On Transfiguration Sunday, the Church tells one of its strangest stories.
In Gospel of Matthew 17:1–9, Jesus takes Peter, James, and John up a mountain. His face shines. His clothes blaze white. Moses and Elijah appear. A cloud overshadows them. A voice declares, “This is my Son, the Beloved…listen to him.”
It sounds mystical and distant.
But it is not distant at all. It is about vision. It is about what happens when you finally see what has been in front of you the whole time.
The disciples already knew Jesus. They had walked with him. Eaten with him. Argued with him. They thought they understood him.
The Transfiguration did not change Jesus. It changed their sight.
And that matters right now.
We Don’t See People Clearly Anymore
We live in a culture that trains us to categorize before we comprehend.
We see red or blue.
We see “liberal” or “conservative.”
We see “illegal” or “citizen.”
We see “woke” or “traditional.”
We rarely see human beings.
Social media rewards snap judgments. Cable news monetizes fear. Political campaigns thrive on outrage. Entire industries survive by convincing us that our neighbors are threats to our survival.
This is not subtle anymore. It is deliberate.
And here is the difficult truth: much of the American church has baptized this way of seeing.
We say we follow Jesus.
But we often see people the way our preferred media outlets tell us to see them.
We say every person is made in the image of God.
But we quietly decide whose image matters more.
We preach about loving neighbors.
But we redefine “neighbor” so we do not have to love the ones we don’t like.
That is not new. It was happening in Jesus’ day too.
The Mountain and the Neighborhood
The Transfiguration happens on a mountain.
But Jesus does not stay there.
Immediately after this radiant moment, he comes down and encounters a suffering boy whom the disciples could not heal. He walks toward Jerusalem. Toward conflict. Toward the cross.
The glory on the mountain pushes him back into the mess of ordinary life.
That pattern should stir us.
Because many of us have settled for a mountain-top faith that avoids the neighborhood.
We attend worship.
We sing hymns.
We say the creed.
But our politics, our online comments, and our private conversations do not always reflect the face of Christ.
The voice from heaven says, “Listen to him.”
That is the part we struggle with.
Listening to Jesus means we cannot reduce people to labels.
Listening to Jesus means the “least of these” are not disposable. In Gospel of Matthew 25, he identifies himself with the hungry, the stranger, the imprisoned. He does not ask about their voting record before offering compassion.
Listening to Jesus means loving enemies in Gospel of Matthew 5. That was radical in the first century under Roman occupation. It remains radical in a divided twenty-first century America.
How the Church Learned to See Poorly
Most congregations do not drift because they hate Jesus. They drift because comfort is easier than transformation.
Long-time faith can turn into settled faith.
Settled faith can stop expecting to be changed.
We learn the lingo. We master the routines. We defend our theological positions.
But we stop climbing mountains.
We stop asking God to disrupt our vision.
In many corners of American Christianity, faith has become a cultural identity marker more than a cruciform way of life.
The cross is displayed.
The flag is waved.
The talking points are memorized.
But Jesus’ way of seeing people gets quietly sidelined.
When immigrants become statistics.
When the poor are blamed for their poverty.
When political power is protected at all costs.
When cruelty is excused because it benefits “our side.”
We are no longer looking at faces. We are looking at categories.
That is not the light of Christ.
The Glory in a Face
In Second Corinthians 4, Paul writes that the glory of God is seen “in the face of Jesus Christ.”
Not in a throne.
Not in a weapon.
Not in domination.
In a face.
The disciples saw light shining from the familiar features of a man they thought they already understood.
Transfiguration is about recognizing divine glory in a human face.
And if that is true, then how we look at faces today becomes a spiritual issue.
When we look at a protestor, do we see a caricature or a person with a story?
When we look at a police officer, do we see a symbol or a human being?
When we look at someone wearing a campaign hat we dislike, do we see an enemy or a neighbor?
The American church has often mirrored the culture’s suspicion rather than Christ’s compassion.
We have shouted when we should have listened.
We have mocked when we should have mourned.
We have protected power when we should have protected people.
That is not transfigured vision. That is tribal vision.
Mr. Rogers Understood Something We Forgot
Throughout this series, I have referenced Fred Rogers.
He was not naïve about evil. He lived through war, racial tension, political scandal, and cultural upheaval. Yet he insisted on looking at children and saying, “You are special.”
That kind of seeing is not sentimental. It is defiant.
It pushes back against a world that sorts people into useful and useless.
Jesus did the same.
He touched lepers who were avoided.
He spoke with women dismissed by society.
He ate with tax collectors viewed as traitors.
He saw through the labels to the person.
And it got him killed.
Being Blunt
If our faith does not change how we see people, it is not faith in Jesus. It is allegiance to something else.
If our political loyalty overrides our compassion, we are not following the Sermon on the Mount.
If our church gatherings never challenge our prejudices, we are not listening to the voice that said, “Listen to him.”
It is possible to attend worship weekly and still see people the way cable news tells us to.
It is possible to defend Christian values while ignoring Christ’s character.
It is possible to be morally certain and spiritually blind.
That was true for some religious leaders in Jesus’ day. It is true for some of us now.
The Transfiguration interrupts that blindness.
It whispers that there is more to see.
Lent Is an Eye Exam
Transfiguration Sunday sits on the edge of Lent for a reason.
Lent is not about religious self-improvement projects. It is about clarity.
It is about asking:
Where have I grown numb?
Where have I allowed fear to shape my vision?
Where have I stopped seeing the image of God in someone I dislike?
In America right now, fear is profitable. Anger is marketable. Division is strategic.
But the light of Christ does not shine through fear-based domination. It shines through self-giving love.
When Jesus comes down the mountain, he walks toward suffering. He does not retreat from it.
The neighborhood needs that kind of light.
Your workplace needs it.
Your family conversations need it.
Your social media presence needs it.
Our churches desperately need it.
A Beautiful Day?
“It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood” sounds almost ridiculous in 2026.
Inflation, political hostility, culture wars, church decline. It does not feel beautiful.
But beauty in the kingdom of God is not denial of darkness. It is light breaking into it.
“Let there be light” in Genesis was spoken into chaos.
The light that shone on the mountain was a preview of resurrection in the shadow of the cross.
The question is whether we will allow that light to reshape our sight.
Will we see our neighbors as threats to manage or as image-bearers to love?
Will the church be known for culture war aggression or Christlike compassion?
Will we listen to Jesus?
The disciples wanted to build tents and stay in the glow.
Jesus led them back down.
Because the real work of glory happens in the valley.
In conversations.
In forgiveness.
In advocacy for the vulnerable.
In refusing to mock the other side.
In choosing dignity over dominance.
That is where the face of Christ becomes visible again.
And that is how an ordinary neighborhood becomes radiant.
Reflection Question
Where have you allowed politics, fear, or cultural narratives to shape how you see certain people—and what might it look like to let Jesus reshape your vision instead?
Closing Prayer
God of light,
we confess that we do not always see clearly.
We have looked at neighbors and seen labels.
We have listened to voices that fed our fear more than our faith.
Open our eyes.
Help us recognize the face of Christ in people we find difficult.
Give us courage to love in ways that cost us something.
Lead us down the mountain and into the neighborhood with Your light.
Make our faith visible in how we see and how we treat others.
In the name of Jesus, the Beloved Son,
Amen.
The Rest of the Sermon 