Shining Through

Faith, Frustration, and the Light That Won’t Go Out in a Church That Sometimes Doesn’t See Me

The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness doesn’t extinguish the light. John 1: 5

There are days when being a queer person in the Church feels like a spiritual tug-of-war—called by God, but questioned by people. And some days, like this past week, I find myself asking (again), Do I really belong here? When decisions are made, when silences are kept, when erasure creeps in under the guise of neutrality or tradition... it stings. And while I know it's not always intentional, the truth is that impact matters more than intent.

I find myself, once again, caught between love for the gospel and frustration with the institution. Once again having to explain, defend, or apologize for a Church that doesn’t always feel like it’s mine. And as Lillian Daniel puts it so well—I’m tired of apologizing for a Church I don’t belong to.

And yet... I’m still here. Preaching. Showing up. Choosing to stay when I could walk away. Not because the Church has earned it, but because I believe in the power of transformation. I believe in the God who shows up in unexpected places and calls us to shine—even in the valleys.

This sermon was written for Transfiguration Sunday. It’s more prophetic than usual. More raw, more urgent. Because sometimes the light on the mountain has to shine a little brighter to break through the fog below. And sometimes the act of staying, of shining anyway, is the most defiant and faithful thing we can do.

A Sermon for Transfiguration Sunday
Exodus 34:29-35 & Luke 9:28-43a

This sermon is a little different. You’ve heard me preach before, and you know that I often weave together theology, humor, and real-life stories. But today, this sermon leans deeply into the prophetic.

When I was in seminary, my professors encouraged us to be prophetic in our preaching—to speak truth even when it’s uncomfortable, to challenge the Church to do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with God, as the prophet Micah commands. But I’ve learned that being prophetic isn’t always well-received. In a previous church, I was told I was too political, too liberal, too radical. And yet, I reminded them, as I remind you now—this is who I am. This is who God has called me to be. This is who you have called to be your pastor.

And in a week where injustice has once again been sanctioned in the name of faith, where the powers that be have made it clear that some of us—especially queer and trans people—are still seen as less worthy of protection, still debated as if our humanity is a theological thought experiment, still expected to endure discrimination with quiet resilience, I cannot soften this sermon. I cannot downplay the urgency of the gospel’s call.

Because even in the midst of that pain, I am still here. I am still preaching. I am still doing what God has called me to do. And that, in itself, is an act of defiance. It is an act of faith.

So I ask you to listen—not just with open ears, but with open hearts. Some of what I say may challenge you. Some of it may make you uncomfortable. And discomfort is often the place where transformation begins. And if we truly believe in a God who transfigures and transforms, then we must be willing to step into that discomfort.

So, I invite you to take a deep breath, and enter into this space with me.

Just a few days ago I celebrated the anniversary of my ordination as Minister of Word and Sacrament. Three years ago, hands were laid on me, prayers were spoken, and I officially became a Rev. And let me tell you—ministry is a wild ride. Some days it’s full of joy, laughter, and explosions of glitter. Other days, it’s clogged toilets, painfully long meetings, and the heavy, holy weight of walking with people through grief. Ministry isn’t always neat and tidy. It’s not always mountaintop moments of clarity and presence. Sometimes it’s just showing up, even when you feel like you have nothing left to give. And yet, through it all, there’s this one undeniable truth: God keeps showing up. In the chaos, in the quiet, and sometimes, if we’re lucky, in those mountaintop moments where God’s presence is so undeniable that we can’t help but shine a little bit.

Moses knew about shining. We hear in Exodus that after spending time with God on Mount Sinai, his face was literally glowing. And not just in a “wow, you look refreshed” kind of way—no, we’re talking full-blown radiance, a divine afterglow so intense that people freaked out, and he had to throw on a veil just to keep from terrifying them. This wasn’t some subtle, internal experience of God’s presence—this was an undeniable, visible transformation. It was impossible to hide. And yet, when he came back down that mountain, the glow eventually faded. Because as much as we’d love to stay in those dazzling moments of divine clarity, we are not called to remain on the mountain. We are called to come down and live in the world.

