Holding It Together: Surprise! (Transfiguration Sunday)

Sermon Delivered at The Local Church
March 2, 2025 • Transfiguration Sunday
Scripture: Matthew 17:1–9

Have you ever had a surprise party thrown for you… What was that experience like?

A surprise party is one of those things for me that I want in theory, but it actually terrifies me. And I know "hate" is a strong word, but I might just hate it. So if you were planning one, I'm sorry.

And maybe it's all irrational, but here's my deal. Here's why it sounds terrible. Believe it or not, I don't love being the center of attention—especially when I'm not in control. When I stand up here on Sunday mornings, I'm in my element. This is not my first rodeo, you know? I have what feels like a semblance of control. I've done the planning. I know what comes next. I have a decent sense of where we're going.

As a people-pleasing, image-conscious Enneagram 3, when it comes to a surprise party, I have none of that. And that wigs me out. I have no control over the guest list. I don't know what food we're having. I didn't have a chance to choose the perfect black shirt for the occasion. And then the what-ifs start to take over. What if I didn't want that person there? What if someone I would've invited wasn't invited? What if, somehow, my own party is a disappointment?

It sounds terrible. (For me.) Maybe for you, you're like, "Bring it on! Let's celebrate. I'm here for it." But not for me. If it's me, I'm likely hiding in the bathroom in the fetal position, overwhelmed and overstimulated and overthinking everything that could possibly go wrong. And if I'm not there, then you'd probably find me doing whatever I can to take control—working the room, filling up drinks, making sure people feel connected, managing experiences and expectations and outcomes. It's exhausting.

And what it really comes down to, for me, is this. Something like a surprise party is something I can't be in control of. And if I can't control it, it opens me up to all kinds of uncertainty. All kinds of what-ifs and possible ends. All kinds of fear, then.

And it's here in the uncertainty—in that elusive quest for control—that anxiety can wreak havoc. It's here where the stories get loud. Where the spirals begin. Where the catastrophizing catalyzes.

Maybe for you it's not a surprise party. But if you've ever refreshed MyChart waiting for those test results to drop or checked your phone every minute to see if they've texted you back or received a breaking news alert that has you afraid about how this all ends, then you know something about this—this desire for control, this anxiety rooted in uncertainty.

This is what makes today's story—the story of the Transfiguration—so relatable. But what if instead of fear, what if there's liberation in that uncertainty—in the unknown? What if there is, in fact, good news?

This week, we're wrapping up our series on anxiety called, Holding It Together: Good News for an Anxious Time. It's a series for anyone who's ever packed too many outfits for the trip because you just never know. Or for anyone who's spent hours deciphering an email from your boss. It's for anyone who has ever Googled a mild symptom and ended up convinced they have a rare disease. (And these are all me. I've done all of these things. Maybe you, too.)

But it feels like anxiety is everywhere. Over the past few weeks, I've ticked through a bunch of statistics. Here are a few more.

A recent global survey of 10,000 Gen-Zs found that 75% believe "the future is frightening"—reaching as high as 92% in some countries. This fear is largely driven by climate anxiety. Maybe you're feeling some of that, too.

The bottom line is that we're living in an anxious time.

So throughout this series, we've been seeking good news in this anxious time—not with quick fixes or "just pray harder" solutions, but with honest hope, trusting in the God in whom, as Paul writes, all things hold together—even as we're trying to hold it together ourselves.

So that's our series. Two weeks ago, with the psalmist, we shared how anxiety festers in avoidance and the importance of naming our feelings. Last week, with help from Elijah, we explored the ways that our anxiety is reinforced in isolation. This week, we're thinking about how anxiety festers in uncertainty.

And now, as I've shared each week, a few important disclaimers.

First, I'm a pastor and not a mental health professional. I'm working hard to stay in my lane here. So, I want to be clear that this does not (and should not) replace psychotherapy—which I highly recommend. It's one of the best things I've ever done. I've been seeing my therapist about every other week since 2016, and if you're feeling nudged to take a step in that direction, I'd be happy to help get you connected.

