Glory in the Listening

There are moments in our collective history that seem to freeze time—events so significant they define a year, a decade, or even a generation. Looking back at the last century, we can trace the emotional topography of our world through these events. The Great War and World War II were defining times of struggle and resilience. The Moon Landing stands as a pinnacle of human determination, a moment where we looked up and realized our boundaries were porous. The Woodstock Festival defined a cultural shift toward peace and music. The fall of the Berlin Wall gave us a watershed moment for unity.

And, of course, we have our own recent memories. The anxiety of the 2003 blackout, where we were suddenly unplugged. The profound challenge of the Covid years, where isolation taught us the deep value of connection.

Each of these moments evokes a feeling. Some fuel anxiety or fear; others fill us with an undeniable hope and elation. And I suspect that if we were to sit down over coffee, each of you could share personal stories of moments that arrested you times of pure joy, deep clarity, or overwhelming love.

When these moments happen, our human instinct is to capture them. We want to put lightning in a bottle. We take pictures, we record videos, we journal. We want to freeze the joy so we can return to it later. But we all know the truth: the photo is never quite the same as being there. We can’t quite hold onto the high.

We see this exact human struggle in our Gospel reading this morning from Matthew. We find Peter, James, and John high up on a mountain with Jesus. And suddenly, everything changes. The veil is pulled back. Jesus shines with the brilliance of the sun, and he is joined by two heavyweights of their history: Moses and Elijah.

It is a scene reminiscent of our reading from Exodus 24, where Moses goes up into the cloud on Mount Sinai to meet with God. There is mystery here, a “cloud of unknowing,” and a dazzling light.

Now, Peter often gets a bad reputation in this story. He witnesses this blinding glory, this convergence of the Law (Moses) and the Prophets (Elijah), and his immediate reaction is to start a construction project. 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.”

Critics and commentators have often been hard on Peter, accusing him of missing the point, of trying to “capture the moment” or control the divine. But I wonder if we might look at Peter with a softer, more progressive gaze today?

What if Peter isn’t being foolish? What if he is being hospitable?

Remember, Peter is a first-century Jew. He is standing in the presence of the Messiah, the Lawgiver, and the Prophet. His instinct to build “booths” or “tabernacles” is a deeply religious act of hospitality. He wants to create a space for the holy to dwell. He wants to honour the tradition that shaped him and the future standing right in front of him. It is a relatable, human desire: This is beautiful, and I want to stay here. I want to make a home for this feeling.

However, there is a danger here, Andrew McGowan notes there is an critique in our text on “triumphalism.” It is the temptation to stay on the mountain top, basking in the glory, while ignoring the reality of the world below.

We must remember the context. Just before this passage, Jesus told his disciples that he would suffer and die. He spoke of the cost of discipleship. Peter, in his excitement, perhaps wanted to skip the suffering and move straight to the glory. He wanted the crown without the cross.

And that is when the interruption happens.

Peter is cut off, not by Jesus scolding him, but by the voice of the Divine speaking from the cloud. The voice says, “This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased; listen to him!”

These words echo the baptism of Jesus, confirming his identity. But there is a new command added here: “Listen to him.”

The disciples fall to the ground in fear. The notes on our text suggest an important distinction here: the fear doesn’t come from the vision of the light; the fear comes from the voice. Why? Perhaps because looking at glory is easy it’s a spectacle, like a firework show. But listening? Listening requires something of us.

If they listen to Jesus, they have to accept what he said about suffering. If they listen to Jesus, they have to go back down the mountain. If they listen to Jesus, they have to love their enemies, feed the hungry, and welcome the stranger. That is a terrifyingly beautiful calling.

As we read in 2 Peter reflects, this wasn’t a “cleverly devised myth.” It was a witness to majesty. But the majesty isn’t just in the shining light; it is in the message.

Notice what happens next. It is my favorite part of the story. The disciples are face-down in the dirt, terrified. And Jesus came and touched them, saying, “Get up and do not be afraid.”

He doesn’t rebuke Peter for the tent idea. He doesn’t shame them for their fear. He offers a touch of solidarity and a word of courage.

The theologian Scott Hoezee offers a beautiful insight on this. He notes that while we are often obsessed with the “glitz and glitter” of spiritual spectacles, the megachurch lights, the headline grabbers—true glory is often found in listening. He writes, “If they listen to what Jesus says, they will discover windows on glory they had never before suspected were there.”

We live in a world that loves the visual. We want the Social Media moment. We want the mountain top. But God’s voice directs us away from the spectacle and toward the Son, the one who walks into the valley of human need.

True glory lurks in unexpected places. It isn’t just in the dazzling light; it is in the “humble wrappings” of our daily lives. It is in the hospital room, the soup kitchen, the quiet conversation with a lonely neighbor. It is found every time we choose to listen to Jesus and choose love over power.

Friends, moments where we encounter God’s overwhelming power are rare. We may not all see blinding lights or hear thunderous voices. But the power of the Transfiguration is not that it stayed on the mountain. The power is that Jesus walked back down.

We cannot capture lightning in a bottle, and we don’t need to build tents to contain God. God is already loose in the world.

So, take a deep breath. Release the anxiety of trying to hold onto the perfect moment. You don’t need to freeze time. You just need to listen.

Get up. Do not be afraid. Let us go down the mountain together, for there is work to be done, and the Beloved One goes with us. Amen.