The Last Sunday before Lent

Theme: The Transfiguration

Preacher: Reverend Anthony

New Testament Reading: 2 Peter 1.16–end

For 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. For he received honour and glory from God the Father when that voice was conveyed to him by the Majestic Glory, saying, ‘This is my Son, my Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.’

We ourselves heard this voice come from heaven, while we were with him on the holy mountain.

So we have the prophetic message more fully confirmed. You will do well to be attentive to this as to a lamp shining in a dark place, until the day dawns and the morning star rises in your hearts.

First of all you must understand this, that no prophecy of scripture is a matter of one’s own interpretation, because no prophecy ever came by human will, but men and women moved by the Holy Spirit spoke from God.

Gospel Reading: Matthew 17.1–9

Six days later, Jesus took with him Peter and James and his brother John and led them up a high mountain, by themselves. And he was transfigured before them, and his face shone like the sun, and his clothes became dazzling white.

Suddenly there appeared to them Moses and Elijah, talking with him. Then Peter said to Jesus, ‘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.’

While he was still speaking, suddenly a bright cloud overshadowed them, and from the cloud a voice said, ‘This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased; listen to him!’

When the disciples heard this, they fell to the ground and were overcome by fear. 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.

As they were coming down the mountain, Jesus ordered them, ‘Tell no one about the vision until after the Son of Man has been raised from the dead.’

Sermon

May the words of my mouth and the meditations of our hearts together be acceptable in your sight, O Lord, our rock, and redeemer. Amen.

I might have told some of you that I like hill walking.

The first mountain I ever climbed was Coniston Old Man, when I joined the fell walking club in Sixth Form. I can still picture the day: the steady pull of the path, the wind that makes you feel properly awake, and that moment when you finally get enough height for the world to open out in front of you.

Back then, I used to think of myself as an atheist. I wouldn’t have called what I felt on that summit “God”. I would have said it was the scenery, the exhilaration, the sense of perspective, and the relief of reaching the top.

But looking back, with a bit more honesty and a bit more gratitude, I can see it differently. That first mountaintop experience was doing something in me. It was quietly drawing me towards God, even when I didn’t have the words for it. Something about height and light and wide horizons was already teaching me that life is bigger than I can manage, and richer than I can explain.

And I suspect that rings true for many people, whether they would describe themselves as believers, half-believers, or not sure at all.

Something shifts in you on a mountain.

It might be the view. It might be the silence. It might be the effort it takes to keep putting one foot in front of the other. But high places have always done something to people. They help life look different. They help you see what matters. They can even help you feel small in a healthy way, not crushed, but put back in your place within God’s wide, generous world.

In the Bible, mountains are often places where God meets people in a particular way.

Moses goes up a mountain and comes down changed. Prophets pray in high places. Jesus teaches on hillsides. And today, Jesus takes Peter, James, and John up a high mountain, and something happens that they will never forget.

Matthew tells us that Jesus was transfigured before them.

His face shone like the sun. His clothes became dazzling white. Moses and Elijah appear, talking with him. Then the cloud comes, and the voice from the cloud says, “This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased; listen to him!”

That last bit matters. Listen to him.

Peter, as ever, wants to do something practical. “It is good for us to be here… I will make three dwellings.” It’s a very human response. When something holy happens, the instinct is to hold on to it. To keep it safe. To build something around it. To make it stay.

But the voice doesn’t say, “Build him a tent.”

The voice says, “Listen to him.”

And notice the disciples’ reaction. They fall to the ground and are overcome by fear.

Then Jesus comes to them, touches them, and says, “Get up and do not be afraid.”

That is the shape of this day.

Glory, then fear, then the gentle touch of Jesus, then the words we need more often than we admit: do not be afraid.

And then, crucially, they come down the mountain.

Because you can’t live up there.

You can’t stay in the bright moment, the clear moment, the moment where everything seems certain and close and shining.

Sooner or later you come down. Back to ordinary life. Back to the questions, the responsibilities, the aches, the griefs, the things that don’t make sense, the things that need doing.

That is why Transfiguration Sunday sits where it does.

Right on the edge of Lent.

It’s as if the Church says: before the long walk to Jerusalem, before the hard honesty of Lent, before the cross comes into view, come up the mountain for a moment.

Not to escape life, but to see Jesus clearly.

Not to avoid the path, but to be strengthened for it.

Our second reading from 2 Peter helps us here, because it speaks about this mountain moment in a very grounded way.

Peter says, “We did not follow cleverly devised myths… we had been eyewitnesses of his majesty.”

He’s looking back. He’s remembering. He’s saying: this was real. We heard the voice. We saw the glory. We didn’t imagine it.

And then he gives us an image for what it means to live after the mountain, when you’re back in the valleys.

He says, “You will do well to be attentive to this as to a lamp shining in a dark place, until the day dawns and the morning star rises in your hearts.”

A lamp in a dark place.

Not a floodlight. Not permanent daylight. Not certainty about everything.

Just enough light to take the next step.

That’s a very Lent-shaped image.

Because Lent isn’t about proving how tough or impressive faith is.

Lent is about walking with Jesus with a bit more honesty than usual.

It’s about letting the lamp shine on what is really going on inside us.

The habits that have grown up without us noticing.

The grudges we keep warm.

The distractions that keep us from prayer.

The ways we avoid other people, or avoid ourselves, or avoid God.

And Lent is also about allowing Jesus to touch us, as he touched those frightened disciples, and to say again: get up; do not be afraid.

So how do we “listen to him” as we head into Lent?

Start small. Keep it real.

Listening to Jesus can mean taking five minutes a day with a Gospel story, reading it slowly, and asking, “What is Jesus saying here? What is he asking of me?”

Listening can mean a simple prayer that doesn’t try to sound clever: “Lord Jesus, I’m here. Help me. Show me the next step.”

Listening can mean making space for silence, even if it feels awkward at first. Because so much of our noise is not just outside us, it’s inside us.

Listening can mean a gentle act of repentance that is more than saying sorry, it’s turning round. Choosing a different way. Making peace where peace is possible. Telling the truth where the truth is overdue. Seeking help where pride has kept you stuck.

And listening can also mean receiving what God says about Jesus, and therefore what God says about you.

“This is my Son, the Beloved… listen to him.”

If Jesus is beloved, and you are joined to him by faith, then you are not disposable. You are not forgotten. You are not beyond hope. You are not alone in the hard parts of life.

There’s also a quiet detail at the end of the Gospel reading.

As they come down the mountain, Jesus tells them not to speak about what they’ve seen “until after the Son of Man has been raised from the dead.”

In other words: the transfiguration only makes full sense in the light of Easter.

Glory is real, but it’s not the whole story.

The shining face is real, but it’s not the whole story.

The whole story includes a hard road, a cross, a tomb, and then resurrection.

So today gives us a gift to carry into Lent.

A clear glimpse of who Jesus is.

A reminder that faith is not built on “cleverly devised myths”, but on a living Lord who meets real people.

A lamp for dark places.

And a hand on the shoulder when fear takes hold.

So as Lent approaches, don’t aim for perfection.

Aim for attentiveness.

Aim to listen.

Take the next step, in the light you have been given.

And when you feel the familiar fears rise, hear Jesus say it again, with that same calm authority and kindness:

Get up.

Do not be afraid.

Amen.