The Glow Wears Off

And Ashes Wash Off

Yesterday, we gathered in the near dark and smeared ashes on each other’s foreheads with the chipper reminder that all of us will, in fact, die. “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” Nothing like a little existential reality check to kick off Lent!

Some of us are still carrying the afterglow of something deeper. Maybe it was the hush of the sanctuary, the weight of someone’s hand pressing the cross onto your skin, or the realization that even in our fleetingness, God is here.

But now? Now it’s Thursday. The ashes have been wiped away. The inbox is full. The house is a mess. And whatever clarity or conviction we had yesterday is already starting to fade under the weight of normal. So how do we hold onto the real moments without trying to relive them? How do we move forward when the glow wears off?

Faith Isn’t Built on Elevation

Peter wanted to stay on the mountain. Can you blame him? He had just seen Jesus transfigured in radiant glory, standing with Moses and Elijah, bathed in divine light. It was the moment. If there were ever a time to pitch a tent and settle in, this was it.

But Jesus didn’t let him stay.

The problem isn’t feeling deeply moved. The problem is confusing elevation with transformation. We don’t stay on the mountain because faith isn’t about maintaining altitude—it’s about learning to walk the path ahead.

If we think we need the next big experience to keep our faith alive, we’ll miss the work of God in the ordinary, unspectacular terrain of daily life—the places where transformation actually takes root. Which is why, as much as we’d love to stay basking in the glow, faith isn’t about staying put. It’s about going where Jesus goes. And spoiler: that’s usually down the mountain, through the hard stuff, and straight into the mess of real life.

Why We Carry the Transfiguration Into Lent

Jesus could have timed this differently. He could have given Peter, James, and John this glowing, mountaintop encounter after the resurrection, when hope was in short supply. He could have let them experience it at the cross, when darkness threatened to overwhelm.

But he didn’t.

Instead, they come down from the mountain straight into a world still groaning under the weight of suffering. By Matthew 17:10, they’re already tangled up in questions about prophecy, injustice, and the long shadow of the cross. Jesus starts talking—again—about his death, but this time the disciples are too overwhelmed to argue. Then, almost immediately, they’re met with a desperate father whose son is suffering.

The first thing they step into after the glory of Transfiguration? A child convulsing in pain and a crowd demanding answers.

Which, if we’re paying attention, tells us something.

The Transfiguration wasn’t given to let them escape the world—it was given to prepare them to walk through it.

But how do we walk through it? Not just endure it, not just grit our teeth, white-knuckle it and survive, but actually live in a way that reflects what we’ve seen and known of God?

  • We walk through it by paying attention. The disciples left the mountain with eyes newly opened to the suffering, need, and longing all around them. Faith isn’t about waiting for the next revelation—it’s about letting the last one teach you how to see.
  • We walk through it by trusting what we’ve seen, even when we don’t feel it. The light fades, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t real. We don’t build faith on emotion, but neither do we discard it when it dims.
  • We walk through it by serving. The disciples didn’t descend from the mountain into a monastery—they walked straight into need, conflict, and human desperation. The same Jesus who stood shining on the mountain is the Jesus who kneels in the dust to heal. If we want to hold onto what we’ve seen, we have to take it where it’s needed most.

The Transfiguration isn’t a spiritual highlight reel—it’s a commissioning. What we glimpse of God on the mountain is meant to shape how we live off the mountain.

The Glow Will Always Fade. Jesus Stays.

So what does it actually look like to live in the valley?

It looks like paying your bills, making dinner, commuting to work, folding laundry, picking up your kid from school, responding to emails, and dealing with the thousand small annoyances that make up an average Thursday.

Which doesn’t sound very spiritual. But neither did what happened in Matthew 17:10.

The disciples didn’t come down from the mountain into a world ready to receive their fresh revelation—they came down into questions, exhaustion, suffering, and the same struggles that were there before.

Sound familiar?

The invitation isn’t to chase another mountaintop. It’s to live in the reality we’ve been given, trusting that what we saw of Jesus on the mountain is still true when we’re knee-deep in the ordinary, frustrating, difficult, beautiful world.

And while we’re at it, let’s not pretend the valley is a bad place to be. Most of life happens here.

  • The valley is where relationships get built. Nobody bonds over perfect mountaintop moments, but shared struggles? Those make us family.
  • The valley is where faith gets real. It’s one thing to believe in grace when you feel it. It’s another to choose grace when you don’t.
  • The valley is where Jesus walks. That whole “God with us” thing? Turns out it applies Monday through Saturday too.

So wipe off the ashes, step into whatever today holds, and keep your eyes open. Jesus is still here. And if you’re still bummed about coming down the mountain, just remember: nobody lives at the summit. Even Moses only got to visit.