I did not want to write this homily. At first I thought it was simply because to write it and then share it with you would mark the end of my time in Hampstead. But there is more to it than that. In one of his poems, Brendan Kennelly wrote:
“Though we live in a world that dreams of ending
That always seems about to give in
Something that will not acknowledge conclusion
Insists that we forever begin.”
I do not dream of ending. In fact, I don’t like endings. They are too painful. They mark a point where the familiar must be left behind and a whole new beginning be made. Kennelly is certainly right; there is something within us which “insists that we forever begin.” Indeed, one of my friends from theological college once said “Is it not true that the only way you can tell if something is alive is if it changes?” And could that something which “insists that we forever begin” be the Holy Spirit?
Writing this homily has been difficult because it has caused me to think back on the nearly five years I have been here and to see that time already starting to belong to the past rather than the present. What I primarily remember are the lovely, kind, generous, open-hearted people who make up this community; of the patients and staff at the hospice who have left a lasting mark on me; of the many transfiguring experiences here–the list could go on and on. To call all of this, and more, to mind leaves me speechless. For there is nothing I can say to adequately express the gratitude I feel for the extreme generosity, care and most of all love that you have all embodied.
Today’s readings mark two transfigurations: that of Elisha as he is forced to make a new beginning when Elijah dies and that of Peter, James and John as their life is transformed by the vision they see while on the mountaintop with Jesus.
It is somehow appropriate to have such readings on this day that I leave because, coincidentally, it all began for me at the Church of the Transfiguration–a church that was also filled with kind, generous, caring people who radiated the love of Christ to all who came through their doors. The founders of that place who, in 1920, chose geologically the highest hill in Toronto (which, in those days might very well have seemed a mountain of sorts) as the site for their church, had a wonderful vision. It was a vision of a place built on a hill, overlooking a great city and which would be a beacon of God’s transforming, transfiguring love.
The Church of the Transfiguration in Toronto is where my faith journey began in earnest. It was where I was baptized; where I was nurtured by a wonderful priest, Canon Alice Medcof, who gently encouraged me on my Christian voyage. While there I started theological training. That brought me to ordination in Wells Cathedral and from my first parish in Somerset I came here. And here so much has been transfigured. I came here single, and leave married. I arrived a “Father” and leave a father of another sort.
Today I stand here in another church built upon a hill overlooking a great city. Part of my journey now comes to an end and a new one begins, not only for me, but for Rowan Geoffrey Orr as well. Today he is baptized into this community of nurturing, generous people who will help him on his Christian journey.
He may be only slightly aware of it but today is a transfiguring experience for him. Through baptism, everything is changed. During the baptism service in the Anglican Church of Canada, at the moment when the priest anoints the forehead of the person to be baptized with oil these words are spoken: “I sign you with cross and mark you as Christ’s own forever.” What a wonderful moment that is for from that point onward you become a part of the people of God–a people who are full of love and care, who want to be the instruments through which God transforms this world into what it was intended to be: a place of justice, of peace, of holiness and most of all, of love.
I leave this place today filled with gratitude for the love, kindness and generosity of all of you; for the ways God has transfigured me through you. These past five years hold many cherished moments: of marrying Sarah, of the birth of Andrew, of encounters with many of you, and with patients at the hospice– all of which have taught me so much about what it really means to be human and to be a child of God; memories of the beauty of worship; and of a week in Moscow and St. Petersburg that itself could perhaps be described as a transfiguring moment for many of those who were there. There are a lot of other moments like these.
I feel I have so inadequately expressed what it has meant sharing our journey together these past five years that to properly put it into words I need to tell you a story.
A salt doll journeyed for thousands of miles over land, until it finally came to the sea. It was fascinated by this strange moving mass, quite unlike anything it had ever seen before. “Who are you?” the salt doll asked the sea.
The sea smilingly replied, “Come in and see.”
So the doll waded in.
The farther it walked into the sea the more it dissolved, until there was only very little of it left.
Before that last bit dissolved, the doll exclaimed in wonder, “Now I know what I am!”
Terrance Bell