“Glory Revealed, Glory Hidden”
Original sermon given on March 2, 2025, written and delivered by Pastor Jeff Leininger at First Saint Paul’s Lutheran Church.
Watch the sermon live.
“Glory Revealed, Glory Hidden”
Luke 9.26-38
Luke 9.26-38
In the name of the Living God and the Christ who has appeared to us. Amen.
St. Luke’s account of Jesus is sometimes called “the gospel of amazement.”[1] One can hardly imagine a more amazing moment for these three disciples upon on the Mountain of Transfiguration. They catch a glimpse, a vision through their sleepy eyes, of their savior and friend in all his divine glory. So amazing is this moment, which seems to be almost “in and out of time,”[2] that Peter hardly knows what to do or say — “Er, ah, let’s build three booths, or tabernacles, to hang out here for a while.” What would you say? And when it’s all over, they don’t even initially tell anyone about it — who would believe them?
I’d like to draw you into this account to help you fully envision the vision, so to speak, and most importantly how it can help us in our vision of Christ’s “gospel of amazement” today.
Jesus is in a moment of intense prayer, and divine light shines forth from him in two ways: both from his countenance (his face like the sun, as per St. Matthew), but also from his garments, which gleam like lightening. We’ll also see gleaming garments again at the end of the gospel, when the angels at the empty tomb radiate the glory of the risen Christ.
Two of the great figures of the Old Testament appear in the glory with Christ: Moses (representing all the law) and Elijah (the prophets). Only St. Luke gives us the specifics of their holy conversation. Jesus discusses with them his “Exodus”: his departure, his death. In a slightly impious moment, I imagine Jesus saying to Moses, “Oh, you think yourExodus was difficult. Well, let me tell you about mine!” But of course, the Lord describing his death on the cross as his “Exodus” is intentional. It would be the saving journey to a promise land not just for Israel, but for all people.
Peter, James, and John awaken to behold all this, which to these fishermen must have been the most amazing Jesus-thing they had yet seen: Divine Glory, Kovod Yahweh (in Hebrew). They don’t remain merely bystanders but are enveloped into it as it overshadows them too. It’s no wonder fear fills them, for they now stand with Moses and Elijah on a new Mountain of God’s presence. And just so that it’s crystal clear, or rather thunderously clear, God’s voice sounds from within the cloud: “This is my son, my chosen one, him listen to.”
So that’s the amazing transfiguration from Luke’s “gospel of amazement.” Now to ask the great Lutheran question, “What does this mean?”
The first thing to take from this amazing account, is perhaps counterintuitive. When I re-read and re-studied the transfiguration afresh (I’ve preached on it many times), my reaction was actually rather negative. Why can’t it always be this way? Bright, powerful, clear, glorious. I’m with Peter here (at least initially). ‘Tis good, Lord to be here. Why can’t I just stay up here, enveloped in God’s presence. Admittedly, it’s rather frightening, but it’s surely better than what we have to deal with down from the mountain, right?
This is a reminder to us that the glory of God remains hidden for a time among us. We don’t always see things clearly, brightly, overwhelmed by glory and truth all the time. Sometimes, yes. Amazing moments, for sure. But most of the Christian life is not like this mountain top experience. Most of the time, we retain the vision of glory in our hearts and minds by faith. It’s practically the definition of faith, isn’t it? The assurance of things hoped for, and the conviction of things not seen. (Hebrews 11.1). Or, in Saint Paul’s memorable phrase, “We see now but in a glass dimly.” (1 Cor. 13.12)
Most of the Christian life is not up on the Mountain top, overshadowed in glory. Most of the Christian life is slogging it out in the valley of the shadow: still wondering, still at work, still at war against the devil and our sinful selves.
That the glory of God remains hidden for a time among us — not in full, blinding brightness — that God’s glory is revealed under hidden, even offensive things, was at the heart of Martin Luther’s theology of the cross. God’s glory is hidden in the helpless babe of Bethlehem, vulnerable flesh and blood, cradled in his mother’s arms. God’s glory is hidden in the offense of the cross — a man bleeding, dying, crying out with no rescue — yet by these wounds we are healed. This morning too, how amazing that under the most common forms of bread and wine, the uncommon gifts of forgiveness, life, and salvation are delivered. And what of the Christian Church? Still sinful and suffering, dysfunctional and divided, and yet we carry out the glorious mission of Christ. Even more by his Spirit he dwells within his church — Christ deigns to call us his own very body. Talk about hidden glory, right?
And then there’s even ourselves, personally. These broken bodies, these sinful selves, these troubled lives, yet Christ remains with us and within us, the hope of glory. Even on our last day, whenever it might come, when our bodies decay and our minds deteriorate and our last breath is taken, from the outside it looks like death and defeat, but hidden under these things is no less glory than enveloped the disciples on top of that mountain. For Christ remains always with us, if even in a hidden way.
So, the fullness of glory remains a hidden thing for us this side of eternity. And this is hard. It’s hard to believe and hard to live, and the amazing account of the transfiguration reminds us of this. We have this treasure as in jars of clay.
But the other thing the account of the transfiguration reminds us of is that there is, indeed, an overarching, glorious reality which is true — the most true thing. Ultimate power and love and light overshadow everything, for it has shone forth from the face of the Son of God. Faith retains this vision, holds on to it, keeps it sealed up as a treasure in our hearts. It’s real, it’s true, it’s enduring, it’s eternal, even if it is hidden for a time.
The transfiguration then is a reminder not to lose hope or love. The opposite of hope is despair; the opposite of love, fear. The vision of the transfiguration compells us not to live in despair or fear. These can so easily become false gods because they can end up consuming all our time, efforts, and energy, replacing even the true God.
To live in despair and fear is to, in the first place, deny what Peter, James, and John saw upon that mountain. Christ is the fulfillment of all the law and prophets. He is the beloved son. He is the manifestation of God’s glory. His word is true. His rule is eternal.
To live in despair and fear is to live believing that there’s nothing behind it all, no hidden glory finally to be revealed one day.
To live in despair and fear is to deny even the word and promise of Christ, who said I am with you always to the end of the age.
The transfiguration, the reality of the glory of God revealed in Jesus, calls us way from fearful, hopeless, loveless lives, no matter how difficult it gets or how dark it gets. We are to treasure always the vision of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ.
I think most of you know by now that I’m pretty much a nerd. But just to remove all doubt, there’s Anglican a poet named Malcom Guite, who has written a sonnet for every major festival in the church year. His on the transfiguration captures this idea that faith holds fast to the eternal vision, even in darkness. It concludes:
The Love that dances at the heart of things
Shone out upon us from a human face
And to that light the light in us leaped up,
We felt it quicken somewhere deep within,
A sudden blaze of long-extinguished hope
Trembled and tingled through the tender skin.
Nor can this blackened sky, this darkened scar
Eclipse that glimpse of how things really are.[3]
Come soon Lord Jesus.
[1] c.f. Michael Card, Luke: The Gospel of Amazement
[2] Malcome Guite, A Sonnet on the Transfiguration
[3] Ibid