Then, we have Jesus up on the mountain with Peter, James, and John, and suddenly, he’s transfigured—his face and clothes shining like lightning, standing in the company of Moses and Elijah, the greatest figures of their faith. And Peter, being Peter, immediately wants to capture the moment, to build some tents, to stay in the glow of it all. Because who wouldn’t want to hold onto a moment like that? When God’s presence is so real, so tangible, that everything else fades into the background? But that’s not how this works. The mountaintop is never the final destination.

The thing about these mountaintop moments—whether it’s Moses glowing, Jesus transfigured, or those moments in our own lives where God’s presence feels impossibly near—is that they aren’t meant to be permanent. They are moments of revelation, not rest stops. We don’t get to camp out in the glory. As tempting as it is to want to preserve the feeling, to hold onto the certainty and clarity, faith doesn’t work that way. Mountaintop moments are not the culmination of faith—they are fuel for the journey. They are meant to remind us of who God is, to affirm our calling, and to equip us for the valleys ahead. Because faith isn’t just about the high points—it’s about what happens after. It’s about who we are when the glow has faded, when the sacred silence has been replaced with the noise of the world, when the vision of God is replaced with the reality of a world still aching for transformation. It’s about trusting that the experience of God’s presence isn’t confined to a singular place or moment, but that it goes with us, that it shapes us, that it calls us forward.

And let’s be real—coming down the mountain is hard. It’s no accident that right after the transfiguration, Jesus and the disciples are met with chaos. A desperate father, a suffering child, and a whole lot of religious folks arguing instead of actually helping. That’s where ministry happens. That’s where faithfulness is tested. It’s easy to believe when we’re surrounded by glory—it’s another thing entirely to carry that faith into the hard places, the uncertain places, the places where it feels like the light can’t quite reach. The valley is where grief weighs heavy, where questions linger, where answers aren’t always clear. The valley is where we have to put in the work—where discipleship is less about grand, miraculous moments and more about steady, persistent love. And yet, that’s the call. To shine, even in the valley. To bring the light we encountered on the mountain into the places that feel covered in shadow. To trust that what we experienced up there wasn’t just for that moment, but for every moment that follows. Because that’s what transfiguration does—it changes us so that we, in turn, can change the world.

I think about the Church—at her best and at her worst. At her best, she shines. She feeds the hungry, welcomes the stranger, holds space for those who have been cast aside. She is a beacon of grace, love, and justice. She stands up for the oppressed, speaks truth to power, and embodies the radical hospitality of Jesus. At her best, she is a refuge for the weary, a sanctuary for the brokenhearted, a place where all are seen, known, and loved. She is the hands and feet of Christ, showing up in the hardest places, offering healing, hope, and belonging.

But at her worst, she clings to fear, resists change, and builds barriers where Jesus would build bridges. She excludes in the name of tradition, mistaking rigid doctrine for faithfulness. She chooses silence when justice demands a voice, standing idly by while the most vulnerable suffer. She wounds those she is called to heal, pushing out the very people Christ would have drawn close. She hoards power when she is meant to pour herself out. She gets caught up in bureaucracy, in preserving the institution rather than embodying the gospel. She confuses comfort with faithfulness and status quo with righteousness. And still, she debates my existence—as a queer person, as someone made in the image of God, as someone who has been called and ordained to serve. Still, she refuses to see the full humanity of LGBTQIA+ people, treating us as an issue to be discussed rather than beloved children of God who deserve dignity, safety, and belonging. Still, she allows us to be discriminated against, to be harmed, to be cast aside in the name of theology or so-called religious freedom.