Second, anxiety is not inherently bad. It can alert us to what matters, signal when something needs our attention, and even sharpen our awareness. But, left unchecked, anxiety can shape our decisions, hijack our thoughts, and keep us stuck. And so this series isn't necessarily about getting rid of anxiety but working with it—not letting it drive—so that we can continue to respond to our world with clarity and faith.

As we've mentioned, today is what's called Transfiguration Sunday. We hear this story of Jesus's Transfiguration every year on the final Sunday of the season of Epiphany and the Sunday before the season of Lent, which starts this Wednesday with Ash Wednesday.

But as Matthew tells it, the story begins this way:

Six days later, Jesus took with him Peter and James and his brother John and led them up a high mountain, by themselves. (17:1)

Just three guys on a hiking trip. Peter, James, and John. Three of Jesus's closest friends and followers schlepping up a mountain. Seems chill. But the timing matters.

To this point in the story, Jesus has been traveling and teaching, healing the sick, feeding multitudes, confronting the powerful, walking on water. But then, in chapter sixteen—the chapter just before this one, just before Jesus invites Peter and James and John up the mountain—the story takes a turn. Here's how Matthew describes it.

From that time on, Jesus began to show his disciples that he must go to Jerusalem and undergo great suffering at the hands of the elders and chief priests and scribes and be killed and on the third day be raised. (16:21)

In other words, Jesus begins to reveal his fate. Jesus begins to paint a picture of a more fraught future—one in which he endures suffering and meets what seems like a terrible end.

And this has to be one of those record-scratch moments for the disciples. One of those moments you return to again and again, the ones that keep you up at night—the moments you can pinpoint when it all started to unravel.

And so I like to imagine that Jesus's invitation to Peter, James, and John was maybe about a change of scenery. Clearing their heads. Or maybe Jesus had something else in mind. We can't know.

But what we can imagine is that as Peter, James, and John trekked with Jesus up the mountain, there's a good chance they'd be carrying with them many of the same questions we might have, too—similar perhaps to ones we've asked ourselves when it feels like our world is ending and when the future is uncertain.

For Peter, James, and John, their dear friend and Rabbi has told them he will suffer and die.

But for us, it may be how we feel in the wake of a medical diagnosis we didn't see coming. Or what life looks like when a loved one dies, and we're not sure what comes next. Or when the job disappears or the relationship ends or when the kids leave home.

The questions are more or less the same.

What happens next? What are we supposed to do now? Am I going to be okay? Is God still with us?

These very well could be the questions that Peter, James, and John carry up that mountain—questions rooted in anxiety fueled by uncertainty, fueled by not knowing the answers to these questions—an anxiety that's heightened, in fact, because of the uncertainty.

And we might know something about this, too.

Studies have shown, in fact, that our brains interpret this "not knowing" as a potential threat. That's because our brains are constantly scanning, trying to make sense of the world, putting things in order, and working to figure out what to expect. And when we can't do that, anxiety kicks into overdrive. Because when we can't see how the story ends, when we don't know what's just around the corner, when we're not sure how that meeting is going to go or what the doctor will say, our brains start to fill in the blanks, often preparing for the worst—so that we can be ready and be prepared in the event things do go sideways.

I found this fascinating: In one experiment, using the probability of electric shock, researchers discovered that anxiety was higher among people who had a 50% chance of receiving a shock than people who knew an electric shock was coming. In other words, the uncertainty itself created more anxiety than a known negative outcome.

Our anxiety is fueled by this uncertainty. Fueled by the fear of the unknown.

And when you think about it, this can make Peter's actions on top of the mountain make so much more sense.

They arrive atop the mountain, and Jesus is transfigured before their very eyes. Matthew describes how his face shines, and his clothes become as bright as light. And here's what happens next. I love this story so much.

