Feb. 15, 2026 - Transfiguration

Right before the season of Lent begins, the church calendar invites us to pause at a remarkable moment: the Transfiguration. This event, recorded in three of the four Gospels—Matthew, Mark, and Luke—demands our attention. When multiple Gospel writers include the same story, we know something significant is happening, something we need to understand.

The context matters deeply. Six days before this mountaintop experience, Jesus had told his disciples something shocking: he was going to suffer and die. Confusion swirled among his followers. How could their teacher, their rabbi, the one they believed in, be headed toward martyrdom? The disciples wrestled with questions, doubts, and fears.

Then Jesus did something he often did—he withdrew to pray. But this time was different. He brought three of his closest disciples with him: Peter, James, and John. These weren't just any followers from the crowd; they were part of an inner circle, present at the most pivotal moments of Jesus's ministry.

Before we dive deeper into what happened on that mountain, we need to pause and consider something foundational: prayer. Jesus consistently withdrew to pray, creating space for divine communication. This raises an uncomfortable question for many of us: What does our prayer life really look like?

If we're honest, prayer often becomes a one-way street. We know the type—like that family member who calls and talks for forty-five minutes straight without pausing for breath. We bring our burdens, our concerns, our endless lists of requests to God. These aren't wrong things; we're called to cast our anxieties on God. But somewhere in the midst of our petitions, we forget to create space for listening.

Our prayers can become so filled with our own voices that we leave no room for God's. We carry burdens that infiltrate our subconscious, appearing in our dreams and dominating our thoughts. The weight of life's concerns presses so heavily that prayer becomes a download session rather than a conversation.

The challenge is this: How often do we create silence in our prayer life? How often do we pause long enough for God to speak back to us? Corporate worship often includes moments of silence precisely for this reason—to foster two-way communication, to allow God space to reveal truth, to speak wisdom, to offer comfort we didn't know we needed.

As we enter Lent, cultivating this practice of listening prayer becomes essential. The journey ahead requires us to hear God's voice, not just broadcast our own.

On that mountain, as Jesus prayed, something extraordinary happened. His appearance changed—he was transfigured. And suddenly, two figures from Israel's history appeared: Moses and Elijah.

The disciples somehow recognized them immediately. Moses, who had climbed Mount Sinai to receive God's law, the Ten Commandments that shaped God's people. Elijah, the mighty prophet who raised the dead, who called down fire from heaven, who kept God's truth alive when Israel was turning away.

Both of these men had unusual endings to their earthly stories. Elijah was taken to heaven in a chariot of fire. Moses, after leading the Israelites through the wilderness, viewed the Promised Land from a mountaintop but didn't enter it—tradition holds that God took him directly to heaven.

These weren't random appearances. Moses represented the Law. Elijah represented the Prophets. Together, they embodied the entirety of God's revelation to Israel up to that point. And now they stood with Jesus.

Peter, ever impulsive, wanted to build shelters to commemorate the moment. But something even more significant was about to happen.

A cloud overshadowed them, and a voice boomed from heaven: "This is my Son. Listen to him."

Listen to his words.

This command carries profound weight. The Gospel of John, though it doesn't recount this specific event, opens with a theological thunderclap: "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God." Perhaps John's entire Gospel was shaped by this mountaintop revelation—that Jesus himself is the Word of God made flesh.

God was declaring a transition: from the written Law given to Moses to the incarnate Word standing before them. The Law was good and necessary, but now God was saying, "My full revelation stands before you. Listen to what he says."

This command becomes especially poignant when we remember the context. Six days earlier, Jesus had predicted his death. These were the words of a dying man.

Anyone who has sat with someone in their final hours knows how carefully we listen then. Every word carries weight. Nothing is trivial. We lean in because we know these moments are precious and fleeting.

As we journey through Lent, we're called to listen to Jesus's words with that same intensity. These aren't casual teachings or interesting philosophical musings. These are life-giving, world-changing, eternity-shaping words. They guide us through the ebbs and flows of life. They anchor us when storms rage. They illuminate our path when darkness surrounds us.

Then, as suddenly as it began, the experience ended. Moses and Elijah vanished. The cloud lifted. The disciples found themselves alone with Jesus, terrified and overwhelmed.

Jesus touched them gently—as he so often did—and said, "Get up. Let's go." With characteristic calm after the supernatural, he led them back down the mountain.

But he gave them one instruction: Don't tell anyone what you saw until after the resurrection.

Imagine being Peter, James, or John. You've just witnessed something incredible. You've heard God's voice. You've seen proof that your rabbi isn't just another teacher—he's the promised Messiah. Wouldn't you want to shout it from the rooftops?

Yet Jesus said to wait. Why?

Because without the resurrection, the story doesn't make sense. It sounds like a fever dream, like indigestion-induced hallucinations. The transfiguration gains its full meaning only in light of the empty tomb.

The resurrection proves that God can do the impossible. It validates everything Jesus said and did. It demonstrates that death doesn't have the final word, that God's power extends beyond the grave, that transformation is possible for all of us.

Many churches observe a Lenten tradition of removing "alleluia" from worship. Some turn the word around on the communion table so it can't be seen. Hymns and songs during this season avoid that triumphant word.

Why? Because we're saving it. We're holding it back, building anticipation, letting the tension grow.

Then Easter morning arrives. After forty days of contemplation, repentance, and preparation, we release it. "He is risen! He is risen indeed! Alleluia!" The word bursts forth with power, with joy, with the full weight of resurrection reality behind it.

This is the wisdom Jesus demonstrated on the mountain. Some truths must be held, contemplated, and lived with before they can be fully proclaimed. Some revelations require time to mature in our hearts before they can be shared with the world.

As Lent begins, we're invited into this same journey. To pray with open ears, not just open mouths. To listen carefully to Jesus's words, knowing they come from one who loved us enough to die for us. To sit with uncomfortable truths and transformative promises. To allow God's Spirit to work deeply in our hearts.

And then, after we've journeyed through these forty days, after we've contemplated the cross and waited in the darkness of Saturday, we'll be ready. Ready to shout with authentic joy. Ready to proclaim resurrection power. Ready to be transformed, just as Jesus was transformed on that mountain.

The journey to transfiguration begins with learning to listen. Will you accept the invitation?