Homily | 💀 You're Still the Beloved (Even When You're the Worst)

Transfiguration Sunday

Assigned Scripture: Exodus 24:12-18 | 2 Peter 1:16-21 | Matthew 17:1-9

Peter... You have to feel at least a little bit bad for him, right?

There’s a scene we didn’t read today that came right before this one... A few days before this hike up the mountain, there was a big blow up that resulted in Jesus calling Peter Satan. And not in private. Publicly. Called Peter out right there in front of everyone.

Why? Peter had simply suggested (quite reasonably, he thought), “Hey, Jesus... Maybe you don’t need to go get yourself killed in Jerusalem.”

And Jesus laid into him: “Get behind me, Satan.”

I imagine the next few days around basecamp were pretty awkward. A lot of the disciples, staring at their Birkenstocks. James, pretending to be overly interested in a nearby rock formation. And Peter (poor Peter) probably replaying that moment over and over, wondering if he should just keep his mouth shut from now on.

So when Jesus breaks the tension and says, “Hey Larry, Curly, and Moe—I mean, Peter, James, John... Let’s go for a hike,” I’m guessing Peter is thinking this is his chance. His opportunity to get back in his teacher’s good graces.

He probably felt pretty cool about himself too. After getting called Satan six days ago, he thought maybe he’d missed the cut. But here he is, one of the top three! The other nine disciples are stuck down at base camp.

...

So the three stooges head up the mountain with Jesus. But I want to focus on Peter because I think you and I are him in this story...

Peter isn’t just carrying his body up that slope. He’s carrying some serious existential weight.

The sting of public embarrassment. The confusion of following a Messiah who seems hell-bent on this suicide mission he’s taking them all on. The growing regret that he left his family’s fishing business—a respectable trade—for... what, exactly?

Everything Peter thought he understood about God’s plan is falling apart.

But, he climbs anyway. He follows this hopeful Messiah up this mountain. Because that’s what good people do, right? They work... Prove themselves...

I have a feeling Peter thought, “Yes! I’m doing it now! I’m carrying my cross like Jesus said, hiking up this mountain.” Legs burning. That certain lower back perspiration that happens on a good hike; you know how it is! Hard work!

And then, on the mountaintop, it happens.

Jesus starts glowing like he stuck his finger in a divine socket. And suddenly Moses and Elijah show up.

I know how this sounds. Glowing Jesus, ancient prophets materializing, booming voices from clouds—this is not the stuff of reasonable faith. And yet here we are, two thousand years later, still talking about it. Still sensing that something true broke through on that mountain.

...

So here they are with Moses and Elijah... This is the halftime show to end all halftime shows—bigger than both Bad Bunny and Kid Rock. This is the Law and the Prophets, standing right there, talking with Jesus like they’ve known him for (you know) thousands of years.

And Peter—bless him—Peter’s immediate reaction... is to start building.

“Master! This is amazing! Let’s make three booths—one for you, one for Moses, one for Elijah! We can preserve this moment! People can come up here and experience this!” (“Maybe we can monetize it, guys?!”)

He wants to freeze-frame this transcendent moment so he doesn’t have to go back down into the chaotic mess of his regular life. You can almost hear the manic edge in his voice.

He’s so busy talking, so busy planning, so busy trying to make something happen, that he can’t hear what’s actually going on. His life has become noise—the chatter of his own anxiety, his regrets, his scrambling to hold everything together while it slips through his fingers like water. (I wonder what this feels like:))

Then the cloud rolls in. And out of the silence comes a voice:

“This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased. Listen to him.”

Notice, it’s not: “listen to them“—not Moses, not Elijah, not the Law, not the Prophets, not all the voices telling Peter what he should be doing or how he’s failing or what he needs to prove.

Just: Listen to him. This One.

All the noise collapses into a single Voice.

This is the spiritual journey in a nutshell: from chaos to center, from a thousand competing demands to one... Just one Voice. Just Love.

