Transfiguration Sunday, Matthew 17:1-9
There is a line in today’s gospel that is easy to glide past, but if we slow down, it may be the most important sentence in the entire story.
From the cloud, God says:
“This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased. Listen to him.”
Before Jesus heals anyone.
Before he feeds the crowds.
Before he goes to the cross.
Before the resurrection.
God calls him Beloved.
Not impressive.
Not powerful.
Not successful.
Beloved.
And that tells us something essential about who Jesus is. But even more, it tells us something essential about who God is—and who we are.
Jesus takes Peter, James, and John up a high mountain. In Scripture, mountains are places where heaven and earth draw close together. Moses meets God on a mountain. Elijah hears God’s still, small voice on a mountain. The law is given on a mountain. Mountains are where the veil thins.
And there, something extraordinary happens.
Jesus is transfigured. His face shines like the sun. His clothes become dazzling white. Moses and Elijah appear, representing the Law and the Prophets—the entire story of God’s people standing beside him.
For a brief moment, the disciples see what has always been true but rarely visible: the glory of Christ.
This is not Jesus becoming someone new.
This is Jesus revealed for who he has always been.
Transfiguration is not transformation.
It is revelation.
The light was already there. The disciples just couldn’t see it before.
And then comes the voice:
“This is my Son, the Beloved.”
Love is at the center of Jesus’ identity.
Here is what we must not miss: this happens before Jesus goes to Jerusalem.
Before betrayal.
Before denial.
Before the cross.
Before death.
God does not wait to see how Jesus performs.
God does not wait to see if he succeeds.
God names him Beloved before everything falls apart.
Which means Jesus walks toward the hardest chapter of his life grounded in one unshakable truth: I am loved.
That is what carries him through suffering.
And that is why the church gives us this story on the Sunday before Lent. Before we step into a season of repentance and honesty and wilderness, God says to us:
Remember who you are.
You are my beloved.
And then we arrive at Valentine’s Day.
A day that celebrates love—but usually a very specific version of love. The shiny version. The romantic version. The early-days version.
Flowers. Cards. Fancy dinners. New outfits. Candlelight. Anticipation.
And that kind of love is beautiful. It is exciting. It is memorable.
But it is not the whole story of love.
Because love changes.
Love grows up.
Love settles in.
Love becomes less flashy and more faithful.
And sometimes, if we are honest, we can mistake that change for something being lost.
But maybe it isn’t loss.
Maybe it is transfiguration.
When AJ and I first started dating, Valentine’s Day was a whole event.
We dressed up. Fancy dinner. Nice outfits. Hair done. Makeup on. Maybe drinks before dinner. Sometimes we would even turn it into a weekend away. There was excitement and nervousness and anticipation. Everything felt special and intentional and romantic.
Those Valentine’s Days were bright and shining. They felt a little like the mountaintop moment in today’s gospel—glorious, sparkling, unforgettable.
Then we got married. Then we had one child.
Valentine’s Day changed.
It got smaller. Quieter. Maybe takeout instead of a restaurant. Maybe eating at home after bedtime instead of going out. Less production, more practicality.
Then COVID came.
No restaurants. No babysitters. No going anywhere. Valentine’s Day became whatever we could manage in the middle of uncertainty, exhaustion, and survival.
And now—four children later—we are lucky if we get to eat dinner while it is still warm, let alone go out to eat. The fancy clothes? Gone. The hair and makeup? Replaced with sweats, hair in a clip, and chapstick.
And here is the thing I’ve realized:
Those early Valentine’s Days were beautiful.
But so are these.
The love didn’t disappear.
It was transfigured.
What once looked like candlelight and dresses now looks like shared glances across a chaotic dinner table. What once looked like fancy dinners now looks like teamwork, exhaustion, laughter, and faithfulness. What once looked like romance now looks like commitment.
It looks different.
But it is no less real.
Peter sees Jesus shining in glory and says, “Lord, it is good for us to be here. Let’s build three dwellings.”
He wants to freeze the moment.
We understand that instinct. We all want to hold onto the mountaintop moments—the early days, the shining days, the times when everything feels clear and beautiful.
We want love to always look like candlelight.
But Jesus leads them back down the mountain.
Because love is not meant to live only in shining moments. Love is meant to walk through ordinary days and hard seasons.
The transfiguration was not an escape from the cross.
It was preparation for it.
The disciples saw Jesus shining on the mountain. But the truth is, that same light walked with them down into the valley.
It just didn’t look as dazzling.
And that is how love works.
The early days shine. The later days steady.
One is bright. The other is deep.
And if we are not careful, we think the light is gone simply because it no longer sparkles.
But it is still there.
Sometimes the most holy love looks like sweats and chapstick. Sometimes it looks like reheated dinner. Sometimes it looks like showing up when you are tired.
Sometimes it looks like staying.
When the cloud descends and the disciples fall to the ground in fear, Jesus touches them and says:
“Get up. Do not be afraid.”
That is what love does.
It does not prevent the hard things.
It does not remove uncertainty.
But it reaches out and says, “You are not alone.”
This is God’s love for us.
Not flashy.
Not conditional.
But faithful.
God does not call Jesus beloved because of what he has done.
God calls Jesus beloved because of who he is.
And the same is true for you.
You are beloved not because you succeeded.
Not because you are impressive.
Not because someone chose you.
You are beloved because you belong to God.
That love does not fade when life gets busy. It does not shrink when things get hard. It does not disappear when the sparkle wears off.
It remains.
We all come down the mountain eventually. Into jobs and bills and children and responsibilities and illness and grief and routine.
And the question becomes: can we still see the light?
Can we still recognize love when it no longer looks glamorous?
Can we still hear God’s voice when the cloud settles in?
“This is my beloved.”
That is the truth we carry into Lent.
That is the truth we carry into our relationships.
That is the truth we carry into ordinary life.
Valentine’s Day celebrates love we feel.
Transfiguration reveals love that holds us.
And that is the deeper gift.
Because feelings change. Circumstances change. Life changes.
But God’s love does not.
You are seen.
You are known.
You are cherished.
You are God’s beloved.
And that is the truest love of all.
Amen.
