2026.02.15 | Shining
“Shining”
Exodus 24:12-18
Matthew 17:1-9
Preached by
Rev. Dr. Marvin Lance Wiser
Eden United Church of Christ
Cherryland, CA
15 February 2026
On a high mountain, something happens that does not make sense. Jesus’ face shines. His clothes blaze white. The air shimmers with glory.
And the disciples do what we often do when confronted with mystery: they become afraid. Transfiguration Sunday is not subtle. It is luminous. It is overwhelming. It is radiant with the insistence that what you see is not all there is.
In Exodus 24, Moses climbs Mount Sinai. A cloud covers the mountain. The glory of the Holy burns like a devouring fire. Six days of waiting. Then a voice. The text tells us that the glory of God settled on the mountain like fire. Fire does not just illuminate. It transforms. It changes whatever it touches. The people at the foot of the mountain see smoke and flame. They see uncertainty. They see danger. But Moses sees possibility. He climbs anyway. And undergoes 40 days of transformation. Faith requires that kind of climb.
Trevor Noah said a good word last week: “Faith requires the ability to believe that this current state is not the end. There’s a possibility that something can be greater. Even though you cannot see it, you believe it can happen.” He was saying this is what the left often lacks, religion.
And this is Sinai faith. The people see wilderness. Moses sees covenant. The people see delay. Moses sees becoming. Faith is the refusal to believe that the present arrangement of things is permanent. It’s more of a process than a permanence.
Then we move to Matthew 17. Jesus takes Peter, James, and John up another mountain. And suddenly, light. His face shines like the sun. His clothes become dazzling white. Moses and Elijah appear.
It is as if Sinai and Galilee overlap. Law and Prophets converge. Past and future meet in the present moment. The disciples are terrified. And honestly? That makes sense. Because light exposes. Light reveals. Light disrupts.
Peter wants to build tents. He wants to freeze the moment. He wants to institutionalize glory and worship. But the voice from the cloud does not say, “Stay here.” It says: Listen to him. And they must walk back down the mountain, to the people.
En lo alto de una montaña sucede algo que no tiene sentido: el rostro de Jesús resplandece, su ropa se vuelve blanca y el aire brilla con gloria. Los discípulos, como nosotros ante el misterio, sienten miedo. El Domingo de la Transfiguración nos recuerda que lo que vemos no es todo lo que existe.
En Éxodo 24, Moisés sube al Sinaí cubierto por nube y fuego. El pueblo ve peligro e incertidumbre; Moisés ve posibilidad. La fe es esa decisión de subir, de creer que el presente no es el final, que Dios todavía está obrando. No es permanencia, es proceso.
En Mateo 17, Jesús también sube a un monte y su rostro brilla como el sol. Es como si el pasado y el futuro se encontraran en ese momento. La luz revela y transforma. Pedro quiere quedarse allí, pero la voz dice: “Escúchenlo.” Y luego deben bajar del monte, de regreso al pueblo.
La Transfiguración no trata de fuegos artificiales espirituales. Trata de entrenar nuestros ojos. Hoy estamos acostumbrados a ver declive, pérdida, instituciones tambaleándose. Pero tal vez lo que está disminuyendo es nuestra imaginación. La comunidad de fe es un lugar para aprender a ver posibilidad: ver pacto en el desierto, luz dentro de la nube, amor antes de la cruz.
La esperanza que sobrevive a la desilusión no es ingenuidad; es disciplina. La imaginación y la esperanza son habilidades que se practican. Eso es lo que hemos hecho en esta temporada de Epifanía: Inspirar. Encender. Iluminar. Epifanía nos enseña a ver lo que ya brilla bajo la superficie. La Transfiguración nos enseña a brillar en un mundo que insiste en que nada cambiará. No es fantasía ni negación; es santa imaginación.
Transfiguration is not about spiritual fireworks. It is about training our eyes. We are trained, especially now, to see decline. To see loss. To see contraction.
We hear about the decline of religion on the left. We see pews thinner than they once were. We see institutions wobbling. But I wonder if what we are really witnessing is the decline of imagination. Faith communities are meant to be training grounds for possibility, places where people shine with the radiance of something greater.
We are trained here to see covenant in wilderness. To see light inside cloud. To see belovedness before the cross. Hope that survives momentary disappointment and disillusionment is not naïveté. It is discipline. Imagination and hope are skills. They are honed.
That’s what we’ve been practicing all Epiphany long: Inspire. Ignite. Illuminate. Epiphany trains our sight. Transfiguration trains our radiance. Epiphany teaches us how to see what is already shimmering beneath the surface. Transfiguration teaches us how to shine in a world that insists nothing will ever change. This is about revealing the possibilities of what has not yet been seen. Not fantasy. Not denial. But holy imagination.