And what’s the first thing that happens when you actually hear God speak? When the cloud of glory envelops you and the Voice thunders and you realize you’re standing in the presence of the Holy?

You fall on your face in terror.

The disciples hit the dirt. This is the moment where all their striving reveals itself as inadequate. All the booth-building, all the so-called cross-carrying, all the attempts to climb their way to God—it all crumbles. They see they can’t earn or manage this. They can only lie there in the dust, face-down, waiting for the hammer to fall.

But the story turns...

Jesus doesn’t stay glowing. He doesn’t remain distant and terrifying. He doesn’t thunder more commands at them from the cloud.

He comes down to where they are.

And suddenly, a hand—a regular human hand, weathered and carpenter-rough—touches Peter’s shoulder. Touches James. Touches John.

“Get up,” Jesus says. “Don’t be afraid.”

...

God’s final word to us isn’t a commandment. It’s not another item on the to-do list. It’s not “try harder” or “do better” or “build me three booths.”

It’s a touch. Presence. It’s “I’m here. With you. Don’t be afraid.”

This doesn’t mean the suffering stops. Peter’s going to watch Jesus die in a few weeks. He’ll deny him three times. He’ll know the kind of pain that makes you want to build monuments to the past just to avoid the future. But he won’t go through it alone. The hand that touches him here will meet him on the beach after the resurrection, waiting for him with breakfast. The Voice that says “Don’t be afraid” will say it again. And again.

This is what the voice from the cloud was saying all along: the One you’re supposed to listen to isn’t up there barking orders. He’s down here, in the flesh, touching you in your terror, speaking comfort into your chaos.

...

When they finally look up, Moses is gone. Elijah is gone. The booming voice is gone. The whole religious committee of expectations has adjourned.

And there’s only Jesus. Just the One.

And does he say, “Okay, now that you’ve had this mountaintop experience, stay up here and bask in it”? Does he tell them to build a prayer chapel and charge admission?

No. In the verses beyond this, he leads them back down the mountain.

Back to ordinary life. Back to the valley. Back to the same disappointed crowds and confused disciples and looming cross that they left behind.

Welcome... To Lent. Ash Wednesday is coming up this week. The season where we hold Jesus’ hand down into our own valleys.

The point of the mountain isn’t to escape the valley. The point is to briefly be in an elevated place where you can hear the Voice clearly enough... And to feel God’s touch intimately enough... That you can also recognize His presence in the low of the lows.

For you are the Beloved.

Not because you climbed the mountain. Or built the booths. Or because you got it right or said the right thing or avoided getting called Satan.

You are the Beloved because that’s who God says you are.

Even when you speak Satan’s lines—when you resist God’s purposes out of fear or self-protection—you’re still the Beloved. The same Jesus who said “Get behind me, Satan” is the one touching your shoulder saying “Don’t be afraid.” The rebuke and the tenderness come from the same love.

And in a few minutes, we’re going to come to this Table, where Jesus gives himself to us again. Not as a vision on a mountaintop but as bread and wine. As close as your mouth. As ordinary as a meal.

And the Voice will speak again: “This is my body, given for you. This is my blood, shed for you.”

For you.

You don’t have to carry all that weight anymore. You don’t have to prove yourself. You don’t have to build monuments to your spiritual experiences or earn your way into God’s favor.

You’re already the Beloved.

The only thing left to do is listen to Him. And let Him lead you back down into your life—not as a burden to bear, but as a gift to live out. What does that look like? I dunno. But maybe it looks like going to work or school on Tuesday without needing to prove you have to earn or prove your existence. Or maybe it looks like accepting forgiveness for yourself for the thousandth time. Or loving your neighbor not because you should but because you’re free to. Small things. Ordinary things.

The whole ordinary life being lit from within. This is the lamp that will light your way.

Don’t be afraid.

And so it is. Amen.