I might as well pose the question that I’m sure is puzzling at least some of you: why did Jesus command Peter, James, and John not to tell anyone of the vision they saw on the mountain until he was raised from the dead? How was that compatible with a Gospel meant to be proclaimed to the ends of the earth? Why was the illuminating vision of Jesus as the Son of God now placed under a bushel basket of secrecy?
These are all very good questions. As I reflected on this, I spent some time before a beloved icon of mine. In this icon, Jesus stands on a rocky pinnacle, with Moses on his right and Elijah on his left. Jesus is clothed in white, and rays of light spread from him in all directions. At the foot of the stony outcrop on which Jesus stands are Peter, James, and John. Peter is the only one of the three who is left upright. Isn’t this hasty confidence typical of Peter, who only previously rebuked Jesus for predicting his suffering and death? In this icon, Peter kneels with hand outstretched as if in blessing. The Gospel tells us that he wanted to enshrine the moment of Jesus’s transfiguration for posterity. Not so fast, the voice of God the Father says from the cloud.
Meanwhile, John has fallen to the ground directly below Jesus. A ray of light beams down from Jesus to John, who is prostrate on the rocky earth. His back is toward Jesus, and he’s covering his eyes with his hand. One of his sandals has fallen almost completely off his foot. It’s holy ground after all. And then, there’s James off to the side. He has tumbled backwards. He’s facing Christ’s glory, but he, like John, is also covering his face with his hands.
According to Matthew, the disciples didn’t fall to the ground in fear until the voice from the cloud spoke to them. What was it about the voice that caused them to fall away in fear? What had they really seen? And is what they saw and heard directly related to Jesus’s command to say nothing of this vision until he had been raised from the dead?
There must have been more to the transfiguration than Jesus shining with bright light, surrounded by Moses and Elijah. There must have been something both unbelievably astounding and utterly frightening to this theophany. Why else would they cover their eyes? Why else would they collapse so abruptly on the ground? Why else would they have to withhold the luminosity of this vision until after Jesus had been raised from the dead?
It has been said by some who have had near-death experiences, that there’s a moment in which the entirety of one’s life passes before one’s eyes. This is a bridge between two worlds—between the world of the living and the world of those who have died and continue living in God. For some, it’s described as an instant of judgment. One sees everything that was good and wrong about one’s life. In this liminal experience, one experiences the pain of past sin. The past sin is felt as a sorrow because the soul is being held within the light of God. And when God’s perfect goodness and truth shine into the cold darkness of our lives, at first, it’s extraordinarily painful. But then this moment of pain passes, and the soul begins to see God face to face. And the journey of sharpening vision continues from there.
Could it be that the transfiguration of Jesus on the mountain is something like this for the disciples? Could it be a moment when the veil parts between this world and the next and the inner group of disciples are given a staggeringly beautiful and yet painful view of the face of God shining in Christ? At the beginning of this vision, the disciples are still standing upright, so much so that Peter wants to make three tents to encapsulate what he beholds. Maybe the disciples are in a state of initial shock, seeing the glory of the vision and nothing else. But something about the voice of God throws them to the ground. Listen to him, the voice says. Maybe then, they are reminded of the rigors of listening to Jesus. Maybe then, they are reminded of what the Messiah has only recently said to them but which they conveniently ignored through selective hearing. He would go to Jerusalem and experience great suffering in Jerusalem. He would be killed. And then he would be raised on the third day.
Listen to him, the voice says. Remember how the Lord said to love your enemies, to avoid retaliation, to be salt of the earth and light to the world, and to be perfect as your heavenly Father is perfect. Remember that he said the road that leads to life is hard, that you can’t serve God and wealth, that you will be sent out as sheep among wolves, that following him will mean forsaking all loyalties except the love of God, that a tree will be known by its fruit, and so many other things, things that must have been be intimidating and terrifying in their own right.
What the disciples saw on that mountain was not only the glory of Christ as the beloved Son of God, but also the Christ who would suffer and die. They somehow must have sensed that they couldn’t have one without the other. They couldn’t comprehend the glory without the cross. They couldn’t receive the gift of Christ’s own self-gift without giving of themselves, too. And perhaps this is precisely what shocked them and knocked them to the ground, causing James and John to cover their faces.
The Transfiguration focuses our eyes on who Jesus is as the unique Son of God, true man and true God. And it also harnesses our sight to who we are called to be as humans created in God’s image with the potential to be like God, to be divinized, to one day see with uncovered faces the perfect light of God in all its full glory.
But the life in which we presently journey, riddled with darkness and sin, beckons us to cover our faces. We often respond by hiding them from each other and from God. When the glory of Christ’s light breaks into this world, we can’t withstand it. It’s too glorious, too luminous, too full of judgment when our own waywardness is pitted against the luminous glory of heaven.
It’s no coincidence that we hear the story of Jesus’s transfiguration each year on the cusp of Lent. Before us is the way of the cross, a way that demands nothing less than putting God at the center of our lives. It demands nothing less than trying to see with the eyes of Christ by removing the masks from our faces before all of humanity and especially before God. Lent demands that when we come to the Eucharist, we unmask our hearts before God, from whom no secrets are hid. We can’t receive the full glory of Christ’s presence in the Eucharist without also giving of ourselves. The glory of the face of God is revealed in the Eucharist, but unless we have learned to look at the faces of others in the fullness of their being, God’s glory will be too much for us to take.
And my guess is that this is why Jesus commanded the disciples not to tell anyone of the vision until he had been raised from the dead. Before the passion and before the cross, people who were not there on the mountain would only have heard about a distorted, incomplete vision from the confused minds of the maturing disciples. They would only have been awed by an epiphany of glory, which would soon fade into the ether when the sky darkened on Good Friday and only a hearty few were left standing at a distance from Jesus as he took his last breaths.
But after that earth-shattering moment, when the body had been taken down from the cross and then when the body was not found in the tomb on the third day, then, the vision could be told with honesty and conviction. On the other side of the cross and the tomb is where we live, unlike Peter, James, and John as they descended the mountain. And Jesus’s command to us is to proclaim this vision to the whole world.
The vision is this: the one who was transfigured on the mountain is our Lord, Savior, and Messiah, and he’s one who never hides his face from us, whose face is perpetually uncovered in both glory and suffering. In the shadow of the cross, we see him when we unveil our faces before all of humanity and look into the eyes of the vulnerable, the dispossessed, the suffering, and the lonely. This vision hurts our eyes, because it demands that we respond in love. This vision stings because for too long we have concealed our faces and our eyes and turned away from those in need.
But on the other side of Easter Day, this vision is the only one that gives hope and light to our troubled world. This vision assures us that the God before whom we reveal our faces, always stands with face revealed before us, showing us that whether in feast or famine, the light of God shines through the darkness. And although we may have fallen to the ground in fear with faces covered, today and always, our Lord comes to us, touches us, and tells us to rise, and not be afraid. And then he bids us not to keep silence about the vision but to go to the ends of the earth to make it known.
Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Last Sunday after the Epiphany
February 15, 2026