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Sibling in Christ,
Where do you look for God—especially when the way forward feels clouded?
We often talk about “mountaintop experiences” as moments we eagerly anticipate and fondly remember—joyful, clear, and life-giving. But the mountaintop moments in this Sunday’s readings are far less comfortable. They are filled with thick clouds, blazing fire, trembling ground, and fear. Vision is obscured. The familiar gives way to mystery. And yet, it is precisely there—in the clouds—that God draws near.
On Mount Sinai, Moses is called into the cloud where God’s glory settles like a consuming fire. The people wait below, unsure of what is happening, while Moses disappears into the unknown for forty days and nights. God’s presence is real and powerful, but not easily controlled or understood. This is no gentle scene. It is awe-inspiring and unsettling all at once.
The Gospel tells a similar story. Jesus leads Peter, James, and John up a high mountain, where his appearance is suddenly transformed and his clothes shine with dazzling brightness. A cloud overshadows them, and a voice speaks. The disciples respond not with words, but by falling to the ground in fear. This is not a moment they planned—or one they fully understand. They want to capture it, preserve it, stay there. But God’s presence resists being managed.
Scripture reminds us again and again that encountering God can be frightening, not because God is cruel, but because God is holy and free. God is more than we imagine, more than we can domesticate. God is not a “tame lion.” And yet, it is in these overwhelming moments—when we feel both lost and found—that God speaks most clearly.
Peter's second letter reflects back on this mountaintop witness, reminding the church that these experiences were not cleverly invented stories, but real encounters with God’s glory. And still, Peter points beyond the mountain, urging believers to pay attention to God’s word as a lamp shining in a dark place. The light does not end when the clouds roll in.
Eventually, of course, Jesus leads the disciples back down the mountain. The cloud lifts, the vision fades, and ordinary life resumes. The journey continues—toward the cross, toward Jerusalem, toward the valley. And so does ours.
On Transfiguration Sunday, many churches (like ours) symbolically “roll up the Alleluias,” marking the end of Epiphany’s brilliance and the beginning of Lent’s quieter path. But the valley is not godforsaken ground. Lent’s practices—prayer, fasting, generosity—help us learn to see and hear God not only in dazzling moments, but also in dust and ashes, in silence and struggle, in clouds we did not choose.
We cannot plan our mountaintop moments with God, nor can we stay there forever. God invites; we respond. Faces bowed, hearts open, we follow—trusting that even when our vision is clouded, God is still present, still speaking, still leading us forward.
Grace and peace,
Pastor Will
P.S. Where do you look for God when things feel unclear or overwhelming? Click “reply” and share where you’ve found God in the clouds. I’d love to hear your story.
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