Peter wanted to set up tents. He wanted to preserve the glow, institutionalize the moment, freeze the brilliance, and simply worship. But Transfiguration is not about staying on the mountain. It’s about walking back down—clear-eyed—into a community suffering from myopic despair.
And let’s be honest: despair can shrink vision. It convinces people that the way things are is the way they will always be. It narrows imagination. It calcifies hope. Eliminates possibility.
Transfiguration Sunday is about translating mountaintop clarity into valley courage. It is about carrying luminous truth into spaces mired in disbelief. It is about remembering that what we glimpsed in prayer, in worship, in sacred community was not an illusion, is not an illusion. Indeed it is the reality becoming.
We have already been given what we need. Moses beheld glory and received instruction. The disciples witnessed radiance and received direction. Not escape. Not superiority. But a roadmap.
A roadmap toward a better way of being human together. A beloved, imaginative community. A community not organized around fear, but around love. And we know how the Sinai story goes. Moses comes down from the mountain, tablets in hand, heart still warm from holy fire, and finds the people dancing around a golden calf.
When anxiety rises, we reach for idols. When uncertainty grows, we manufacture certainty. When fear takes hold, we settle for something shiny instead of something sacred. Lord knows the Oval Office is now gilted in it.
Transfiguration warns us gently: do not align yourself with the golden calf. Do not trade glory for glitter. Do not confuse noise for revelation.
This is precisely why progressive Christianity is not optional in this moment—it is necessary. Evangelical Christianity has completely capitulated. We need a faith mature enough to resist idolatry, courageous enough to confront power, and imaginative enough to envision a future beyond fear. Progressive Christianity insists that love is not weakness, that justice is not partisan, and that the Gospel cannot be reduced to cultural dominance. It refuses to baptize nationalism as faith or cruelty as conviction. Instead, it holds fast to the radiant Christ who walks down the mountain toward the suffering, who expands the circle of belonging, who reminds us that truth is measured by liberation not incarceration. In an age dazzled by glitter and spectacle, progressive Christianity points back to glory, the kind that transforms hearts, dismantles idols, and builds beloved community. So, it is more important than ever to show up. Sunday matters in a Friday world.
So, don’t forget, you are reflecting that light. You are shining. Not because everything is fine. Not because the world is stable. Not because democracy feels secure. You are shining because you continue to believe that this moment is not the end, indeed something greater is coming.
When you advocate for migrants. When you refuse dehumanizing language. When you insist that Christian Nationalism will not have the last word—love will. When you remember what Fannie Lou Hamer taught us: “Nobody’s free until everybody’s free.” That is shining. Shining is not arrogance. It is radiance born of conviction. It is prophetic imagination.
The light that glowed on Sinai. The light that blazed on that Galilean mountain. That light was never meant to stay up there. It was meant to be carried down. To continue to fan our inner flame, and ignite the world around us. To inspire and illuminate. To radiate God’s goodness in a fragmented world that suffers anemia of imagination.
Pedro quería quedarse en la montaña y conservar el resplandor. Pero la Transfiguración no es para escapar; es para bajar con claridad y valentía a un mundo herido. El desaliento reduce la visión y nos hace creer que nada puede cambiar. Sin embargo, lo que vimos en la presencia de Dios no fue ilusión: es la realidad que está naciendo entre nosotros.
La luz del monte no era para quedarse arriba, sino para llevarla al valle. Ustedes brillan cuando defienden la dignidad humana y creen que este momento político no es el final. Practiquen brillar. Practiquen imaginar un futuro distinto. La esperanza no es negación; es resistencia. Bajemos entonces del monte hacia nuestra vida cotidiana, brillando.
The disciples wanted to stay in the glow. But Jesus leads them back into ordinary time. Into crowds. Into conflict. Into the long road toward Jerusalem. The light doesn’t eliminate the struggle. It reframes it.
Faith requires believing that the present crisis is not ultimate. Even when Christian Nationalism shouts. Even when cruelty is baptized as policy. Even when fear masquerades as faith.
Love will have the last word. Not because we are optimistic. But because we have seen something. We have seen what shining looks like.
We have seen a face radiant with mercy.
We have heard a voice that says, “Beloved.”
We have watched fire that does not consume but transforms.
So here is the invitation for Transfiguration Sunday:
Practice shining. Practice imagining a future that does not yet exist. Practice hope when it feels irrational. Practice seeing covenant where others see collapse. Because imagination is not escapism. It is resistance. Hope is not denial. It is defiance. And faith—real faith—is the ability to believe that this current state is not the end. There is something greater.
The disciples came down that mountain changed, not because they understood everything, but because they had glimpsed glory. And once you glimpse glory, you cannot unsee it. So, we will do likewise. We will go down the mountain. Into our homes. Into our workplaces. Into this fractured public life. Shining. Amen.