The Commonwealth of Heaven
28 February 2010
“Master, it is well that we are here.” (Luke 9.28-36)
This morning’s gospel reading make me feel sheepish. One Michaelmas weekday morning in 1994 a gauche new fresher made his way to Mass here for the first time, stumbling in through the wrong door into the Blessed Sacrament Chapel, sitting in the seat reserved for the server, struggling with an unfamiliarly brisk and serious liturgy. Mass over, he dropped to his knees to pray. More seasoned worshippers, always on the look out for an evangelistic opportunity, lingered to invite the new boy to breakfast – but he remained in prayer. The sacristan was sent down from breakfast to check, and didn’t feel it right to interrupt his devotions. Eventually the junior clergyman was dispatched, and reported back to the Principal “He’s still praying, Father.”
Finally of course I woke up, and with the smell of coffee and toast drifting down the stairs, crept out, just about coped with the tutorial for which I’d been writing all night, and went to bed. It took me several weeks to summon up the courage to come back….but not nearly that long to dispel any reputation for piety that might have lingered. So I can identify with Peter, John and James, heavy with sleep even in the presence of holiness.
“Master, it is well that we are here.”
Well what brings you to mass at Pusey House today? The beauty of the liturgy or the mellifluous singing? The conviviality of the Apres Mass, perhaps? It’s certainly not the eminence of the preacher on this occasion. In my time some masochists attended simply for the exquisite pleasure of being insulted – even physically assaulted – by the Principal, but I suspect regime change may have brought an end to that particular work of witness. The ecclesiastical landscape has changed a great deal since I left Oxford – Janet the Vicar ran off with the doctor and her replacement’s beard barely conceals his bleeding heart, whilst his wife litters the vicarage drawing room with images of the Hindu gods – and that’s just the Archers – but still this House works towards the eternal purpose, presenting the unchanging glorious vision of God worshipped by those he has called to know him, and drawing those who are captivated ever deeper into the redemptive mystery.
“Master, it is well that we are here.”
Today’s gospel reading is one of those moments when heaven breaks into the narrative. “This is my Son” comes the voice from heaven, and we are confronted with a Jesus who is far more than a preacher-teacher, and this is a confrontation that demands a response from us. We cannot nod and smile and move on with our lives. My small town in the Midlands must boast one of the highest statistics for church attendance in the country, as eight hundred adolescents, a large proportion of the population, troop joyfully into chapel on four weekday mornings and Sundays. It might shock you, but some would prefer to be elsewhere at that time of the morning. Occasionally, a tentative Bolshevik voice might even dare to suggest that the services might be shorter, fewer, or at the very least later, but of course parental opinion is firmly behind the status quo: “Never mind the mumbo jumbo darling, Christianity offers a set of morals to see you through life.” But that is not enough. We cannot pick out the morality of our Lord’s teaching which, if we are honest is not essentially different from that of many other faiths and philosophies, and ignore the scandalous voice from heaven: “This is my Son, my Chosen.”
“Master, it is well that we are here.”
The Transfiguration reminds us that Jesus’ authority to teach derives from his nature as wholly divine and wholly human. The Christian life is a response to the love of God revealed in the incarnation, not a decision to adopt a particular set of morals.
But the contrast between the Lord in glory and the weakness of the disciples caught napping is one that will prick our consciences – all those Lenten resolutions already in tatters after only a week and a half. If you give yourself Sundays off, are you beginning to find that Sunday starts rather earlier on Saturday evening than you had intended? Are relatively minor saints being employed to justify major transgressions? More seriously, are we engaging in the vital work of Lent, that joyful season of grace, to seek forgiveness for our sins and amend our lives? Or are we really like those gluttons condemned by St Paul: “their god is the belly and they glory in their shame.”
