Sermon-Lord, it is good for us to be here!

St Olave Hart Street in 1941 prior to restoration

A sermon given during a service of Holy Communion at St Olave Hart Street, City of London on Sunday 15th February 2026 (Year A, Sunday next before Lent or Quinquagesima, based on the text of Matthew 17.1-9.

“Lord, it is good for us to be here!”

Words from our gospel reading, spoken by Saint Peter when, high on a mountaintop, removed from the rhythms of ordinary life, Peter, James and John become witnesses to what the Church calls the Transfiguration of Jesus.

In a flash of light, his face shining like the sun, his clothes dazzling white, the disciples see who Jesus is. Who God is. Both immanent and transcendent — present within creation yet beyond it, fully human and fully divine.

And out of a bright cloud, a voice speaks: “This is my Son… Listen to him!” The doorway — the threshold — between heaven and earth is revealed. The disciples see the glory of God through the person of Jesus.

Despite the name, the Transfiguration of Jesus is not a moment when Jesus is changed. It is a moment when Peter, James and John are changed — as a result of glimpsing His divinity.

And then - they come down from the mountain and continue on their way.

It is good for us to be here, because the doors of St Olave Hart Street have historically been closed for the month of August, when the Church worldwide celebrates the Feast of the Transfiguration. And so today, on the last Sunday before Lent — before we journey with Christ into the wilderness and walk with him toward the cross — we have a chance to hear this glorious passage.

As we prepare for the darkness of Holy Week, the scriptures give us a very clear flash — a glimpse — of God’s light and truth.

Here at St Olave Hart Street we are surrounded by visual representations of flashes — bursts of light. Perhaps more than in any other church I know.

They are carved into the fronts of the clergy and choir stalls. They crown the reredos behind the altar. Colin has some beautiful ones in gold-painted iron up in his organ loft. There are striking examples on the railings down to the crypt. Starbursts appear in our stained glass — and there is a great big one above us on the chancel roof, in blue and gold.

This church is one of the few in the City of London to incorporate motifs like these from the Festival of Britain era — a celebration of hope in the early 1950s, using art and science to point toward a future beyond war, beyond rubble, toward renewal.

Perhaps we might see the Festival of Britain as a national “coming down the mountain” moment. A collective attempt to discern what life might look like after humanity had been changed — transfigured — by a terrible threshold. Not a flash of heaven on earth, but of our awful ability to unleash the power of the atom for destruction, after bursts of light over Hiroshima and Nagasaki had revealed such horror.

The flash that Peter, James and John witness on the mountain is a different kind of power. Not atomic power that tears cities — tears the world — apart. But the power that holds our broken world together. The power of transfiguring love.

And it is after seeing that power that Peter declares:

“Lord, it is good for us to be here!”

Before offering to make three dwellings — in some translations three tents — one for Jesus, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.

It is hard to believe that seventy-two years ago, when these starburst designs were first unveiled here, the congregation had spent more than ten years worshipping in a tent of sorts. A temporary tin church stood at the base of the tower of All Hallows Staining while this place was restored from the rubble. Piece by piece.

St Olave’s Mark Lane, as it was known, was not architecturally beautiful. It was precarious, not permanent. Temporary — yet triumphant. A faithful, living witness to a love that endures. To an eternal light that guides us even through the very darkest moments.

From devastation to restoration.

Perhaps that is why we hear of the Transfiguration on the Sunday before Lent.

The starbursts which surround us today speak of that history. And whether you are here for the first time or the five hundredth, you join us in continuity with those who worshipped in that “tent church” – which means it forms part of our liturgical DNA.

So when we notice these starbursts, let them do more than decorate our vision — may they speak to us.

Remind us that God’s glory is not dependent on grandeur and cannot be contained

That the one who shone on the mountain is the beloved Son of God — the one we are commanded to listen to. And follow. 

Which means following him down the mountain.
Into the wilderness.
Into the brokenness of our own hearts and this fractured world.
Into places of despair and need — trusting that his light holds it all together.

In a few weeks the gospels will introduce these same three disciples to us again, this time standing with Jesus in Gethsemane. There, amid fear and sorrow, they begin to discover that God is present not only in glory but in suffering — before they witness the world-shattering power of the resurrection, the moment that redefined life and death for all of us and forever.

In that knowledge we take heart as we contemplate the ultimate threshold. Though we are dust, and to dust we shall return, in Jesus we are shown the promise of new life — and a transfigured world, not lit by sun or stars, but by the light of Christ himself.

A doorway stands open into the endless life and love of God.

The starbursts around us declare that this threshold is not somewhere else. It is here. Now. Offered to all who turn to Christ.

Lord, it is good for us to be here.

Good to be inspired by this beauty, moved by this remarkable history.
Good to be nourished by scripture and sacrament.

Good to glimpse God’s glory.

But — as Peter, James and John discovered — we are not meant to remain here.
And so down we go.
Into Lent.
Into the wilderness of self-examination.

Into this City with all its success and distress.

Listening to Him.

Shining — not with our own brilliance — but with the light of Christ we are called to carry.

Because it is good for us to be here - if being here teaches us how to follow.

Amen.