Suddenly there appeared to them Moses and Elijah, talking with him. Then Peter said to Jesus, "Lord, it is good for us to be here; if you wish, I will set up three tents here, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah. (17:3–4)

Out of nowhere, Moses and Elijah appear—representing the law and the prophets—the words God has given them. And then good ol' Peter, again, ever impulsive, pipes up, essentially saying, "It would be great to hang on to this moment, wouldn't it? I can build three tents here—one for each of you, and we could stay here a little longer. Just make this moment last."

Notice what Peter's doing here. Notice how, in the face of uncertainty, when it feels like his world is on the cusp of unraveling, Peter grasps for any semblance of control. He wants to build tents so they can stay there. So he can hang on to Jesus. So they don't have to go back down the mountain to face their uncertain future. Peter is caught between what he knows and what he can't predict. And when the unknown overwhelms us, we grasp for control however we can.

Maybe for you, it's overplanning—trying to prepare for every possible outcome, researching and collecting as many opinions as you can to avoid the possibility of pain, embarrassment, or regret.

Or maybe you do this with your kids or grandkids—hovering and controlling all that you can to try to protect them from harm, disappointment, or failure.

This is also often why we stockpile and save up more than we'll ever need… just in case. Or why many who claim to be Christian adhere to rigid belief systems or black-and-white thinking—because there's security there in that rigidity.

Or this one—I find myself doing this all the time. When I'm feeling anxious about world events, I do the exact opposite of burying my head in the sand. I get sucked into the scroll, returning to the same stories again and again on the hunt for something—anything—that might bring me comfort. Because if I keep reading and swiping and scrolling, I don't have to deal with it out there.

Maybe we're not building tents, but, like Peter, caught between the known and the unknown, we do what we can, too, to grasp for security and control.

It turns out, though, that what—or rather, who—Peter really needed was with him the whole time. Because Moses and Elijah aren't just random non-playable characters here in this story. Their presence matters. Their identity matters.

They represent the law and the prophets—the very foundation of Israel's faith. They represent every word God had given to that point. Elijah and Moses are giants of the faith—those who, according to Jewish tradition—were still alive in the presence of God.

And I want to believe they show up here not just as symbols, but as signposts. They serve as markers of memory.

Here's what I mean.

Researchers have found that memory is a critical tool in building resilience in the face of uncertainty. People who can recall past moments of survival, growth, or transformation are often much better able to face new challenges with courage and clarity. The brain takes those memories as proof: If I made it through that, maybe I can make it through this. In other words, we have evidence that the story didn't end how we were convinced it would.

There are moments now when I'm crippled by anxiety. I worry about the church and my family and our future. But then I often think back to a moment I had way back around this time 8 years ago, believe it or not, when I was first sent to plant The Local Church. It was before everything—before a name, before a leadership team, before anyone else knew this was happening.

And I remember this moment driving around the back roads of Chatham County with a friend, working to get to know the area—trying to orient myself and learn the names of neighborhoods and schools and all of the things. And when we got back that afternoon, I was so overwhelmed that I had a full-on panic attack. The anxiety was thick—all fueled by my own uncertainty and fear. Do we really need another church? Who do I think I am? What have I signed up for? What if no one shows up? This is terrifying.

There have been a handful of moments like that since. And each time, I remember that moment. Because when I remember that moment, I can see with greater clarity what God has done. How far God has brought me.

And this is why the presence of Moses and Elijah matters. In the same way, it's as if God is saying to Peter and James and John: Don't you remember how I parted the sea so that Moses could lead the Israelites to freedom? Don't you remember how, as we talked about last week, I provided for Elijah—nourished him, was present with him—when he felt alone and disoriented in the wilderness?

This is why one of the most common words in the Old Testament, the Hebrew Bible is "remember." And this is why we do what we do here Sunday in and Sunday out. To tell the story again. And to be reminded of God's faithfulness again. To remember again how God blessed Abraham and nourished the people with manna and brought water from a rock and made dry bones live and protected Daniel from the lions and brought down Goliath and calmed the storm and defeated death.

