A Call to Humble Seeing

Transfiguration Sunday

February 15, 2026

[Texts]

Exodus 24:12–18 · Psalm 2 · 2 Peter 1:16–21 · Matthew 17:1–9

Epiphany blessings to you.

We just heard {read} four powerful texts,

each helping us see what Matthew is showing us on the mountain.

Moses enters the cloud on Sinai to receive the law,

known as the Ten Commandments—

words that find their fulfillment in Jesus, the Son of God.

The psalm declares, “You are my Son,”

a promise that echoes forward to the voice the disciples hear.

Matthew gives us the story itself:

Jesus shining like the sun.

And Peter looks back on that moment,

calling it a lamp shining in a dark place.

We close the Season of Epiphany with these powerful messages

as we prepare to enter Lent in three days—

a season when we traditionally set aside the word “hallelujah,”

meaning “praise the Lord,”

to create a longing for the resurrection.

If you’ve been in church for a while,

you’ve probably heard many sermons on the Transfiguration.

I’ve preached it many times myself.

But this year I found myself asking the same question again and again:

What lies underneath Jesus’ glory?

What does this moment teach us—

not only about who Jesus is,

but about who we are as his disciples

in a world like ours?

Because most of us don’t wake up thinking about dazzling white clothes

or heavenly clouds.

We wake up thinking about the news.

About our families.

About the pressure we carry.

About the injustice we see

and the things we cannot fix.

We live in a world where nations compete for dominance,

where people hunger for status and power,

where families struggle to plant love, peace and forgiveness in their homes—

where patience and humility feel like luxuries.

And into that world,

the Transfiguration speaks—

not as an escape to the mountaintop,

but as a challenge that sends us back

into the reality of life.

The disciples go up the mountain thinking they know Jesus.

They’ve walked with him,

heard his teachings,

seen miracles.

They assume they understand the story.

And in a way,

we do the same.

And then—

Jesus’ light.

His glory.

Moses.

Elijah.

A voice from heaven.

Suddenly everything they thought they knew falls apart.

Their assumptions crumble.

Their confidence evaporates.

They fall on their faces—

the most humble posture of worship.

And perhaps that is the deeper reflection for us this year:

Transfiguration is God’s way of saying,

“You do not see the whole picture.

You never have.”

That’s a hard message.

We live in a time when many of us carry a fierce sense of certainty—

about politics,

about faith,

about who deserves compassion,

about who is the enemy.

We cling to our opinions as if they were commandments.

We hold our perspective as if it were the whole truth.

And we forget that God’s story

is always bigger than our understanding.

The Transfiguration interrupts that.

It humbles us.

It reminds us that God’s glory

is larger than our assumptions,

our pride,

our limited sight.

And the story doesn’t end on the mountain.

Jesus doesn’t stay there.

He doesn’t let Peter build tents.

He leads the disciples down—

straight into a world of suffering,

injustice,

hunger,

demonic torment,

political oppression,

and human need.

Jesus' glory was never meant to be a hiding place.

It was meant to prepare disciples for the valley—

the valley described in Psalm 23.

Just as we gather on Sunday

for our mountaintop moment,

so when we enter a world full of uncertainty,

God’s light goes with us.

And weren’t we just reminded last Sunday

that we are called to be light?

With that calling comes humility.

Many of us are tired.

Many of us are grieving.

Many of us are angry or afraid.

Many of us are doing everything we can

to stand up for justice,

to speak truth,

to advocate for those who suffer.

But even then—

even when our motives are good—

the Transfiguration humbles us.

It invites us to see differently,

to act differently,

to let God’s light reshape the way we move through the world.

The Transfiguration says:

Jesus' glory is not the opposite of suffering.

It is the light that prepares us

to walk through suffering

without losing heart.

Last week, a classmate of mine posted

that the most important three words in the world

are not “I love you,”

but “Depend on yourself.”

She is going through a very hard time—

recovering from injuries after a car accident,

enduring countless hours of rehab,

feeling as though the light at the end of the tunnel is unreachable,

and carrying the quiet pain of not feeling loved or supported as she walks through it.

Her story brought me back

to the good news we proclaimed last Sunday.

The light that speaks our identity

says a simple message:

“I love you.”

And that “I love you”

might not sound like God in Christ Jesus.

It surely comes from each of us—

imperfect and broken as we are.

And because of our imperfection,

God’s light can break through

and shine in and around us.

In Jesus’ prayer in John 17,

he wants us to see

that we are blessed with that love

so that we may be a blessing of that love

to ourselves and others.

In times of challenge,

we may not have the power to fix anything

or the magic to heal unbearable pain.

But our presence

and our listening ears

make a tremendous difference.

They allow people to grieve

and to mourn.

And in that honest confession, “we can’t do it on our own,”

God hears humility and draws near.

And God answers with love:

the light of the people of God

surrounding those who suffer.

That helps those who grieve and mourn

see the light within themselves—

the light of God.

There is a twelve‑minute Oscar‑winning short film

called If Anything Happens, I Love You.

That film portrays grieving parents

walking through an emotional void

after losing a child

in a tragic school shooting.

For me as a person of faith,

it echoes the message of “I love you”

we hear from God through the prophets

and through Jesus

and prayerfully,

through the body of Christ.

And this is where the Transfiguration

becomes personal.

The disciples come down the mountain

with a new understanding:

they do not see the whole picture.

They never did.

And that humility becomes essential

as they become the body of Christ

in the world.

We need that same humility today.

Because we don’t see the whole picture either.

Not of our families and friends.

Not of our communities or any nations.

Not of the people we disagree with.

Not even of our own lives.

The Transfiguration invites us

to a different posture—

a posture of:

Humility—because our sight is partial.

Patience—because God’s story unfolds slowly.

Courage—because the valley is real, but so is the light.

Community—because no one sees the whole picture alone.

Transfiguration is not escaping the world.

The mountaintop moment is essential.

It actually helps the disciples be Christ's light,

planting love, peace, and forgiveness in many homes of the first century,

even in the midst of persecution.

And so the good news today is this:

Even when we are drowning in our own certainty,

even when our vision is small

and our understanding is partial,

God’s light still breaks in

and breaks through.

Jesus does not wait for us to see clearly

before he reveals himself.

He meets us in our confusion,

our pride,

our fear,

and our limits.

We don’t have to know the whole story

to be faithful.

We only have to listen to the Beloved Son,

trust the light we’ve been given,

and follow him

with humility and courage.

And that is enough.

Therefore,

it’s about remembering

that the same Jesus who shines like the sun

is the Jesus who walks with us,

suffers with us,

leads us,

loves us,

and will not let the darkness

have the final word.

But we should also be honest:

God’s light doesn’t just illuminate the path ahead—

it illuminates us.

And sometimes that light

makes us uncomfortable.

Sometimes it reveals things

we weren’t ready to see.

It exposes the pride we cling to,

the assumptions we defend,

the parts of our hearts

we’d prefer to keep in shadow.

God’s light is gentle,

but it is also truthful.

And the truth it reveals

is not meant to shame us—

it’s meant to free us,

to humble us,

to heal us,

to reshape us

into people who can walk in that light

with courage and grace.

Closing Prayer: Let us pray.

May that light guide us.

May that humility shape us.

May that courage strengthen us.

And may that vision—God’s vision—

become the way we see the world.

Amen.