Sermon for February 15, 2026
Transfiguration of Our Lord
Matthew 17:1-9
Rev. Karl-John N. Stone
I’ve talked before about my trip to Pike’s Peak in Colorado with the Boy Scouts a few years ago. As our Scoutmaster, Jon Antonneau, prepared us for the trip he told us all kinds of stuff about Pike’s Peak. Things like: The summit is 14,100 feet above sea level. The Barr Trail goes 12 miles from base to summit, and it begins at 6,000 feet above sea level. The first day we’ll hike 6 miles and pitch our tents at the Barr Camp at 10,000 feet elevation. Everything above 12,000 feet is above tree line, and when we get to the summit there’s a visitor center; people can get there either by hiking, driving, or cog railway (but all your Scouts will be hiking). At the visitor’s center you can buy hot dogs and soda, but you can’t stay too long because every day, like clockwork around 4pm, the storm clouds roll through the mountains, and you’ll be totally exposed above tree line. Mr. Antonneau imparted lots of valuable knowledge about Pike’s Peak so the Scouts could be well prepared. Without this intellectual knowledge we would not have had a successful hike.
After months of preparation, finally the adventure began! We laced our hiking boots, shouldered our backpacks, filled our canteens, and started up the Barr Trail—and three days later, after our lungs had begged for more oxygen because the air was so thin; after our leg muscles screamed for relief from 24 miles worth of mountain trails; after pitching our tents in the forest and stopping to smell the fresh air, feel the cool breeze, and taste the cold creek water; after struggling to reach the visitor’s center at the summit only to find that our appetites were more interested in hot dogs and soda than the amazing 100-mile views all around us; after beginning our descent at 4pm, putting on our rain gear and hoping for the best, as rain and hail fell on us and thunder rolled in the not-too-far distance; after all of that—well, that’s when we could say that we really knew Pike’s Peak! Different ways of knowing—and all of them were necessary for our knowledge of Pike’s Peak to become complete.
How do we know what we know? I’ve been reading a book called The Wisdom Pattern by Richard Rohr, who is a Franciscan priest and theologian in New Mexico. He describes seven ways that we humans can “know” reality [chapter 6]. The first way is what Mr. Antonneau started the Scouts off with—intellectual knowledge. We get this from facts, figures, reason, logic. This is all important stuff, and we can use it to great benefit (if we are wise)—but if we get stuck in thinking that the intellect is the only way or the best way to know, then our knowledge will always be incomplete. Second is volitional knowing. These are acts of the will—the “choices, commitments, and decisions” we make. The knowledge we gain from this way “emerges over time” as we stick with the choices we’ve made and grow into them.
Third is emotional knowledge. The big emotions we all feel in life can be powerful teachers—as long as we do not run from them but, with God’s help, learn how to process them in healthy ways. Even painful emotions like grief or anger can help us grow to maturity, if we listen and learn from what they reveal about what’s going on inside of us. The emotions have power “to blind us, but also the power to open us up…to profound conversion, humility, and honesty”. Next comes bodily knowing, which is where a lot of the Boy Scouts’ energy on Pike’s Peak went to. “Touching, moving, smelling, seeing, hearing, breathing, tasting”—our senses allow us to connect with reality “on our body’s terms” and not with the brain alone.
Images allow knowledge to move from the unconscious to the conscious. Dreams, pictures, metaphors, parables, poetry, stories—these things point to a deeper reality in a symbolic way, and they help us make sense of our experiences in ways that we have a hard time explaining intellectually. Aesthetic knowing comes to us through all forms of art. Painting or sculpture, a play or a novel, music or movies—when art forms are done well, they invite or even demand that we react in ways that just might be life-changing, because art helps to connect the story of your life with the larger story of the world.
All six of these ways of knowing might have been in play, in some way, during the hike up Pike’s Peak, or at some point over the course of our trip to Colorado. And that brings me to the seventh way of knowing. This seventh way is more of a wild-card, because whenever it happens it’s always unexpected and unplanned.
It’s called epiphanic knowing—an epiphany! Today is the last Sunday of the season of Epiphany, and today’s gospel story from Matthew 17 is a great example of this way of knowing. An epiphany is a “parting of the veil” where, quite by surprise, you receive a gift of unearned grace; a little slice of heaven on earth comes into view—often for just a moment.
Jesus led his disciples Peter, James, and John on a hike up a high mountain. When they got to the summit, there was no visitor center with hot dogs and soda—but the disciples did see something better: Jesus being “transfigured” before them. Transfigured is just a fancy way of saying “changed”—like caterpillars change into butterflies. For a moment, Jesus was changed: his face shone like the sun, his clothes became bright as light; even Moses and Elijah, those great prophets of old, made an appearance and talked with him. It didn’t last long. But for just a moment God “pulled back the veil” so that the disciples could see God’s plan of redemption come into view: through Christ there is no separation between earth and heaven; no separation between God’s glory and human frailty.
Right away Peter realizes how special this is. Peter being Peter, he feels the need to do something as quickly as possible, like “set up three tents”, or to say something—anything! He’s just trying to make sense of this epiphany experience. And “while Peter was still speaking” God interrupts him! God overshadows the disciples with a mysterious cloud, and says “This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased; listen to him!” Basically: hey Peter, you can’t understand this experience by doing or talking; you must simply be and listen.
Many of us have had a mysterious encounter with God at some point in life. Like Peter, very often we don’t know what to do with it when it happens. You can’t really explain it, but you also don’t really need to. In a moment of unexpected, unearned grace, it’s enough to live with the mystery. Not to ask “What is happening?” but simply to acknowledge “This is happening.” Not to ask “What is God doing?” but acknowledge “God is doing something—even if I don’t understand it.” And then give thanks for the gift God has given you. God has allowed you to catch a little glimpse of heaven on earth—and when you look back on that gift of grace, it can be enough to sustain you in faith even when you’re going through some really hard times.
Maybe you’ve never experienced an epiphany-type moment, though. And that’s okay, too, because you can’t “make” them happen; they happen only at God’s discretion, when God says the time is right, and not because of any works or merit of our own.
In the meantime, we can only surrender ourselves to God’s mercy as we listen for Jesus to speak through the other six ways of knowing—intellect, body, will, emotion, image, art. As you join Peter in simply being and listening, remember what God’s voice said from the cloud: “This is my Son, the Beloved.” Jesus is “beloved”; he is full of God’s love, and he will always be reaching out to you because God is love, and love is the only way we can know God completely. Amen.