The Glory We Are Given-The Road We Must Walk

The Glory We Are Given — The Road We Must
Most of us have experienced extraordinary moments. Suddenly our perspective clears, we are able to see and understand more than usual. The presence of God is felt deeply. This cannot be proven or explained away, but we can’t deny it happened either. The disciples have one of those moments on the mountain.
Jesus takes Peter, James, and John up to pray. And while Jesus is praying, something happens. His face changes. His clothes become dazzling white. The Jesus they know—the teacher, the healer, the one who walks dusty roads—suddenly shines with a glory that does not belong to this world and yet somehow does. The glory is not added to Jesus; it is uncovered.
Moses and Elijah appear, talking with him. Representing the law and the prophets. The whole story of Israel gathered into one conversation. They are there to support him. They speak with Jesus about his departure—his exodus— the suffering and death that await him in Jerusalem. The glory of this moment points straight toward the cross. Glory is what happens when God’s faithful presence meets the world’s deepest need.
The disciples, understandably, are overwhelmed. Peter half-awake finally finds words, they tumble out in the form of a plan “Let us make three dwellings,” he says. One for you, one for Moses, one for Elijah. Let’s build something. Let’s not go back down. Let’s stay here.
We should not judge Peter too harshly. He is doing what we have always done when God feels close. We try to contain it. We try to manage it. We try to keep it from asking too much of us. We can sense God’s presence, we can hear him calling, but part of us may feel like running away. I know, because for a time, I was running away, or at least pushing it away. We then can try to dismiss that moment reminiscent of Scrooge blaming a meal rather than accept that he has seen ghosts. Like Peter, we busy ourselves with activity rather than confronting the truth.
A cloud descends. The same cloud that once filled the wilderness. The same cloud that marked God’s presence at Sinai. And from the cloud comes a voice: “This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him.” And then the vision ends. Moses and Elijah disappear. The cloud lifts. And Luke tells us, with almost aching simplicity, that Jesus is found alone. This is the line that stays with me. Jesus is found alone. It is Jesus who will fulfill the scriptures. The glorified transfigured being does not replace Jesus—it reveals who he has been all along. Jesus walks back down the mountain with his face set toward Jerusalem, preparing to carry the weight of the world’s brokenness in his own body.
The disciples are given this vision not so they can avoid the road ahead, but so they can walk it. Faith is not built on staying on the mountain. Faith is formed by following Jesus down into the valley, where suffering waits and healing is needed.
God gives a glimpse of truth. Before the shadows Good Friday lengthen, God lets the light break through. Not so the disciples can avoid the cross, but so they can trust Jesus when the cross comes. When our own troubles weigh us down, the cross we carry becomes too heavy, we too can see the light of Jesus. Transfiguration Sunday is a gift for us as well.
We are given this story as we approach Lent. Before the ashes. Before the long prayers of repentance. We are allowed to see, just for a moment, who Jesus truly is. Not merely a good teacher or moral example. He is God’s beloved Son. Glory wrapped in flesh. Light willing to be broken for the sake of the world.
And still the voice echoes: “Listen to him.”
We often want faith to feel like a steady glow, but Scripture tells a different story. Faith is shaped by fleeting moments. We are not asked to live on the mountain. We are asked to remember it when we are back in the valley.
When I was in my deepest darkest pit of life, I had the memory of glimpsing the light of Jesus. I had the memories of Jesus walking beside me in the past. That helped carry me through. So, we do not go without hope. We go having seen—if only for a moment—that the love we are asked to trust is stronger than death. That the path of humility leads not to destruction, but to resurrection. That the glory of God is not something we grasp, but something that grasps us and sends us back into the world changed. If only we allow it too.
When the disciples come down the mountain, nothing looks different. The road is the same. The suffering still waits. But they are not the same, because they have seen the truth. And so have we.
We walk into Lent not as people fleeing darkness, but as people who have seen light and trust it enough to follow where it leads. We follow Jesus knowing that the path will pass through loss and silence and doubt—but also knowing that resurrection is already woven into the story.
Jesus is found alone. And he is enough. Amen.