The climb up the mountain was steep, the path narrow and rocky beneath our feet. I led Peter, James, and John with me, the three whom I often brought closer during the most intimate moments of my ministry. I could see their weariness, their confusion over why I had brought them so far away from the crowds, away from the villages and people who needed healing, teaching, and hope.
But this moment was not for the multitudes—it was for them. And it was for me.
The sun was beginning to set as we neared the summit. The air grew cooler, the wind brushing gently across our faces. I could hear Peter's labored breathing behind me, his footsteps slowing as the climb took its toll. He had so much passion, so much zeal for the mission he thought he understood, but in his heart, there was still confusion. He saw only part of the picture, longing for a kingdom of glory without truly grasping the path of suffering that lay before me.
At the top of the mountain, I stopped and turned to face them. They were tired, their brows damp with sweat, their minds surely full of questions they didn't yet know how to ask. I had told them only a few days ago that the Son of Man would suffer, be rejected, and die. The weight of those words still lingered in their hearts, I could see it in their eyes, but now was the time for them to witness something beyond human comprehension.
The moment came upon us suddenly, without warning. A brilliant light burst forth from me, a radiance unlike anything they had ever seen. It was as if the veil of my humanity had been momentarily lifted, revealing the glory that had always been within me—the glory I had shared with the Father before the world began. My clothes became dazzling white, brighter than any earthly garment, brighter than the sun itself.
Peter, James, and John fell to the ground, overwhelmed by the sight. Their eyes were wide with awe and terror, their bodies trembling as they tried to comprehend what was happening before them. I could feel their fear, their amazement, but I had no time to reassure them.
Two figures appeared beside me—Moses and Elijah. The Law and the Prophets, standing there with me, speaking to me as though the years between us had never existed. Their faces were full of the wisdom and strength they had carried through their own journeys of suffering and obedience. They had known trials, rejection, and the burden of their calling. Now, they were here to speak of the greater burden that awaited me.
I knew what lay ahead. I had always known. But now, standing in the presence of Moses and Elijah, the weight of the cross felt even heavier. We spoke of my departure—my exodus. The path to Jerusalem, the suffering, the agony, the death that awaited me. In their presence, the reality of my mission crystallized in a way that was both comforting and sorrowful.
This moment of divine glory was a glimpse of what was to come—the full redemption of all things, the restoration of the world. I longed to stay in this place, to remain in this glory, away from the pain and suffering that awaited me. But I knew I couldn't. I had to return. I had to finish what I had come to do.
As we spoke, I could feel the tension pulling at my heart. The glory of my Father's presence was all-consuming, a joy and peace that surpassed anything in this world. Yet, I could not remain here. The cross awaited me. The suffering, the betrayal, the agony—they were all part of the plan, part of the love that would redeem humanity.
Peter, still on his knees, looked up at me, his face shining with awe but also with misunderstanding. "Lord, it is good for us to be here," he said, his voice trembling. "If you wish, I will put up three shelters—one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah."
He didn't understand. He wanted to stay, to capture this moment of divine glory, to freeze it in time as if it could last forever. But this was not the time for dwelling in glory; this was a moment of preparation, a glimpse of the future to sustain us through the coming trial.
Before Peter could say anything more, a cloud descended over the mountain, enveloping us in its mist. It was the same cloud that had covered Mount Sinai when Moses stood in the presence of God. A voice, the voice of my Father, spoke from the cloud, filling the air with a presence that silenced all fear, all doubt.
"This is my Son, whom I love; with Him I am well pleased. Listen to Him!"
The words echoed through the stillness of the mountain, cutting through the haze of confusion and wonder that had overtaken Peter, James, and John. They had heard the voice of the Father before, at my baptism, but here, on this mountain, the message was clear. They were to listen, to understand, to follow.
And then, as quickly as it had come, the moment passed. Moses and Elijah were gone, the light faded, and the mountain was once again quiet, bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun. I stood alone before my disciples, the veil of my humanity once again covering the fullness of my glory.
Peter, James, and John were still on the ground, their bodies trembling with awe. Slowly, they lifted their heads, their faces filled with a mixture of fear and reverence. They had witnessed something beyond their understanding, something that would remain with them for the rest of their lives.
I knelt beside them, my voice gentle. "Rise. Do not be afraid."
They stood, their legs shaky, their eyes still wide with wonder. For a moment, none of us spoke. The silence was filled with the weight of what had just occurred. I knew that they would not fully grasp the significance of this moment until after the resurrection, but for now, I simply led them back down the mountain, back into the world where my mission awaited.
As we descended, I felt the sadness return. The glory of the transfiguration had been a reminder of who I truly am—the Son of God, eternal, radiant, full of life and light. But I was also the Son of Man, bound by the limitations of flesh, bound to the path of suffering that lay before me. I longed for the fullness of that divine glory, for the day when all things would be made new, but I knew that before glory would come the cross.
My disciples were silent as we walked, their minds no doubt racing with questions. They had seen me in my glory, but soon they would see me in my agony. They had heard the voice of the Father, but soon they would hear the crowds shouting for my death. I loved them deeply, but I knew that even after witnessing the glory on the mountain, they would still struggle to understand, still fail to stand with me in my darkest hour.
As we neared the base of the mountain, I turned to them. "Do not tell anyone what you have seen, until the Son of Man has been raised from the dead."
They nodded, though I knew they still didn't fully comprehend what I was saying. Their hearts were filled with wonder and confusion, and the path ahead would only deepen those feelings.
I walked with them, knowing that the journey toward Jerusalem was now inevitable. The shadow of the cross loomed ever closer, and though my heart longed to remain in the glory of my Father's presence, I knew I must embrace the suffering that awaited me. Only through the cross could that glory be revealed to the world.
And so, I walked on, with the weight of both divine glory and human sorrow resting heavy on my shoulders.