I’m John—the youngest of His disciples. That morning, Jesus asked only Peter, James, and me to follow Him up the mountain. I didn’t know why. We just obeyed.
The climb had scraped my hands and stained my robe, but I didn’t complain—none of us did. When Jesus called, we followed. That morning, He had asked only Peter, James, and myself to come with Him higher into the Galilean hills. The sun pushed down on our backs, the air thin with the hush of elevation. Below us, Rome still moved cold and swift through our people’s bones, but up here, it was quiet enough to pray.
I was tired. Deep down, not just in body but in that place where hope used to rest before the Empire took our father’s lands and taxed my brother until he wept. I followed Jesus because He saw people like me—unseen men with cracked sandals and quieter wounds.
He stopped at a clearing, and we knelt while He moved off to pray. His form was silhouetted by light, the quiet kind of light at first—like dawn. But then it changed.
I blinked. No, I stared. His face was like the sun, burning but not burning me. His clothes—those ordinary folds I had seen soaked in river water and smeared with dust—gleamed white, brighter than noon. I fell back. My hands trembled in the grass.
Then, two figures stood beside Him. My mouth dropped open. I didn’t know how, but somewhere in my spirit I knew—Moses and Elijah.
Through the haze, Peter stammered something about building shelters, grasping at what little made sense. My mind burned with the fear that every word I’d ever spoken was unworthy.
Then the voice came.
It wasn’t a sound. It was a presence—not thunder, though it shook me like thunder. “This is My Son, whom I love; with Him I am well pleased. Listen to Him.”
I dropped to the ground, face pressed to soil damp with dew. I thought of every wrong I’d done. How I’d doubted. How I’d believed, but only halfway. The holiness in front of me felt unbearable.
Then—His hand.
On my shoulder.
“Don’t be afraid,” He said, in the same voice He used when He healed beggars and spoke peace into storms.
I lifted my face. The light was gone. Only Jesus stood there now—His robe dusty again, His eyes full of kindness.
My breath slowly returned, as if my soul had been shattered and reset. We made our way back down the mountain, the three of us silent, overwhelmed. But something in me had changed. I had seen. Truly seen.
I no longer followed Jesus merely because He healed or taught or made the temple leaders uneasy. I followed because I heard the Father name Him Son, and I saw mercy not as a law, but as a man who glanced back to make sure I was still with Him.
And I was.
I am.
I’m John—the youngest of His disciples. That morning, Jesus asked only Peter, James, and me to follow Him up the mountain. I didn’t know why. We just obeyed.
The climb had scraped my hands and stained my robe, but I didn’t complain—none of us did. When Jesus called, we followed. That morning, He had asked only Peter, James, and myself to come with Him higher into the Galilean hills. The sun pushed down on our backs, the air thin with the hush of elevation. Below us, Rome still moved cold and swift through our people’s bones, but up here, it was quiet enough to pray.
I was tired. Deep down, not just in body but in that place where hope used to rest before the Empire took our father’s lands and taxed my brother until he wept. I followed Jesus because He saw people like me—unseen men with cracked sandals and quieter wounds.
He stopped at a clearing, and we knelt while He moved off to pray. His form was silhouetted by light, the quiet kind of light at first—like dawn. But then it changed.
I blinked. No, I stared. His face was like the sun, burning but not burning me. His clothes—those ordinary folds I had seen soaked in river water and smeared with dust—gleamed white, brighter than noon. I fell back. My hands trembled in the grass.
Then, two figures stood beside Him. My mouth dropped open. I didn’t know how, but somewhere in my spirit I knew—Moses and Elijah.
Through the haze, Peter stammered something about building shelters, grasping at what little made sense. My mind burned with the fear that every word I’d ever spoken was unworthy.
Then the voice came.
It wasn’t a sound. It was a presence—not thunder, though it shook me like thunder. “This is My Son, whom I love; with Him I am well pleased. Listen to Him.”
I dropped to the ground, face pressed to soil damp with dew. I thought of every wrong I’d done. How I’d doubted. How I’d believed, but only halfway. The holiness in front of me felt unbearable.
Then—His hand.
On my shoulder.
“Don’t be afraid,” He said, in the same voice He used when He healed beggars and spoke peace into storms.
I lifted my face. The light was gone. Only Jesus stood there now—His robe dusty again, His eyes full of kindness.
My breath slowly returned, as if my soul had been shattered and reset. We made our way back down the mountain, the three of us silent, overwhelmed. But something in me had changed. I had seen. Truly seen.
I no longer followed Jesus merely because He healed or taught or made the temple leaders uneasy. I followed because I heard the Father name Him Son, and I saw mercy not as a law, but as a man who glanced back to make sure I was still with Him.
And I was.
I am.