I’ve seen both. And maybe you have too. Maybe you’ve been nurtured by her kindness and burned by her cruelty. Maybe you’ve walked through her doors and felt embraced—or maybe you’ve been turned away. The Church is imperfect because people are imperfect. But at her core, at her best, she is still called to be a reflection of Christ’s love. And that means choosing, over and over again, to be transformed. Even when it’s painful. Even when it demands letting go of what feels safe and familiar. Even when it forces us to confront the ways we have been complicit in harm. Even when it pushes us beyond what we thought faithfulness looked like.

And for me? It has meant choosing transformation even when the Church has told me I don’t belong. It has meant holding onto faith even when faith has been used to wound me. It has meant refusing to let other people’s fear dictate my calling, my worth, my belovedness. It has meant believing—sometimes with trembling hands—that God’s love is wider, deeper, and more expansive than the Church has dared to proclaim. That the Spirit is still moving, still unsettling, still breaking down walls and calling us into something greater. And if that’s true—if transformation is not just a moment but a lifelong surrender—then we have to be willing to step into it, over and over again. Even when it’s costly. Even when it’s uncomfortable. Even when it undoes everything we thought we knew.

Because the gospel is not about staying the same. It is about becoming. And if the Church is truly the body of Christ, then she, too, must choose to become—again and again—until all are welcome, all are seen, and all are free.

But here’s the thing: Transfiguration isn’t just about Jesus being revealed in glory. It’s about us being transformed, too. It’s about the slow, steady work of becoming—of allowing ourselves to be reshaped by God’s love, to be refined in the fires of justice, to be softened where the world has made us hard. It’s about letting the light of God shine through us—not just in the high, holy moments, but in the everyday ones. In the choices we make, in the kindness we extend, in the courage we cultivate to speak up when silence would be easier. It’s in how we love—not just the people who love us back, but the ones who challenge us, the ones who test our patience, the ones the world deems unworthy.

It’s in how we fight for justice—not just when it’s convenient or popular, but when it’s costly, when it demands something of us, when it asks us to confront the ways we have benefitted from broken systems. It’s in how we show up—again and again, even when the glow has faded, when the work is exhausting, when we don’t feel particularly holy or inspired. Because transformation isn’t a one-time event—it’s a process. It’s the daily work of faithfulness. It’s being willing to be changed, over and over again, in the presence of God. It’s being open to the possibility that who we were yesterday is not the fullness of who we are meant to be. It’s trusting that the Spirit is still at work, still moving, still nudging us toward greater love, deeper faith, and a more expansive vision of what it means to be God’s people in the world.

Peter, James, and John didn’t get to stay on the mountain. As much as they might have wanted to pitch those tents and settle into the divine glow, they had to come back down. But here’s the thing: they carried that moment with them. The vision, the clarity, the undeniable presence of God—it stayed with them, shaping them, guiding them, preparing them for what lay ahead. And so do we.

Every time we choose love over fear, even when fear is the easier option, we shine. Every time we speak truth in a world that prefers easy lies, in a culture that rewards silence and complicity, we shine. Every time we refuse to let the weight of the world, the cynicism, the exhaustion, the sheer brokenness of it all, dim the light God has placed in us—we shine. We transfigure. We allow ourselves to be transformed so that we, in turn, might transform the world around us. We bear witness to a gospel that is bigger than a single moment, bigger than a single mountaintop, and certainly bigger than the Church’s worst days. A gospel that is still unfolding, still calling us forward, still inviting us to step fully into the people God is shaping us to be.

So, friends, let’s shine. Not just here, in the glow of worship, where the presence of God feels near and certain, but out there—in the ordinary, in the struggle, in the messy, sacred work of being disciples. Let’s shine in our workplaces, in our families, in our communities. Let’s shine in the way we love, in the way we fight for justice, in the way we show up for one another when it would be easier to turn away. Let’s shine because the world is full of shadows, and we are called to be light-bearers. Because the world needs more love, more hope, more people who are willing to reflect the light of Christ in tangible, transformative ways.

The world needs our light now more than ever.

And we? We were made to shine. So let’s not be afraid to do just that.