“While he was still speaking, suddenly a bright cloud overshadowed them, and a voice from the cloud said, ‘This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased; listen to him!’ When the disciples heard this, they fell to the ground and were overcome by fear. But Jesus came and touched them, saying, ‘Get up and do not be afraid.’ And when they raised their eyes, they saw no one except Jesus himself alone.” (Matthew 17:5–8)
“Now the appearance of the glory of the Lord was like a devouring fire on the top of the mountain…” (Exodus 24:17)
“So God created humankind in his image…” (Genesis 1:27)
There’s a reason churches keep coming back to mountains in the stories we tell about God. Mountains are where the air gets thin and your usual coping strategies—small talk, competence, control—start wheezing. Mountains are where you find out what you really believe about your own body, your own limitations, and whether you think you’re lovable when you can’t keep up.
A number of years ago, I was invited on a hike up Blue Mountain. It’s genuinely gorgeous. I’d done it before—back when my body was more predictable, back when I could imagine “a hike” as something you choose for fun instead of something that quietly turns into a referendum on your worth.
The hike was with people from the church I was attending, and I was excited. You know me: extrovert, people-lover, probably overconfident about what I can do because I’m high on togetherness and fresh air and the illusion that belonging is something you can earn by being game for whatever the group is doing.
It was a brilliant fall day. My family was with me; the kids were quite young. One of them—timid by temperament—was already unsure. Halfway through, I noticed another parent urging my child to try riskier and riskier climbs up the rocks. My child’s reluctance was obvious. And I could feel that familiar protective alarm go off in my body: This isn’t stretching. This is pressure. This is danger disguised as encouragement.
So I intervened. Not dramatically. Not angrily. Just enough to keep my kid emotionally safe. And at almost the exact same time, my back went into spasm—one of those episodes where your body doesn’t politely request a break; it announces it, loudly, like thunder.
I knew I needed to stop. I knew I needed help getting down.
And honestly, I could not ask.
It felt too vulnerable. Too weak. Too shameful. And if you’ve ever lived in a body that doesn’t reliably cooperate—if you’ve ever been injured, chronically ill, disabled, neurodivergent, aging, recovering, or just… human—you know the spiritual warfare that happens right there. Not on the mountaintop in a bright cloud. But in the moment where your body says no and your mind starts bargaining: Maybe I can push through. Maybe I can pretend. Maybe if I don’t make it a problem, I won’t become a problem.
Finally, I turned back down the trail with the one child who was uncomfortable. And I was greeted by—well—not outright derision, but the kind of low-grade contempt that can hide behind “jokes.” Eye rolls. Comments about being out of shape. A hint of impatience that I had made the group’s story less inspiring.
I was horribly embarrassed.
I didn’t advocate for myself or my child. I didn’t say, “Actually, this isn’t about fitness. This is about disability. This is about pain. This is about safety.” I just silently limped down and got into my van.
Along the way, a very quiet older man—someone I’d never really connected with—started walking with me. He paced to my pace. He didn’t sermonize. He didn’t pep-talk. He didn’t correct my feelings. He was simply a steady presence while my body did what bodies do: set limits.
He walked me all the way to my van. He made sure my child was buckled up. Then he got in his own car.
The rest eventually came down, made plans for supper, and I bowed out with a vague excuse about other commitments. No one knew. Or rather: everyone knew something, but only one person seemed to know the right something—that I was struggling, and that struggle is not a moral failure.
Later, I heard the comments: “over-protective.” “out of condition.” And yes, I have disability issues. But I chose not to speak them out loud.
I chose not to because I desperately wanted to be included.
I chose not to because having a body outside what we consider “normal” still gets treated like a shameful secret, even in communities that talk a big game about welcome.
I chose not to because I didn’t trust that others would preserve my health or my feelings—or my child’s—once they knew. I didn’t trust the group with the truth.
And unfortunately, I was proved right.
This week the United Church report Leadership Counts released its end-of-term findings—a report from self-identified equity-seeking clergy. I filled out the questionnaire. I reported my disability issues. I talked about how well Bethel has accommodated my needs. And I also said clearly: the wider church has not.
A small example: funding for my DMin through the United Church Foundation required an application to be completed while I’m on restorative care for knee surgery. It’s a complicated process—meetings, letters, transcripts—during a time I’m not supposed to be working. I wrote to ask whether there were alternative deadlines for disability reasons and got a kind letter back with an absolute “no.”
Not “let’s problem-solve.” Not “how can we make this accessible?” Just “no.”
That’s what inaccessibility often looks like in the church: polite. Administrative. Smiling while it locks the door.
Back to the report: clergy with disabilities did not even make the summary. So I pulled up the full report. Only 15% of clergy identified with a disability.
Statistics Canada reports that about 24% of the Canadian population identifies with a disability. Clergy, by and large, are an older workforce; age-related disability should push the number up, not down. We also see significant use of long-term disability supports (often related to mental health). So this is almost certainly underreporting.
For me, the question isn’t “what’s the number?” It’s why.
Is disability underreported because of internalized ableism—the voice in our heads that says we’re only valuable when we’re functioning, producing, inspiring?
Is it because clergy with disabilities have met so many barriers that they can’t stay in ministry long enough to be counted?
Is it because, deep down, we’ve absorbed the belief that disability makes us “less than,” that it’s weakness, that it’s something to overcome like a character flaw?
Tomorrow is Transfiguration Sunday. And this year I can’t get past the terror in these stories. Exodus describes God’s glory like a devouring fire. Matthew gives us disciples flattened by fear when the cloud speaks. Transfiguration isn’t a cute glow-up moment for Jesus; it’s a revelation that disorients, a collision between human limits and divine reality. The disciples don’t respond with a hymn sing. They hit the ground.
And then—this might be the most tender line in the whole scene—Jesus comes close enough to touch them and says: “Get up. Do not be afraid.”
Not, “Try harder.” Not, “You should be fine.” Not, “Don’t make this awkward.” He touches them. He speaks directly to fear.
The point of the mountain isn’t to prove who’s strong enough to climb. The point is that God meets people who are undone—and doesn’t discard them for it.
And here’s what I’m wondering this Transfiguration Sunday: what if one of the encounters with God that we most need right now is an apocalypse of our ableism? Not a gentle awareness campaign. An unveiling. A holy disruption.
What if salvation—at least part of it—is finally seeing that our worth is not tied to our bodies performing “normally”?
Genesis doesn’t say, “God created humankind in God’s image… as long as their joints cooperate and their brain chemistry behaves and their pain remains invisible and their productivity stays high.”
No. It says image. Full stop.
So I want you to sit with this: the body I have—with its limits, its pain, its unpredictability, its need for accommodation—is still the image of God.
The body your child has. The body your aging parent has. The body your anxious friend has. The body your neurodivergent neighbour has. The body you silently judge—maybe even your own.
Still image.
And if that’s true, then seeing one another—really seeing, not scanning for competence, not ranking by capacity, not rewarding the ones who can keep up—is Transfiguration.
Because if we truly understand this, we are changed. Our policies change. Our timelines change. Our expectations change. Our theology changes. Our compassion stops being theoretical and becomes structural.
And we stop leaving people to limp down the mountain alone.
Blessings today, my beautiful, diverse Bethel community. You are loved—not in spite of your body, not once you “recover,” not when you can serve again, not when you can climb again.
You are loved
~Rev. Lynne
I’ve never liked transfiguration Sunday because the word implies there is something lacking.
I didnt connect it to disability. I am disabled in other ways than physically and look for ways to correct what I find to be lacking. Your words help.