Can We Skip to the Good Part? - Transfiguration
Matthew 17:1-9
Jesus took with him Peter and James and his brother John and led them up a high mountain, by themselves. 2 And he was transfigured before them, and his face shone like the sun, and his clothes became bright as light. 3 Suddenly there appeared to them Moses and Elijah, talking with him. 4 Then Peter said to Jesus, “Lord, it is good for us to be here; if you wish, I[a] will set up three tents here, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.” 5 While he was still speaking, suddenly a bright cloud overshadowed them, and a voice from the cloud said, “This is my Son, the Beloved;[b] with him I am well pleased; listen to him!” 6 When the disciples heard this, they fell to the ground and were overcome by fear. 7 But Jesus came and touched them, saying, “Get up and do not be afraid.” 8 And when they raised their eyes, they saw no one except Jesus himself alone.
9 As they were coming down the mountain, Jesus ordered them, “Tell no one about the vision until after the Son of Man has been raised from the dead.”
Most of us do not mind hard things if we know where they are headed.
I have given birth three times without medication. I have also had kidney stones, with plenty of medication. I would choose childbirth every time. Not because it hurts less, but because I know exactly what all that pain is moving toward. There is a clear outcome. A payoff that makes the effort feel purposeful.
We tend to endure difficulty better when we trust the ending.
We push through school because graduation exists.
We grind through work because retirement exists.
We hold on through long seasons because we believe something better is coming.
What wears us down is not effort itself. It is uncertainty.
Am I ever going to get there?
Is this ever going to make sense?
Is this just how things are now?
Most of life is lived in the long middle. The stretch where nothing is resolved yet. Where clarity feels thin. We are still showing up without knowing how the story turns out.
At some point in the middle, the question surfaces.
Can we skip to the good part?
It is not a childish question. It is a human one. It is the language we reach for when waiting feels endless and meaning feels delayed.
That longing shows up in an ancient story about Jesus and his closest followers.
There is a moment when Peter, James, and John follow Jesus up a mountain, and everything they have been hoping for suddenly feels visible. Jesus changes before them. His face shines. His clothes blaze with light. Figures from their spiritual imagination appear beside him. Every storyteller who tries to describe it reaches for a metaphor because none of them quite have words for what they are seeing.
For once, everything feels unmistakable.
And Peter responds the way he often does. Instinctively. Immediately. Faithfully.
Peter has a habit of moving before he fully understands what he is stepping into. He walks on water before he realizes he is doing it. He speaks the truth before he knows the cost. He reaches toward the future Jesus keeps describing before he has language for it.
So when Peter says, “Let’s stay here,” he is not trying to trap the moment. He is trying to live inside the reality he has been promised. He is reaching for the world Jesus has been pointing toward. A world where God feels close, suffering feels temporary, and everything finally makes sense.
Without saying it out loud, Peter is asking the same question many of us ask.
Can we skip to the good part?
Before he can do anything about it, a cloud rolls in. Not a storm. Just a cloud. The kind that limits vision and softens edges. And from that cloud comes a voice that neither freezes the moment nor invites them to stay.
It simply redirects their attention.
Listen to him.
The moment passes almost as quickly as it arrived. The light fades. The cloud lifts. Jesus touches them and tells them not to be afraid. Then they walk back down the mountain.
It feels like an unsatisfying ending.
All of that clarity, and then back to ordinary life.
But the glimpse was never meant to replace the journey. It was meant to sustain it.
What they saw did not cancel what was coming next. In fact, it came after Jesus had already spoken plainly about suffering, loss, and death. They were not being spared. They were being given something to remember when the path grew harder.
We recognize this pattern.
We catch glimpses of meaning.
Moments when love feels solid.
Times when faith, purpose, or connection feels clear.
And then life keeps moving.
The temptation is not just to hold onto those moments, but to treat them as the goal. To preserve them instead of letting them shape us. To cling to what once felt good instead of trusting what is still unfolding.
When we try to skip to the good part, we often miss out on what is being formed in us along the way.
We miss out on learning how to stay present instead of rushing ahead.
We miss out on relationships that deepen slowly.
We miss out on the quiet work of becoming more honest, more grounded, more compassionate.
You can see this instinct everywhere. When something meaningful is about to happen, phones come out. We record it. We capture it. We hold it at arm’s length. Not because we are shallow, but because we are afraid of losing it.
But in trying to preserve the moment, we sometimes miss the moment itself.
The story does not end with brilliance. It ends with movement. Down the mountain. Back into unfinished relationships and uncertain futures.
The good part is not only the destination. It is also what happens in the long middle, where we learn how to trust, how to listen, and how to stay open when clarity fades.
When we keep asking to skip ahead, we risk missing what is already good, already shaping us, already inviting us to live differently right now.
The question is not wrong.
Can we skip to the good part?
But the answer is gentler than we expect. The good part is not something we jump to. It is something we grow into, slowly, imperfectly, together, as we keep walking.
Want to Go Deeper?
Faith doesn’t form in the moments we wish would hurry up. It takes shape in the waiting, the wrestling, and the choices we make when pressure tempts us to move on too quickly. This reflection stays with those in-between places, asking what it means to resist shortcuts and practice justice, kindness, and humility as part of God’s kin(g)dom here and now, even when that faithfulness is costly.
If you want to keep walking this Lenten road without skipping the hard parts, I write a weekly email that continues the work of staying present, telling the truth, and imagining another way of living together. Please subscribe and keep the journey going.
