Rise, and Have No Fear
“And when the disciples heard this, they fell on their faces and were terrified. But Jesus came and touched them, saying, ‘Rise, and have no fear.’” — Matthew 17:6-7
This Sunday is the last Sunday after the Epiphany.
We’re standing at the threshold. One foot still in the season of light and revelation. The other about to step into Lent—forty days of desert, fasting, and honest reckoning with who we are and who we are not.
The Gospel appointed for this moment could not be more fitting.
Matthew 17:1-9. The Transfiguration.
Jesus takes Peter, James, and John up a high mountain—away from the crowds, the demands, the noise. And something extraordinary happens. His face shines like the sun. His clothes become dazzling white. Moses and Elijah appear beside him. Heaven and earth overlap.
The disciples fall on their faces.
They are terrified.
And then Jesus comes to them, touches them, and says: Rise, and have no fear.
A Glimpse Behind the Veil
Six days before this, Jesus had told his disciples something unbearable: He was going to suffer. He was going to be rejected. He was going to die.
Peter had rebuked him. The whole thing was unthinkable.
How could the Messiah—the one they’d left everything to follow—possibly be headed toward execution?
So Jesus takes these three up the mountain. And he lets them see.
Not the suffering. Not yet.
The glory that lies beyond it.
This is no pep talk. No motivational moment. This is pure revelation—a glimpse behind the veil, the kind of moment the contemplative tradition calls a theophany: when the thin places become thinner still, and we are undone by what we see.
God speaks from the cloud: This is my beloved Son. Listen to him.
And then it’s over. Moses and Elijah vanish. The cloud lifts. Jesus is standing there, looking like… Jesus. And they have to come back down the mountain.
The Touch That Changes Everything
Here’s what I keep returning to in this passage.
The disciples are face-down on the ground. Paralyzed. They’ve just heard the voice of God. They’ve seen their friend glowing like the sun. And Jesus doesn’t rebuke them for being afraid.
He doesn’t lecture them.
He walks over. He touches them. And he says: Rise, and have no fear.
The Greek word is egeirō—rise, get up, stand. It’s the same word used for resurrection.
He’s not just telling them to get off the ground. He’s inviting them into a posture. Into a way of being that can hold mystery without being destroyed by it.
The desert fathers and mothers wrestled with this their whole lives. How do you receive a profound spiritual experience and not either cling to it or be undone by it? Abba Moses once said: “Go, sit in your cell, and your cell will teach you everything.” The mountain gives you the vision. The cell—the valley, the ordinary, the day after—that’s where transformation actually happens.
The disciples will need this moment.
In a few weeks, they’ll watch him arrested. Beaten. Crucified. They’ll see the one who shone like the sun hanging on a cross.
And when that darkness comes, they’ll need the memory of this mountain.
This is my beloved Son.
What We Bring Down the Mountain
I’ve been thinking about what it means to live in a world that doesn’t glow.
Most of us aren’t on mountaintops. We’re in traffic. We’re in the inbox. We’re in the same Tuesday we’ve lived a hundred times before.
And yet.
The Transfiguration gives us two things to carry down.
The first is the memory of light. You don’t have to be having a spiritual experience right now to know that God is real. You don’t have to feel the fire to trust the flame still burns. Maybe you’ve had a moment—a retreat, a prayer, a conversation, a sudden stillness—when you knew, really knew, that you were loved and held and not alone. Hold that gently. Not with white knuckles. Like a compass.
The second is the ongoing invitation. Rise, and have no fear. Jesus doesn’t say this once. He says it over and over, in a hundred different forms, to everyone he meets who is face-down on the ground.
Every time fear flattens you—and it will—you get to hear it again.
Rise.
You’re going to be okay.
This Sunday
On February 15, Deacon Mark will be preaching and leading us into this text. He has a gift for connecting the ancient story to the very real valleys we’re walking through right now. Come ready to listen. Come ready to be surprised.
And come knowing that the very next Sunday—February 22—is the First Sunday of Lent. Ash Wednesday is just around the corner. We’re about to step into the wilderness together.
We’ll need what this last Epiphany Sunday gives us. The memory of light. The assurance that suffering doesn’t get the final word. The knowledge that the one who glowed on the mountain is the same one who walks with us in the valley.
The same one who comes to us when we are face-down on the ground.
And touches us.
And says: Rise.
If you’re looking for a place to ask honest questions and go deeper in your faith, we’d love for you to find a home with us at St. Francis. You can learn more at stfrancispvb.org or just find us after the service. We’re not hard to find.
With a grateful heart,
Fr. Justin