The transfiguration of Jesus is one of the typical facts of the

Host: The church stood on the edge of the valley, half-forgotten and half-eternal — its stones bleached by time, its windows painted by dust and twilight. Inside, the air smelled of cedar, wax, and the long echo of prayers that had once risen like smoke and settled into silence.

The candles along the altar flickered weakly, their flames bending under invisible drafts, as if even the light itself was unsure it still believed.

Jack sat in the front pew, coat still damp from the evening rain, his hands folded not in prayer, but in contemplation. Jeeny stood near the altar, running her fingers gently along the spine of a large, worn Bible, her eyes lost somewhere in the haze between faith and philosophy.

Jeeny: “Edward McKendree Bounds once said, ‘The transfiguration of Jesus is one of the typical facts of the resurrection of the body; not only of the glorious change, but of the renewed life of the body and of the general judgment day.’”

Host: Jack looked up slowly, the candlelight catching in his grey eyes, softening their usual sharpness.

Jack: “That’s a mouthful of theology — but it’s more poetry than doctrine, isn’t it?”

Jeeny: “It’s both. Bounds wasn’t talking about history. He was talking about transformation — the idea that resurrection isn’t just for the dead, but for the living who’ve lost their way.”

Host: Jack leaned back in the pew, his voice low, deliberate.

Jack: “So the transfiguration wasn’t about light or glory. It was about becoming something new while still being yourself.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That moment on the mountain wasn’t for Christ — it was for those who saw Him. For Peter, James, and John — to show that divinity could wear the face of a man.”

Host: A draft whispered through the hall, the candles wavered, and the shadows stretched across the walls — like time itself bending to listen.

Jack: “You think we ever experience that? The transfiguration, I mean. Or is it one of those stories meant to make us feel small and inspired at the same time?”

Jeeny: “I think we do — in fragments. Every time you fall apart and rebuild. Every time the world strips you down and you find something brighter underneath. That’s resurrection. That’s renewal.”

Host: Jack’s hands tightened around the edge of the pew. His voice was quieter now, almost vulnerable.

Jack: “Funny. Most people think resurrection’s a future event. Something promised. But what you’re describing — that’s happening right now.”

Jeeny: “It has to. Otherwise, faith is just waiting instead of awakening.”

Host: The rain beat gently against the stained glass, making the colors tremble on the floor like shifting spirits.

Jack: “Bounds said it’s not just a glorious change, but a renewed life of the body. You think he meant literally — flesh and bone?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not just that. Maybe the body is a metaphor — the vessel of who we are. He meant the reclamation of everything broken. The resurrection isn’t only about returning to life, but returning to purpose.”

Jack: “Purpose as redemption.”

Jeeny: “And redemption as continuity. The same self, made whole.”

Host: Jack stood and walked slowly toward the altar, his footsteps echoing faintly. He stopped beside her, his reflection faintly visible in the brass of the candleholders.

Jack: “You ever think about how strange that is — that God chose to show glory through a body? Flesh, sweat, scars. No crown, no thunder — just skin.”

Jeeny: “Because that’s what makes it real. Transcendence doesn’t mean escaping the human — it means redeeming it. That’s what the transfiguration was — a preview of what humanity could be if it remembered where it came from.”

Host: Jack smiled faintly, his gaze drifting toward the window.

Jack: “So the divine isn’t up there somewhere — it’s what happens when the human stops pretending it’s small.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The light on the mountain wasn’t descending from heaven. It was emanating from within.”

Host: The two stood there in silence, the old wood creaking softly beneath their feet.

Jack: “Bounds connected that to the general judgment day. Maybe he saw the resurrection not as punishment or reward, but as reckoning — a collective unveiling. Every soul revealed in its truest form.”

Jeeny: “That’s what judgment really is — not condemnation, but clarity. Seeing yourself without illusion.”

Jack: “And maybe that’s the most terrifying miracle of all — that God might show us who we’ve always been.”

Host: The wind howled, rattling the old doors, making the candlelight tremble violently before steadying again. Jeeny turned toward him, her eyes deep with quiet conviction.

Jeeny: “But He doesn’t show it to shame us, Jack. He shows it so we’ll stop living like shadows. The transfiguration was God saying, ‘See? This is what light looks like in human form. This is what you’re capable of.’”

Jack: “And we crucified it.”

Jeeny: “Because we couldn’t bear the truth of our own reflection.”

Host: A heavy silence filled the space, thick as incense. Then, slowly, Jack lowered himself onto the first step of the altar, his elbows on his knees.

Jack: “You know, I’m not a believer. Not in the traditional sense. But the idea of a body — a life — being renewed? That speaks to me. I’ve seen too many people destroyed by what they couldn’t forgive in themselves.”

Jeeny: “That’s what resurrection asks of us — to forgive our former selves enough to let them die.”

Jack: “And then?”

Jeeny: “And then live like you were made again. Even if the world still sees the scars.”

Host: The light shifted, a single beam of moonlight slipping through the stained glass, falling across Jeeny’s face — serene, radiant. She looked, for a fleeting second, like someone illuminated from within.

Jack watched her, his voice almost a whisper.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what faith really is — not believing in miracles, but becoming one.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The transfiguration wasn’t meant to be admired. It was meant to be imitated.”

Host: The church bells tolled somewhere far off — slow, solemn, but not sad. Outside, the rain had stopped. The world felt washed, ready, listening.

Jeeny closed the Bible, her hand resting on its cover like someone sealing a promise.

Jeeny: “The resurrection of the body… it’s not just about life after death. It’s about life after doubt, after fear, after failure. That’s the judgment day — when you finally stand before yourself and see light instead of lack.”

Jack: “Then maybe redemption isn’t somewhere waiting. Maybe it’s what happens every time we refuse to stay buried.”

Host: The camera pulled back, revealing the two figures in the vast emptiness of the church — tiny, yet luminous in their own way.

The candles flickered once more, and the stained glass cast a mosaic of color over their faces — gold, crimson, violet — the colors of both suffering and salvation.

And in that quiet, beneath the hum of the dying light, Edward McKendree Bounds’ truth seemed to hum through the air itself:

The transfiguration is not a story of what God did once — it’s a vision of what He keeps doing, every time a human heart dares to resurrect its own light.