As you can probably tell from my accent, I am not a Londoner by birth or upbringing. Like countless others from all over the world, I have come here from somewhere else, from Edinburgh. Almost 30 years ago, I was ordained deacon in St Mary’s Cathedral there. If you know Edinburgh you will recall its three spires soaring heavenwards above the ordered Georgian crescents and streets of the New Town. 

The two spires at the west end of the cathedral are called ‘Barbara’ and ‘Mary’. They are named after the Walker Sisters who paid for the cathedral to be built. I thought of them when I read about Sarah and Anne. Barbara was the elder of the two, so her spire is ever so slightly higher than her wee sister’s. There is a story that a nephew, who had expected to become very rich when his maiden aunts died, was so angry as he watched his inheritance being poured into such a work of devotion that he went into the completed cathedral and cursed it. I used to know an eccentric old lady who showed me the very spot claimed he had done it.

I was ordained to serve in another church which had been rebuilt with the Walker sisters’ help; not as a great cathedral but as a mission church for the slums of the Old Town which, in my days there, had both a royal palace and most of the city’s lodging houses for the homeless. I had a good deal more to do with the latter.

Barbara and Mary, like Sarah and Anne, were Christians committed to the life of their community, in a way in which perhaps far too few of the seriously rich of our time — with their ‘non-dom’ tax status — emulate.

This service brings together church and community, congregation and council, Rector and Mayor. The transfiguration may seem at first a story of escape from the harsh or humdrum realities of life; a flight into unreality. But in fact it says something vital to us about the way we live in the midst of reality. It speaks to us of the necessity of going apart — not just for a break — but in our world of endless busy-ness, we should perhaps attend to the Sabbath rest  more than we do. The disciples need to go apart so that they can see Jesus for who he truly is; so that they can listen to God speaking. We all need to go apart — to take time so that we can see what is really going on, so that we can listen to what is really being said. If we are believers, then we need to look and listen out for God. Even for those who are not, the principle remains true for the health of our community, our nation, our families, our selves.

I spent several hours yesterday throwing out some of the mountain of  paperwork which descends on me from various bodies I am involved in. Some of it is sent to me by Mary Spredbury because in her day job she is responsible for making sure that I keep the finances of my parish and deanery in order. This kind of  clear-out is a very therapeutic exercise. But all that paper which went out is symbolic of the endless business and rush which is feature of our lives — especially for anyone like the Mayor and the councillors, dealing with the flood of legislation and regulation, plans and information, not to mention the stuff which just happens. When we add in the endless chatter and noise from media and email, is there any wonder that we often feel overwhelmed and paralyzed. 

On Wednesday the Church begins the season of Lent, in which in spirit we go into the wilderness with Jesus for forty days of prayer and fasting. The stillness and silence of the desert can be a frightening place, but if we persevere it helps us see and hear clearly what is going on around us and within us. Jesus did not stay in the desert or remain on the mountain but went back into the busyness of his ministry and so must we. But unless we grasp and practice the truth he knew, without that going apart we will miss something vital to our well-being, to the well-being not only of ourselves but of the communities to which we are committed.