Last Sunday after Epiphany
Year A
RCL
Shadows on the Mountain of Light
By +Brian Ernest Brown, CWC
Every single one of us has experienced what we might call a “peak” moment in life. It could be the day you got married, the birth of a child, a sudden breakthrough in a long struggle, or a quiet, breathtaking moment of clarity in nature where everything felt perfectly right. In those moments, the world makes sense. The fog clears, and you feel entirely safe, inspired, and close to God.
But if you’ve lived even a little while, you also know the inevitable next chapter: you have to come down from the mountain. You have to go back to the laundry, the bills, the difficult conversations, and the messy, complicated routine of everyday life.
Our readings today place us right on the mountaintop, exploring that exact tension between the moments of brilliant glory and the heavy reality of the valley below.
In our Gospel, Jesus takes Peter, James, and John up a high mountain by themselves. And right there before their eyes, the veil drops. Jesus is transfigured. His face shines like the sun, His clothes become dazzling white, and suddenly Moses and Elijah, the great pillars of the Law and the Prophets, are standing there talking with Him.
It is an overwhelming, cinematic display of divine glory. And Peter, being Peter, does exactly what any of us would do. He gets anxious, he blurts out the first thing that comes to his mind, and he tries to freeze the moment. He says, “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.”
Peter wants to build boxes. He wants to pitch tents. He wants to anchor this incredible, glowing experience to the ground so they never have to leave it. He wants a faith that stays safely on the sunny mountaintop, far away from the shadows waiting for them at the bottom.
But while Peter is still speaking, a bright cloud overshadows them. This isn’t a fluffy white cloud; this is the heavy, thick presence of God. It’s the exact same cloud we read about in Exodus, where Moses climbs up Mount Sinai and is swallowed up by the glory of the Lord for forty days and forty nights, a glory that looked to the people below like a devouring fire.
And out of that cloud on Jesus’ mountain, a voice thunders: “This is my Son, the Beloved; with whom I am well pleased; listen to him.”
This is the very same cosmic voice from Psalm 2, where God establishes His king and declares, “You are my Son; this day have I begotten you.” It is a voice of absolute authority and power.
And look at how the disciples react. They don’t cheer. They don’t feel comforted. The text says they fell to the ground and were overcome by fear. The raw, unvarnished holiness of God scares them half to death. They are paralyzed, face-down in the dirt. And this, right here, is the pivot point of the entire story. This is the moment where the gospel happens.
While they are lying there in absolute terror, Jesus doesn’t stay up on His pedestal of light. He doesn’t leave them shivering in the dust. The text says: “But Jesus came and touched them, saying, ‘Get up, and do not be afraid.’ And when they looked up, they saw no one except Jesus himself alone.”
Jesus steps out of the dazzling light, walks over to where they are trembling, and reaches out His hand. He touches them. It’s the same ordinary, human hand that healed the lepers, wiped away tears, and would soon be nailed to a cross. He meets them right in the middle of their fear and pulls them back to their feet. And when the fog clears, the spectacles are gone, Moses and Elijah have vanished, and it’s just Jesus. Ordinary, familiar Jesus.
Decades later, Peter would write about this exact afternoon in his second letter. He writes to a church that is struggling, facing persecution, and wondering if this whole Christian thing was just a beautiful dream.
Peter looks back across the years and says, “We did not follow cleverly devised myths when we made known to you the power and coming of our Lord Jesus Christ, but we had been eyewitnesses of his majesty.”
Peter remembered the voice from heaven. He remembered the glory. But more than anything, he remembered the touch. He remembered that the God of devouring fire is also the God who kneels in the dirt to tell you not to be afraid. That mountaintop experience was the anchor that kept Peter faithful through the long, dark valleys that followed.
So, what do we take down the mountain with us today?
First, stop trying to build tents to trap your past blessings. We all do this. We look back at a time when our faith felt easier, or our lives felt simpler, and we try to live in the past. But God is not a monument to be visited; He is a living presence on the move. We cannot stay on the mountaintop forever, because the work of love happens in the valley.
Second, pay attention to the Father’s command: “Listen to him.” Notice that God doesn’t say “Listen to him when he’s glowing.” He says “Listen to him.” As they walk down that mountain, Jesus starts talking to them about suffering, about betrayal, and about the cross. It is easy to listen to Jesus when He is shining like the sun; it is much harder to listen to Him when He leads us into places of sacrifice, forgiveness, and humility. But His voice is just as true in the shadows as it is in the light.
Finally, if you are feeling paralyzed by fear today, whether it’s fear about the future, fear about your health, or just the heavy weight of the world, listen for the footsteps of Jesus coming toward you. He doesn’t demand that you get yourself up. He comes into your dust, touches your shoulder, and says, “Get up, and do not be afraid.”
Look up this week. Let the memory of His glory anchor your heart, trust His gentle touch, and walk into the valley knowing that He walks beside you every step of the way.
Amen.