This is a very simple sermon, which can be summed up in three words that we’ve already said maybe a dozen times this morning: let it shine. When I hear those words, there’s an image from my life that frequently comes to mind.

It comes from my time as a tutor in a pre-kindergarten class in Brooklyn during college. I would go in a couple days a week to help out, and occasionally my schedule would overlap with the kids’ gym class. Those were my favorite days. Gym for these preschoolers always began the same way: the teacher turned on Michael Jackson’s greatest hits and the kids were instructed to run, skip, or gallop their way around the gymnasium.

The sheer joy those four-year olds exhibited at just being able to move, to run with abandon to the accompaniment of some upbeat pop song, was palpable. One of the kids, a little girl named Rumor, would look over every time she passed my bench and give me a big grin or make a goofy face as she skipped by. It was impossible to be in the room and not be smiling ear to ear. When I hear the gospel imperative to let my light shine, I am transported back to that gym where twenty bright rays of light are galloping to the Free Willy theme.

When Sean and I got together a few weeks ago to talk about this service, he asked what transfiguration was all about. And I started to babble. “It’s about change, about transformation,” I said. “The word means metamorphosis, and I’ve been thinking about it as the ‘spirituality of becoming.’” I really liked that phrase. But Sean wasn’t so sure. “I don’t know if I have anything to say about that,” he told me, “but if the transfiguration is about being authentic to yourself, about being seen for who you really are, I could speak to that.” And immediately I said, “Yes! I’m an idiot. And you’re a genius. That is what the transfiguration is about.”

The Transfiguration is a moment of authenticity, a moment when a man is seen by others as he truly is. Yes, Jesus appears changed, at least for a short time. He becomes a brighter version of himself. A radioactive Jesus. But that change is not the point.

The point comes from the cloud. (And in hindsight, it’s probably a good rule of thumb in any bible story with a talking cloud, to look for the point in its words.) Our cloud says, “This is my son, my beloved.”

Now I need my bible scholars. I know I have at least one per service. Where else in Jesus’ life do we hear similar words? Yes! At his baptism, at the beginning of his ministry. He comes up out of the water and a voice from the clouds says, “You are my son, my beloved.”

But did you notice the difference? One word gets changed. In the baptism story the voice says, “You are my son, my beloved.” And in the transfiguration the voice says, “This is my son, my beloved.” OK, I guess that’s two words – “you are” to “this is.”

And those two words—not the shining face or the dazzling clothes—those two words are the point. The transfiguration is a story in which something that Jesus knows about himself on the inside is acknowledged on the outside. The shining, radiant child of God that on his best days he believes himself to be is finally seen by those around him, the holiness that shines in his humanness. The story is not about something changing in him. It is about letting others see what is and has always been in him.

And this is the invitation the story of the Transfiguration makes to us, a call to be seen by others as we truly are. Not to cover ourselves over with something else, something we imagine is better, greater, holier. But to be on the outside who we are on the inside.

I believe we are born with a voice inside us, whispering to our hearts, “You are my child; my beloved.” I believe we are born knowing our sacred worth, knowing that who we are is good. We are born full of all the wonder and exuberant joy of preschoolers running around a gym. But as Sean identified in his story, there are lots of ways, implicitly or explicitly, that we get the message that that voice within us is wrong. That in fact, we should be other than we are.

There are other voices that tell us that it would be better for us to be quieter, or louder, or more handsome, or skinnier, or less skinny, or less smart, or more confident, or more agreeable, or more decisive, or less serious, or less curious, or more masculine, or more feminine, or more religious, or less skeptical, or more like our brother, or sister, or, or, or, or, or…

It is appropriate that Jesus’ path to transfiguration is an uphill journey. I am struck by the courage that Sean showed in sharing his story today and by the courage it has to have taken to live it. Being who we are instead of the person we believe the world wishes we were is terrifying. In some sense, it’s the only way we can be truly hurt. Because as long as we are being someone else, we—the real we—can never be rejected. But if we decide to be who we are, people will have to love or fail to love the real us. It will matter. As long as our light is hidden out of sight, there’s no threat that it will be extinguished. But if we decide to shine, we will have to keep it up through the wind, and the rain, and the darkness.

But being who we are is also the only way we can really be loved. If you’ve ever tried being loved for something other than who you are–if you’ve tried being loved for your accomplishments, or for a role you were playing in someone’s life; if you’ve tried to be loved as the perfect child, or as the perfect spouse, or as the perfect friend; if you’ve tried being loved for being cool, or successful, or nice, or good–you know how exhausting it is. And how unsatisfying. Unless we show people who we really are, all they can love is the masks we’ve put on. And we will be left wearing the masks, fearing that if we take them off, that love will go away.

The Church has referred to The Transfiguration as one of the miracles of Jesus. Maybe that’s right. But if The Transfiguration is a miracle, it’s the miracle of doing nothing. Jesus does nothing. He doesn’t heal anyone. He doesn’t feed anyone. He doesn’t cast out any demons. He does nothing. And he shines. God has already performed the miracle in him, and all he has to do is stop trying to do anything. I don’t know about you, my brilliant, successful, over-achieving congregation, but sometimes I think I have to do something to shine; I have to accomplish something to be loved; I have to meet a certain standard of excellence, in order to be known as beloved child.

And that’s wrong. We are created to shine. My beloved friends, God has already performed the miracle of you. And the world needs that miracle, needs to see the God of Love reflected back to them in the face of a friend, needs to know the holiness that shines in your humanness. We all need that miracle.

Think about it. Have you ever seen someone shine? Ever known someone transformed from the inside out? Someone who seemed translated from the dull, matte finish of the everyday into glorious technicolor radiance? Maybe it was a galloping preschooler. Maybe it was a man standing up in church to share his story. Last night I was celebrating a friend’s birthday, and after dinner her two-year-old walked out stark naked and sat at the table eating ice cream cake and shining. May we all be blessed with such miracles! When you see them, you know. It is as plain as day, as if a voice were saying, “This one is beloved.” As if you were looking directly into the glory of God.

Because you are. We are created to shine, created by the God of Love to shine. And when we do, it is the God of Love reflected in us that others see. Like a full moon beaming back the rays of the sun. We don’t have to do anything. We don’t have to be anything. We just have to let the world see how shiny we are. We just have to shine. It is good to shine. We need to shine. The people we love need us to shine. And we need them to shine. The world needs us to shine. Let it shine! Let it shine! Let it shine!