Jesus takes Peter, James, and John up a mountain to get away from the crowds. And then something happens that none of them were prepared for.

Matthew tells us Jesus was transfigured before them. His face shone like the sun. His clothes turned white as light. Moses and Elijah appeared beside him. And a voice came from a cloud:

This is my beloved Son. Listen to him.

The disciples fell on their faces.

I wonder if you have ever had a moment like that. Not a vision, necessarily. Not a voice from a cloud. But a moment when something shifted — when you became suddenly, unmistakably aware that there is far more to this life than what you can see or touch or explain. A moment of clarity. Of humility. Of presence.

Maybe it was in worship, when a piece of music reached somewhere words couldn't. Maybe it was in nature — standing at the edge of the ocean, or looking up at a sky full of stars. Maybe it was at a bedside, or in a moment of prayer, or in the middle of an ordinary Tuesday when something broke open unexpectedly.

Those moments are gifts. And they are real.

What's interesting is what Peter does in the middle of this one.

Lord, it is good for us to be here. And then, almost immediately: Let us make three dwellings — one for you, one for Moses, one for Elijah.

In other words — let's stay. Let's set up camp. It's good up here.

I understand that impulse completely. When we find ourselves in a moment of genuine transcendence, the last thing we want to do is leave. We want to hold onto it. Build something around it. Keep it just like this.

But they couldn't stay. And neither can we.

Because the work is not on the mountain top. It never has been.

The work is in the valley — where people are hurting and struggling and afraid. In the schools and the neighborhoods and the homes. Among the poor, the sick, the lonely. In the ordinary, unglamorous, sometimes heartbreaking places where faith is not a feeling but a practice. Where what we believe actually comes to bear.

The mountain top doesn't exist to give us an escape from the valley. It exists to give us what we need to go back down.

That's the movement of the Christian life. We go up, to be renewed and humbled and filled. And then we come back down, carrying something we didn't have before. Something that sustains us in the hard work of loving the world the way God loves it.

So perhaps this is our prayer:

Take us up the mountain, Lord. Show us your glory. Humble us, convict us, fill us. Give us a vision of what is true and what is possible. And then — bring us back down. And let what we saw up there change how we live down here.

Prayer: O God, grant us moments of transcendence — when the veil is thin and we sense your presence close. Draw us up the mountain. And then send us back into the valley, carrying your grace. May what we encounter in those holy moments shape how we love, how we serve, and how we live. In Jesus' name. Amen.

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Leonard Sweet writes that Easter gives us the ability to see the world differently. Not to deny its brokenness — but to refuse to let the brokenness have the last word.

He puts it this way. Because of the resurrection, Christians can expectantly dream:

- of abundance, even in the midst of poverty. 

- of compassion, even in the midst of divisiveness. 

- of justice, even in the midst of inequity. 

- of love, even in the midst of hate.

I keep coming back to that word — dream. Because our dreams shape us. They tell us where we're headed, what we're living for, what we believe is actually possible. If we have no dreams, life goes flat. If our dreams are only about ourselves, life goes small. But if our dreams are rooted in the promise of Easter — that God can and does turn despair to hope, hatred to love, death to life — then everything opens up.

A few years ago I asked my congregation to share their Easter dreams. Here is what some of them said:

That my family would continue their journey of faith even after I am gone.

That we would find a way to address systemic poverty and racism.

That God would heal my children from the pain they carry.

That our nation would be healed from hatred. That we would experience revival.

That I would practice humility in all things — and that God would remove whatever pride gets in the way.

Peace. Inner peace. Peace among all people.

Those are bold dreams. But then again, Easter is a bold claim.

It is the claim that the same Power that raised Jesus from the dead is still at work. In you. In the church. In the world. Right now.

That's not wishful thinking. That's the ground we stand on.

So — what is your Easter dream?

Prayer: God of new and abundant life, may the power of the Risen Christ work in us and through us — to bring about what we cannot bring about on our own. To make real what we can only, for now, dream. In his name we pray. Amen.

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Today’s message was written by Rev. Roger Kunkel.

