“Lord, it is good for us to be here; if you wish, I will make three dwellings here, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah”
(Matthew 17: 4)
John Hacket, seventeenth-century Bishop of Lichfield, preached that offering to build dwellings for Jesus, Moses, and Elijah was “…the greatest error that St Peter committed”. Hacket’s verdict has always struck me as somewhat harsh. True, Peter does not respond to a scene of unearthly glory with a paean of awestruck wonder. But then Peter was a fisherman. He was good with his hands. He was used to mending boats, gutting fish, and patching up nets. Brought face to face with the light of Heaven he reverts to type. What can he do? Make some ‘dwellings’ – obviously!
It's a relief to me that we read a Gospel account of the Transfiguration on the Sunday next before Lent, that we catch a glimpse of the divine before we descend to the wilderness and begin the weeks of penitence and fasting. It’s a relief to me because St Peter manifestly fails to rise to the occasion. He does not do what the circumstances seem to demand. He does not utter beautiful words that we still sing as a canticle in our worship. He does not leave the mountain-top with a serene countenance and a steadfast heart, forever a changed man. No. He reverts to type. He offers to get his chisel and plane out and knock something together.
And this is a relief because the weeks of Lent compel me to acknowledge that, like St Peter, I very rarely rise to the occasion. I make vows about abstinence and study, only to break them. I receive ash on my forehead and daub it on the foreheads of others, only to find myself thinking about my supper. I hear the gorgeous music of the Cathedral choir and walk in solemn procession behind them, only to obsess about impossible neighbours, unwritten sermons, and difficult colleagues. In short, I revert to type – gluttonous, distracted, and cross.
But perhaps the expectation that I might rise to God’s occasion or live up to God’s moment is just one more example of human vanity, one more instance in which I’m convinced it’s all about me. It’s not. Lent, however imperfectly observed, leads to Passiontide, when God in Jesus does not rise to the occasion. He descends to it. To the scourge, to the nails, to the crown of thorns. He comes down the mountain and joins us. And that’s why there is hope.
Dean Nick Papadopulos, Dean of Salisbury