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Back in the 1980s, an American backpacker was rumbling through Austria on a train, probably half-asleep from the endless clack of the rails, when he struck up a conversation with the guy next to him. The man was older, dressed simply—sweater, slacks, nothing flashy. They started talking, and it didn’t take long for the traveler to realize this wasn’t your average train companion. The guy seemed to know everything—history, war, geopolitics—like he’d lived through it all. He switched languages mid-sentence to greet acquaintances as they passed by, and he carried this quiet authority that made you sit up straighter without knowing why. The guy seemed to catch the eye of strangers who glanced his way. A few even pointed.

They talked for hours—art, philosophy, the state of the world. The man dropped stories about meeting presidents, shaping treaties, being in the room when history turned on a dime. The traveler figured he was maybe a professor, maybe a retired diplomat. Near the end of the ride, the backpacker realized that he’d never introduced himself. He told the man his name and put out his hand to shake. The man smiled, stuck out his hand, and said, “Henry Kissinger.” 

Boom. The traveler had been chatting with one of the most powerful figures of the 20th century — former U.S. Secretary of State, Cold War architect, Nobel Peace Prize winner — and hadn’t even known it. Kissinger didn’t strut in with a nameplate. He just let the guy figure it out.

I love that story because it’s a perfect picture of what it’s like to walk with Jesus. The disciples were that traveler — sitting next to someone extraordinary, slowly piecing together who He really was. They talked with Him, walked with Him, watched Him do things that made their jaws drop. But it took time for the truth to sink in.

Then came the Transfiguration. Picture it: Jesus takes Peter, James, and John up a mountain, and suddenly He’s glowing — radiant, otherworldly. Moses and Elijah show up, chatting with Him like it’s no big deal. The disciples are stumbling over themselves, trying to process it. Peter’s babbling about building tents, because what else do you say when the Law (Moses) and the Prophets (Elijah) are standing next to your rabbi? And then God the Father’s voice cuts through: “This is my beloved Son; listen to Him” (Mark 9:7). It’s a mic-drop moment.

There are two big lessons here. 

First, Jesus is the fulfillment of everything that came before. Moses and Elijah aren’t just random cameos—they represent the Law and the Prophets, the whole story of Scripture pointing straight to Christ. The Law that condemned us? Jesus fulfills it for us. The Prophets who promised a Savior? He’s the answer. That’s the Gospel: we’re made righteous by faith in Him, not by our own scrambling efforts. 

Second, God says, “Listen to Him.” Not the cultural noise, not our hot takes, not even religious traditions if they drown out His voice. Jesus is the lens—when Scripture’s confusing or hard, look to Him. He’s the key that unlocks it all.

But here’s the twist: the Transfiguration wasn’t the big reveal. It was a teaser. They came down the mountain, back to dusty roads and regular life. Jesus kept walking with them, talking with them — until one day in Jerusalem He let Himself be arrested. He could’ve stopped it — He said so Himself (Matthew 26:53) — and the disciples knew it. Yet there He was, crucified, dead, buried. They thought it was over. Miracles? Sure, they’d seen those. The Transfiguration? Wild. Raising Lazarus? Incredible. But if you’re dead, you can’t raise yourself. Their despair makes sense. I would have felt the same way.

Then came the real big reveal: the resurrection. It’s one thing for a miracle worker to heal lepers or calm storms while He’s alive. It’s a whole different ballgame when He walks out of a tomb after a Roman crucifixion and says, “Your sins are forgiven. Eternal life is yours. Trust me.” That changes everything. Everything.

So, what about you? Most people I know have had some brush with God — a moment where you felt Him near, saw Him move, sensed there’s more to this world than meets the eye. Some have even had a big moment like the Transfiguratoin. But you can’t live on the mountain. You didn’t make it happen — God did — and you can’t force it back. 

Or maybe you’ve never had that. Fair enough. Look around, though—the universe itself is a miracle. Which virgin birth do you believe in: the Big Bang from nothing or a Savior born in Bethlehem? Either way, it’s wonder staring you in the face.

Here’s the thing: like the disciples, we have to come down from those moments. Life gets ordinary again — bills, laundry, deadlines. But we’re not stuck pre-Easter, groping in the dark. We live post-resurrection. Because of Jesus, we know. We’re headed for our own Easter — resurrection, eternal life, a place where sorrow, sickness, and death can’t touch us. We still have to live here, sure. We come down the mountain, walk through the mess, face the suffering. But we know. God’s at work. He turns even our pain into something good (Romans 8:28). Our suffering isn’t wasted — It builds endurance, character, hope (Romans 5:1-5). That’s not wishful thinking; it’s a promise sealed by an empty tomb.

Those Transfiguration moments? They’re awesome. They remind us God’s real, active, close. But it’s the resurrection we fix our eyes on. That’s the game-changer. 

Living that out — figuring out what it means to keep our eyes on the resurrection in the daily grind — that’s the trick. It’s where faith meets pavement. But that’s another post, another sermon. For now, think about this: you’re on a train ride with Jesus. Maybe you’re just starting to realize who He is. Keep talking. Keep walking. The big reveal’s already happened at Easter, and it’s better than anything you could’ve guessed. Let Jesus make his big reveal real in your life.