We tell the stories of what God has done to have faith in what God will do—and we need those stories, especially when experiencing the crippling anxiety of an uncertain future.

Remember.

And yet, here's what you need to know: Memory alone is not enough. We can recall past faithfulness, but that doesn't mean we won't still have to face an uncertain future. Even with all the remembering, the present moment still comes—that reality we have to face despite our best efforts to grasp for security. And in the same way, just as quickly as they appear, Moses and Elijah are gone.

Here's what happens next.

While he was still speaking, suddenly a bright cloud overshadowed them, and a voice from the cloud said, "This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased; listen to him!" When the disciples heard this, they fell to the ground and were overcome by fear. But Jesus came and touched them, saying, "Get up and do not be afraid." And when they raised their eyes, they saw no one except Jesus himself alone.

There's a bright cloud and a voice echoing the words spoken over Jesus at his baptism. And the disciples are so overcome by fear that they fall to the ground.

But that's when Jesus comes near to them. Jesus touches them. Jesus says, "Get up, and do not be afraid." And when they rub their eyes and pick themselves up off the ground, Moses and Elijah are gone, and all they see is Jesus. Transfigured.

Which, at first glance, might seem maddening. Because when it feels like the world is unraveling, when the future is hazy at best and terrifying at worst, we want something concrete. We want a blueprint. A roadmap. We want the assurances that if we just do X, Y, and Z, everything will be fine. We want to know how the story ends.

But that's not what they get. They want a plan. But instead they get a person. They get presence. And maybe that's the whole point.

"This is my Son," the voice thunders. "Listen to him."

And believe it or not, it makes me think of that surprise party. Because I wonder if that's exactly what following Jesus is like. A divine surprise party where we're not in charge of the guest list or the timing or how it all unfolds. Where we can't manage the outcome or control the experience. Where we have to trust that the Host knows exactly what we need, even when—especially when—we can't see it ourselves.

And here's the beautiful, maddening truth: That is exactly what we need. Not a roadmap. Not certainty. Not security. But surrender. Surrender to the presence of a God who doesn't guarantee certainty but, when all else fades, promises to be with us in the uncertain. A God who doesn't eliminate suffering but enters into it and redeems it—redeems us. A God who does not give us every answer but gives us Jesus—the one in whom all things—all things—hold together, inviting us to a radical and countercultural trust that we don't have to hold it together, because we are already held. Yesterday. Today. Always.

Peter wanted to build tents, to make the moment last forever. But Jesus invited them—invites us—into something far more meaningful: a transfigured life of holy surrender to the God who shows up in our uncertainty, touches us in our fear, and walks with us back down the mountain into a world desperate for love and liberation and justice and joy.

When Peter, James, and John descended the mountain, the world hadn't changed. The suffering was still ahead. The uncertainty remained. But they had changed. The world hadn't been transfigured, but they had been.

And maybe, as we make our way down the mountain, so it is with us.

I remember this moment early on in ministry when I was riddled with anxiety—it's a theme, apparently. I was questioning decisions I'd made, worried about how they might impact my future and my family's security. I was texting about it with a friend from Divinity School, and without missing a beat, she sent me back this prayer, written by contemplative and monk, Thomas Merton. I return to it often. I need it a lot. Maybe you do, too. It seems like a fitting way to end our series.

My Lord God,
I have no idea where I am going.
I do not see the road ahead of me.
I cannot know for certain where it will end.
nor do I really know myself,
and the fact that I think I am following your will
does not mean that I am actually doing so.
But I believe that the desire to please you
does in fact please you.
And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing.
I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire.

And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road,
though I may know nothing about it.
Therefore will I trust you always though
I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death.
I will not fear, for you are ever with me,
and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.

In the name of the One in whom all things hold together. Amen.