Peter’s bewildered reaction to the transfiguration, the impetus to build booths for our Lord, Moses and Elijah is perhaps only really understood by Anglo-Catholics – his desire to build commemorative shrines to the sacred presence would surely qualify him for the post of sacristan. I’m sure the booths would have been beautifully furnished, even without Comper’s influence to draw on. But his enthusiasm is misplaced. There is work to be done. The voice from heaven reminds us of Our Lord’s baptism, but the sleep of the disciples points us towards another scene – their slumber on another mountain in the garden of Gethsemane in a few weeks time. Peter awakes now to the sight of the transfigured Lord – the picture will be different then; the call to glory will only be accomplished by the act of redemption on the cross. Today Jesus stretches out his arms in prayer and is joined by Moses and Elijah, then he will stretch his arms out on the cross to fulfil all the Law and the Prophets. The overshadowing cloud in today’s story prefigures the darkness that falls over Golgotha. And there will be no voice from heaven then. Yet,
“Master, it is well that we are here.”
It is well, for we are here because we do not glory in our shame, but cling to that act of redemption. “Our commonwealth is heaven” – an unbelievable claim, as unbelievable as God’s promise to Abraham that his descendents would be as numerous as the stars of heaven. But Abraham stands out for his faith, which was reckoned to him as righteousness. Can we have such faith? Faith can come easily in life’s moments of transfiguration – in the sublime surroundings of this sanctuary, or at the peaceful Calvary in the grounds of Ascot Priory on Good Friday afternoon, perhaps with one’s first sacramental confession under one’s belt? But we cannot stay on the mountain of the transfiguration, we have to engage with the fallen reality of life – like the disciples, we must enter the cloud, and work to keep our faith in the long littleness of life – not to mention its darker moments. So,
“Master, it is well that we are here.”
The truths that this House stands for and the Christian faith that is taught here by word and sacrament are far removed from the Christianity-lite that you encounter elsewhere. Here you see the fullness of faith, with its emphasis on prayer, reconciliation and the sacrifice of the Mass. Here sin is recognised for what it is – a turning away from God as well as our neighbours – and the penitential seasons are emphasised as seriously as the festivals are celebrated (who could forget delight on the face of the Custodian of Dr Pusey’s Library as he ripped open the first packet of chocolate biscuits after the Easter Vigil? Only one who has observed Lent solemnly can know such joy.) This is the faith known to the saints and passed on to us, engaging the mind as well as the senses, encompassing the reality of our fallen nature as well as the glory to which we are called. And because of all this, this is the faith that can sustain you, feed you, even long after the days of wine and roses.
If this place is our mountain of transfiguration, we must recognise that it is a risky place. Moses and Elijah both met with God on Mount Sinai and Mount Horeb respectively; our Lord taught on a mountain – but was also betrayed on a mountain and crucified on a mountain. Mountains might be places of encounter with the divine – but climbing them is frequently unpleasant I’m told. The disciples’ faith cost them much. Ours will make demands of us – we will be marked, different. We will stand out in a society which, despite the high-sounding aspirations of its politicians in an election year, cares little for much beyond personal satisfaction and where compassion is usually confused with emotional sentimentality. It won’t always be easy to find a church to suit you when you leave this place – there are some out there where the parish mass is at 9am and the sacrifice is offered by ministers clothed in polyester. And you will find there are plenty of holy days when the mass times do not fit conveniently with working life. Even if you can cope without some of the inessentials of the faith, you are unlikely ever again to find the same sense of community. If I shut my eyes I can ignore the brown nylon carpet in the church I worship at in Rutland – but I can hardly recreate the group of like-minded searchers after truth I encountered here. Not that it was the most intelligent congregation in Oxford in those days, when the Boden catalogue seemed to be the only required reading for full participation in breakfast-time conversation. But I digress. Other problems present themselves to those who head for the bright lights of the big city, where the plethora of choice makes it difficult to commit oneself to any one church and a cafeteria mentality can set in - until you stop bothering to eat at all.
Many of you are facing other choices about the direction your life and future career will take, and you have to consider whether your chosen path will enable you to live out your vocation as a Christian with integrity.
If this House has done its work, you will not be able to set your mind wholly on earthly things, for our commonwealth is heaven – and so it is well that we are here.
Mr Ben Cooper Head of Religious Studies, Uppingham School