In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Last week I found myself at Walsingham for the Leading Your Church into Growth conference.

There is something deeply fitting about thinking about church growth in that holy place. Pilgrims have walked there for nearly a thousand years — not because of marketing strategies or clever programming — but because they believed that God had drawn near in that place, that heaven had brushed against earth.

And that is where our readings lead us this Sunday before Lent: to those moments when heaven brushes against earth.

In Exodus, Moses climbs the mountain. The cloud descends. The glory of the Lord settles. Fire and brightness and mystery surround the presence of God. In St Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus takes Peter, James and John up a high mountain. His face shines like the sun. His clothes become dazzling white. Moses and Elijah appear. A bright cloud overshadows them. A voice speaks: “This is my beloved Son… listen to him.”

And in the Second Letter of Peter, we hear the reflection of someone who was there. “We were eyewitnesses of his majesty.” Not cleverly devised myths — but glory seen, voice heard, light experienced.

Mountains. Cloud. Glory. Presence.

And yet the Church does not grow on the mountain.

At the conference in Walsingham, much of the conversation was practical — hospitality, discipleship, courage, prayer, vision. But underneath every workshop and every strategy was a deeper question: Where does real growth begin?

It begins where Peter began — in wonder before the glory of Christ.

Before there can be growth in numbers, there must be growth in vision. Before there can be outreach, there must be encounter. Before we build tents, organise rotas, or launch initiatives, we must see him.

The Transfiguration is not given to the Church as spectacle but as revelation. The disciples glimpse who Jesus truly is. And that glimpse changes everything.

Peter’s instinct is to stay. “Lord, it is good for us to be here.” He wants to build shelters, to preserve the moment. We understand him. When worship is alive, when prayer feels real, when God seems close — we want to linger.

But the voice from the cloud does not say, “Stay here.” It says, “Listen to him.”

And what does Jesus do next? He leads them down the mountain.

Church growth is not about constructing tents on the mountain. It is about listening to Jesus and following him down into the ordinary, the messy, the needy places where people are waiting.

Moses comes down the mountain with his face shining. Jesus comes down the mountain and sets his face towards Jerusalem. The glory is not an escape from the world — it is strength for mission within it.

If we long for growth at St Mary’s, or in any parish, it will not begin with anxiety about numbers. It will begin with attentiveness to Christ.

“Listen to him.”

Listen to him in Scripture.
Listen to him in prayer.
Listen to him in the cry of the poor.
Listen to him in the quiet prompting of the Spirit.

Peter writes that the prophetic message is “a light shining in a dark place, until the day dawns.” Growth happens where light is welcomed.

And here is the beautiful truth: when a church truly listens to Jesus, people notice. Not because it is flashy. Not because it is fashionable. But because Christ is luminous.

The Church grows when Christ is visible.

That visibility does not always look dramatic. Sometimes it looks like faithful intercession. Sometimes it looks like a warm welcome at the door. Sometimes it looks like quiet perseverance when numbers seem small. Sometimes it looks like sacrificial generosity.

At Walsingham, surrounded by pilgrims, I was reminded that growth is God’s work before it is ours. Pilgrimage is response. Grace comes first.

The Father reveals the Son. The Son reveals his glory. The Spirit overshadows. The disciples fall down in awe.

And then — the most tender detail in the Gospel — Jesus comes and touches them. “Rise, and do not be afraid.”

That is the word for a church thinking about growth: Do not be afraid.

Do not be afraid of change.
Do not be afraid of new faces.
Do not be afraid of stepping out in faith.
Do not be afraid of what we cannot control.

Because the same Jesus who blazed with uncreated light on the mountain is the one who gently touches frightened disciples.

As we stand on the threshold of Lent, this Sunday gives us a vision before the journey. Soon we will walk towards ashes, fasting, and the shadow of the cross. But before we descend into penitence, we are given glory.

Why?

So that we remember who we are following.

Church growth that is not rooted in the glory of Christ becomes mere activity. But church growth rooted in the transfigured Lord becomes participation in his life.

The cloud that overshadowed the mountain is the same cloud that filled the tabernacle in Exodus — the dwelling of God among his people. And now, in Christ, that dwelling is among us still.

Every Eucharist is, in a quiet way, a mountain moment. Heaven draws near. Christ is revealed — not in blazing light, but in bread broken and wine outpoured. And then, as always, we are sent out.

We do not remain at the altar. We go in peace to love and serve the Lord.

And that is how the Church grows.

Not by staying in holy huddles.
But by seeing Christ, listening to Christ, receiving Christ — and then carrying his light down the mountain into our homes, workplaces, schools, and streets.

May we, like Peter, be eyewitnesses of his majesty.
May we, like Moses, reflect his glory.
May we, like the first disciples, rise without fear.

And as we follow him into Lent, may others, seeing his light in us, be drawn — not to us — but to him.

For when Christ is lifted up, the Church will grow.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.