces the frosty welcome of her more privileged peers who aspire to be prime-ministers and movie-makers.

What she’s written heartbreakingly eloquent, honest and moving:  ‘In 10 years' time, I want to live in a house with big windows. I want the house to be large enough to have a kitchen table with four chairs but not too roomy to ever feel the depth of my aloneness. Because I'll probably be alone. But I think aloneness won't feel so all-consuming with windows that protect me from the world but still let me watch it.’

And her teacher’s response:  ‘You’re a beautiful writer, Maeve. You can have more expansive dreams than four chairs and some windows.’

We can all have more expansive dreams; but to do that we need to feel safe. Sometimes we do need to be alone, but we also need to work together. 

The physical framing of Maeve’s ten year dream reflects her fears and isolation; her need for safety and a level of self-reliance. Her past is shaping what she allows herself to hope for; but being made in the image of God, our human potential is more audacious than that. 

Today’s readings invite us to dream expansively; but they also allow us to name our fears and the things that make us feel safe. 

In our first lesson, Elijah is aware that he is to leave the earthly realm; and this moment of departure is something that he feels should be, a private encounter between him and God. He is imaging perhaps his own space where he is alone and protected. 

Elisha, his devoted and loyal follower, feels differently: he makes pronouncements which affirm the intimacy of their present relationship, but which also reveal something of his own expansive dream. He is not only a follower, but an heir and successor.

When Elijah himself tells Elisha to say - because the Lord is sending him onwards - the younger man will not leave. 

As the news of Elijah’s departure seems becomes widespread with other prophetic voices chiming in, again Elisha asserts his knowledge of that reality; but also bids them be silent as he journeys on. He has no intention of leaving him.

As Elijah’s removes his mantel, and as waters part, we enter the intimate and liminal moment before he is taken up to heaven. Here, he lays aside the sign of his office; his work is done.

But as the horizon shifts for him, as earthly life draws to a close; for Elisha the proximity of this moment opens up a more expansive dream.

It may seem presumptuous to lay claim to a double portion of Elijah’s spirt; a ten year dream that is so audacious it seeks to surpass his master.  Yet, perhaps like those in Maeve’s cohort, the confident request masks a feeling of inadequacy. 

Elisha is loyal. He’s had the privilege of time with Elijah. Yet he knows he cannot rely on his own strength to step up to accomplish the task ahead of him. 

Here Elijah has to discern whether or not Elisha is up to it: a little like Maeve’s teacher having to challenge and encourage, cajole and affirm to test out whether she has the character as well as the ability to take the next step.

His discernment is predicated on the what God reveals of Godself in the moment of departure; and how receptive Elisha is to seeing things differently. 

Elisha watches and waits; he glimpses in a vision of immense heat and power and energy the reality that his mentor had indeed been the spiritual driving force of the nation. 

Icon from Greek Orthodox Church in St Louis, MO 

This is a moment of letting go: his way of relating in physical proximity comes to Elijah to an end; and yet in letting go, a new and expansive future opens up. A future which needs careful handling. 

Any power and authority entrusted to us can be like a fire or whirlwind. Does it disrupt, distort or corrupt our instincts for good? Or perhaps does it real something of who we are and our character under pressure?

Some of us will be coming to terms with the report about Jean Vanier over the last 24 hours: recognising afresh the dangers of making our heroes saints; of uncritical human regard for fame and influence. 

The conversation between Elijah and Elisha reflects back to us the need for wise mentors; of the importance of accompanying one another in accountability; of the discernment needed in seeking to fulfil our hearts desire; of letting go of our heroes and seeing things through the refining fire of God’s love. 

Those lessons apply to each of us - whatever our roles and responsibilities, however expansive our dreams. Alone and together we need there to be safety and support; we need to trust enough to flourish, but not to trust so much that we collide with that which diminishes others.

What then of our second reading? Might it also shape our expansive dreams whilst also holding in check our desire for power and glory?

In this moment of transfiguration, we see not a change in Jesus, but a change in how those closest to him see him. They see the fullness of God’s light and life. In the body of this one who is God with us, the beloved son, they see the radiance of love.  

Moses and Elijah frame this love with freedom and faithfulness and justice.

Transfiguration - James B. Janknegt, USA

But this body will suffer and die; this body will carry the weight of human violence and exploitation; this body unmasks our delusions of grandeur and self-interest; this body defeat’s the power of death itself. For this body will rise again; declaring that love has the last word.

This love checks the abuse of our power and privilege; it reveals that we cannot rely on our own strength alone. It points us to the risk of humility and trust; of placing our faith in God whose will it is that frail and bruised bodies should be restored, transfigured, redeemed and made whole.

Yes, like Maeve we must  expansive dreams; but those dreams don’t lock us in behind windows. Our need for safety should challenge us to keep others safe. Love moves us from fear to trust, from human effort to divine grace; from self-reliance to accountability. 

All this for the sake of others. In our learning, creativity, responsibility and potential, may we seek to be people who bring life and hope our of sorrow and death.  So we pray for the Holy Spirit's gift of charity - bond of peace and source of all virtue. 

© Julie Gittoes 2020

Until the day dawns

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