Friend of Dial Hope, do you sometimes feel like your problems are so overwhelming that you can barely keep your head above water? In the Bible, God tells you to cast "all your care upon him," knowing he cares for you. (1 Peter 5:7) 

One of the most dramatic examples in the Bible of casting yourself upon God is Peter's attempt to walk on water. It was liquid pavement beneath his feet. When Jesus bid Peter to come to him, Peter quickly stepped out of the boat and, with his eyes on the Lord, he began to walk. But then he looked around at the heavy seas. Terrified, he began to sink. "Save me, Lord!" he shouted. Immediately, Jesus was beside Peter. And, arm in arm, they walked on the water to the boat. Like Peter, if you get your eyes off your source and onto your impossible situation, you're sunk. But, if you keep your eyes on Jesus and walk arm in arm with him, you'll be safe...because Jesus specializes in meeting human needs. Whatever is over your head in the way of problems is already under his feet. It's in his control! Remember: "Cast all your anxiety, your care on him, because he cares for you." (1 Peter 5:7) 

Prayer: God of love, who came into the world clothed in our garment of flesh and who willingly gave yourself to the cross, clothe us in your Spirit that persons will recognize you in us and receive your great gift of unconditional love and amazing grace. In Jesus’ name. Amen.

Holy Saturday is a strange and often overlooked day.

Not the devastation of Good Friday. Not the joy of Easter. Just… the day in between. The waiting. The silence. The not yet.

I think it may be the most honest day in the Christian calendar. Because most of us know what it feels like to live in between. Between the diagnosis and the outcome. Between the loss and the healing. Between the way things were and whatever comes next. Between the darkness and the dawn we are not yet sure is coming.

The disciples didn't know what we know. They had no idea what Sunday morning would bring. They were simply in the grief. In the silence. In the wreckage of everything they had believed and hoped for.

And yet.

Even on that day — in the stillness, in the darkness, in the sealed tomb — something was already at work that no one could see. The story was not over. The last word had not yet been spoken.

It never is.

That is the quiet, stubborn promise of Holy Saturday. Not yet joy — but not without hope. The darkness is real. And so is the dawn that is coming.

Prayer: God of Hope, meet us in the in-between places today. Where we are waiting, give us patience. Where we are grieving, give us comfort. Where we have lost our way, remind us that the story is not over. May we trust, even in the deepest part of the night, that the morning is coming. In Jesus' name. Amen.

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There is a story I have carried with me for a long time.

The physician Richard Selzer wrote about standing at the bedside of a young woman after surgery. To remove a tumor from her cheek, he had to cut a small nerve. Her mouth would be twisted from that day forward. Her husband was in the room.

Selzer watched them together in the lamplight — the way they looked at each other, the way they touched. And then the young woman asked the question that was really the only question: Will my mouth always be like this?

Yes, Selzer told her. The nerve was cut.

Her husband smiled. "I like it," he said. "Kind of cute."

And then he bent down and kissed her. And Selzer noticed — he was close enough to see — that the young man twisted his own lips to meet hers. To show her that their kiss still worked.

I don't know a better picture of what love actually looks like.

Not love as sentiment. Not love as feeling. But love as a choice to bend toward another person — whatever it costs — and say: I'm not going anywhere.

On the night he was betrayed, Jesus gathered with his closest friends. He knew what was coming. And what did he do? He got down on his knees and washed their feet. He took the bread and broke it. He took the cup and poured it. He said: This is my body, given for you.

This is what love looks like. This love is not just spoken—it is lived, given, and poured out.

Later, Jesus said to them: I am with you always, even to the end of the age.

Not: I will be with you when you have it together. Not: I will be with you when you deserve it. Always. To the end.

This is the love at the heart of this day. A love that bends toward us — whatever it costs — and refuses to let go.

Prayer: Loving God, we thank you that we don't have to earn your love. That there is nothing in life or death that can separate us from you. We think today of those who are in really hard places — who need to know you have not forgotten them. Surround each of us with your grace. And may we know, right here and right now, that you are with us. Through Christ, who gave himself for us. Amen.

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