Preached on Sunday, February 15, 2026, the Last Sunday after the Epiphany, at Trinity Episcopal Cathedral, Little Rock.

“From the cloud a voice said, ‘This is my Son, the Beloved; with Him I am well pleased; listen to Him!’” (Matthew 17:5)

We might say that this is one of the great clarity moments of the Gospel. There Jesus stands in resplendent glory, transfigured before the eyes of a chosen few—Peter, James, and John. His face shines like the sun, His clothes become dazzling white, and the veil that usually hides His true identity is, for a moment, pulled back. And there He stands not alone, but with Moses, the lawgiver, and Elijah, the great prophet—the Law and the Prophets gathered around Him as witnesses. A holy cloud encroaches upon them—a cloud just like the one that led the Israelites out of Egypt, that settled upon the Tabernacle in the wilderness, that filled Solomon’s Temple with the overwhelming presence of God. And then, if all that weren’t enough, the Father speaks, affirming what has been true all along: this Jesus is the Son, the Chosen One. When the voice fades, Moses and Elijah are gone, and Jesus stands there alone, not because Law and Prophecy were unnecessary, but because they have been fulfilled in Him. There upon the mountain stands the Lord Christ, reigning in a glory that belongs to Him alone. Indeed, this seems like one of the great clarity moments of the Gospel. There is no doubt about Who this Jesus truly is.

And yet, this great clarity moment has a strange ending, doesn’t it? It does not end with Jesus staying on the mountain, enthroned in light, receiving the worship of the nations. It ends with a warning. As they walk back down the mountain, Jesus speaks not of triumph, but of suffering. “The Son of Man is about to suffer,” He tells them: not glory, but rejection; not a throne, but a cross; not a reign that bypasses death, but one that goes directly through it.

So maybe, just maybe, the story of our Lord’s Transfiguration is not one of the great clarity moments, but actually, one of the great obscurity moments, one of the great misleadings, one of the great letdowns, nothing more than false hope. Maybe it feels like a bait and switch. The disciples are shown Who Jesus really is, only to be told that this glory will lead not to victory but to defeat, not to ascent but to humiliation, not to life but to death. What gives?

Obscurity is one of the most common complaints raised about the Christian faith. We search for a God Who is obvious, Whose purposes are straightforward, Whose promises unfold without contradiction. We want a faith that explains suffering neatly—or better yet, avoids it altogether. We want blessings without cost, transformation without loss, resurrection without crucifixion. We struggle with a Gospel that reveals glory but then immediately speaks of pain. And so, we are tempted to say that there is a problem with Christianity: it promises light, but delivers shadows; it points to heaven, but insists on a cross.

So it was for the disciples in their own day, too. Remember, they had left everything to follow Jesus. They had watched Him heal the sick, feed the crowds, command the wind and the waves. They had begun to hope, deeply and sincerely, that He would be the One to set things right at last. And now, just when that hope seems confirmed beyond all doubt, Jesus speaks of suffering and death. This was not what the disciples signed up for. This was not the future they imagined. Surely, Jesus has misled them—has misled us!

But there, right there, lies the great twist of the Gospel: Jesus is not misleading anyone. He is not offering false hope. There is no bait and switch. He is telling the truth. This is the great clarity moment, not because it gives us what we want, but because it gives us what is True. Jesus Christ, in all His divine glory, will suffer and die. There is no deception here, no fine print hidden away. The One Who shines like the sun is the same One Who will be handed over, mocked, beaten, and crucified. The mountain of glory and the hill of Calvary belong to the same story.

This is the difficult truth of the Gospel: we would much rather have the glory without the suffering. We would much rather linger on the mountaintop than walk back down into the valley. Notice what the disciples say: “Lord, it is good for us to be here.” And yet, of course, they could not stay there, for in Jesus Christ, suffering and glory are companions. The path to resurrection runs straight through the cross, not around it. 

Every year, on this final Sunday after the Epiphany, the Church tells again the story of the Transfiguration. Every year, just before we turn toward Lent, we are reminded of the whole shape of the Christian life. We are shown precisely Who Christ is, and we are told exactly where He is going. And Jesus commands silence about the vision until after the resurrection, not because the glory is unimportant, but because it cannot be understood rightly apart from the suffering. Glory and suffering have to be held together, for Jesus, yes, and for each of us who dare to follow Him.

If all of this unsettles you, if it frightens you to hear that God’s glory is bound up with suffering, I don’t blame you. It frightened the disciples, too. After all, it means that the Christian life will never come easy. It means that walking with Christ will often feel more costly than convenient, in the big moments and small moments alike. It means that the way of the Gospel will at times disrupt the plans you were quite sure would work out. It means that trust in God must occasionally outpace what you can see or neatly explain. It means that prayers will not always be answered on your timetable or in the way you hoped. It means staying in a hard conversation even though every instinct tells you to shut down or walk away. It means telling the truth at work or at school when it would be far easier—and far safer!—to stay quiet. It means forgiving the person who has not apologized and may never do so. It means showing up to the hospital room, or the funeral home, or the long season of caregiving, when you would rather be anywhere else. It means giving generously when the budget already feels tight. It means choosing patience with your children, your parents, or your loved ones when irritation would come more naturally. It means choosing the costly path, for that is also the path of glory. And that’s a frightening thing.

But Jesus said the words we all need to hear: “do not be afraid.” So He said to the disciples and to you and me, “do not be afraid,” not because there will be no suffering, but because suffering is not the end.

As we stand on the threshold of Lent, this Gospel does not ask us to pretend that pain is good or that loss is desirable. It asks us to trust that God is present even there—especially there! The One Who is transfigured in glory is the very One Who goes ahead of us into suffering and through it into life.

So, we “listen to Him.” We follow Him down the mountain. And we carry with us the strange and steady hope that the light we have glimpsed, however briefly, will not be extinguished, but will shine all the brighter come Easter. Amen.