Exodus 24:12-18; Psalm 2; 2 Peter 1:16-21; Matthew 17:1-9
The Rev. Candice B. Frazer
I grew up Roman Catholic in a Southern Baptist town. If you know anything about the Catholic Church, you know the church liked to motivate with the threat of Purgatory. I remember being told as a child that if you skipped church on Sunday, one hundred years of Purgatory would be added to your sentence. I don’t recall the opposite being true—church attendance didn’t seem to subtract anything from your time. My Baptist friends didn’t fare much better in the fear department. Purgatory sounded like Disney World compared to the fire and brimstone they were threatened with. At some point in my youth, I wrestled with whether I even believed in God. I finally came to this conclusion: I believed in Hell, and if I didn’t want to go there, I had better start taking God more seriously.
That may not be the healthiest foundation for a relationship with God, but fear has certainly been a predominant voice in the Christian experience.
There is a lot of fear and trembling in the Bible. Paul uses that exact phrase in several of his letters. We hear it this morning in the disciples’ response to the voice of God speaking from the cloud. The words “Do not be afraid” appear more than seventy times in Scripture. Fear and trembling seem to be part of knowing God.
The disciples’ reaction at the Transfiguration is consistent with how people respond to God’s presence throughout the Bible. God tells Abraham, “Do not be afraid,” when establishing a covenant with him. God tells Moses, “Do not be afraid,” as he confronts Pharaoh. The prophet Isaiah repeatedly delivers God’s “fear not” to the people. The angel Gabriel tells Mary, “Do not be afraid.” When the Heavenly host appear to the shepherds, their first words are, “Do not be afraid.” At the empty tomb, the women see an angel who tells them, “Do not be afraid.” It seems that encountering the glory of God is, at least at first, a fear-inducing experience.
Peter, James, and John have just witnessed Jesus’ appearance change before them. His face shines. His clothes become dazzling white. Moses and Elijah appear out of nowhere. Then a cloud overshadows them and God speaks. Any one of those events would be overwhelming. All three together? It is no wonder the disciples fall to the ground in fear. And in that moment—through touch and a calming presence—Jesus says, “Do not be afraid.”
When we hear those words, we tend to associate them with comfort and serenity. But we read this story from a distance of more than two thousand years. We stand in the safe position of hindsight, imagining what we would have done, analyzing Peter’s impulsive offer to build dwellings, appreciating the symbolism of Moses and Elijah as representing the Law and the Prophets. We hear the voice declare, “This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased,” and we nod in theological agreement that Jesus fulfills what has come before. And then, if we are honest, we walk out of church and will not think about this story again tomorrow.
I wonder if that is part of why fear so often creeps into religion—why the church feels the need to threaten us. When the story is beautiful and luminous and good—when the glory of the Lord shines brightly—it is easy to admire it and then move on. Like Peter, we may want to commemorate the moment, to capture it, to build something around it. Or we may simply appreciate the glory of God in the moment and then get on with our busy lives.
How often do we miss opportunities because we assume they will always be there? How often do we postpone time with those we love because we assume there will always be more time? We take so much for granted. We do the same with God.
God is always present. God’s presence is as steady as the sun by day and the reflected glow of the moon at night. We may not see God face to face like Moses, but we see everything because of God. As C. S. Lewis once wrote, “I believe in Christ like I believe in the sun, not only because I see it, but because by it I see everything else.” And in the seeing of everything else, we sometimes forget the source of the light.
The Transfiguration is not meant to frighten us into obedience. It is meant to awaken us. The disciples are overwhelmed not because God is threatening them, but because they glimpse divine glory. They see, if only for a moment, who Jesus truly is. And that vision shakes them.
Perhaps the deeper fear and trembling is not about punishment at all. Perhaps it is about revelation.
God made us. God knows us. And, God loves us. That is a staggering thing. It is one thing to fear consequences. It is another to realize that the One who created the universe knows you intimately and loves you completely anyway.
The Good News is not that God is waiting to add years to some purgatorial sentence or to consign us to eternal hell. The Good News is that we are beloved. We are daughters and sons of God. And God’s desire is not our terror, but our transformation. God doesn’t exist to save us from fire and brimstone but to liberate us in love.
That kind of love carries weight. To be made, known, and loved by God means something. It means we are invited to live differently. Not out of fear of punishment, but out of gratitude and awe. Not to secure a place in heaven, but to participate in the kingdom of God here and now.
When the voice from the cloud says, “This is my Son, the Beloved…listen to him,” that is not merely a statement about Jesus’ identity. It is an instruction for our lives. Listen to him.
Listen to the one who teaches us to love God with all our heart, soul, mind, and strength. Listen to the one who tells us to love our neighbors as ourselves. Listen to the one who forgives, who heals, who crosses boundaries, who lays down his life in love.
To be made, known, and loved by God also means recognizing that every other person is made, known, and loved by God. All are God’s children. All bear the imprint of divine love. If we truly grasp that, it may produce a kind of holy trembling—not because we are afraid of what God will do to us, but because we realize what God is asking of us.
We are to love what God loves. And God loves all.
On this last Sunday after the Epiphany, as we stand on the mountain of the Transfiguration and prepare to walk toward Lent, we are given a vision of glory. Not to frighten us into compliance. Not to dazzle us for a moment and then be forgotten. But to anchor us in the truth that the One who shines with divine light is the same One who reaches out, touches us, and says, “Do not be afraid.”
Fear may get our attention. But love is what transforms us.