Solitude

Matthew 17:1-13

February 15, 2026

Solitude

Rev. Heather Carlson, St. John’s Presbyterian Church, Medicine Hat, AB

 

“Jesus took with him Peter and the brothers James and John and led them up a high mountain by themselves(or in other translations, where they were alone.”)
— Matthew 17:1

In the geography of Scripture, mountains are never just mountains. They are places where heaven and earth seem to touch. They are thin places — where the veil between the human and the divine is drawn back.

We’ve been sitting with Jesus as he preaches and teaches the Sermon on the Mount. On another mountain the Lord said to Moses, “Come up the mountain to me…” (Exodus 24:12). There, Moses received the law. There, he encountered the glory of God.

Mountains are where God calls. Mountains are where God reveals. Mountains are where God transforms.

Many of us are past the point of scaling physical mountains. Knees protest. Lungs object. Energy wanes. But we are not past the point of climbing spiritual ones. We are still invited upward. We are still summoned by the voice that says, “Come up the mountain to me.”

And in just a few days, on Wednesday, we begin one of the church’s most ancient journeys — the season of Lent. Forty days, plus Sundays, leading us to Easter. A season of reflection. A season of repentance. A season of preparation for the death and resurrection of our Lord.

Lent is an invitation into the interior life with God, what the church has called the spiritual discipline of solitude.

Scripture tells us, “There is a time to keep silence, and a time to speak.” (Ecclesiastes 3:7)

The Danish philosopher Søren Kierkegaard once said, “If I were a physician and asked to prescribe for the ills of [hu]mankind, I would prescribe silence.”

And the priest and writer Henri J. M. Nouwen wrote in The Way of the Heart, “It is a good discipline to wonder in each new situation if people wouldn’t be better served by our silence than by our words.”

Silence. Solitude. Listening.

Someone once said that solitude is letting the soul catch up with the body.

But as soon as we attempt solitude, we may well encounter two predicaments.

The first is fear. We are afraid of being left alone.

We think of the child entering a new school, wondering, “Will I find friends?” We think of elderly residents in nursing homes with few visitors. For many singles, solitude feels like a secret enemy — something to be endured rather than embraced.

We confuse solitude with loneliness. And loneliness frightens us.

So we rush toward noise. That is the second obstacle.

Afraid of loneliness, we fill our lives with sound and busyness. Radios. Streaming music. Television. Cell phones. Endless scrolling. Social commitments. Activity layered upon activity. We are determined never to be without stimulation.

If we are alone, at least we will not be silent.

But loneliness and clatter are not our only options.

Noise insists, “I must take in all that’s going on around me.”

Loneliness says, “I am empty and abandoned.”

Solitude says, “I am alone with God.” Solitude is not absence, but presence.

The goal of solitude is not escape from people. It is not withdrawal from responsibility. It is not silent treatment for those around us. The goal is to hear the divine voice more clearly.

“This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased; listen to him!”

The purpose of silence is not rejection of everyday life, but retraining ourselves to live everyday life grounded in the story of God.

Look at Jesus.

Before He chose the twelve, He spent the night in prayer. After the feeding of the five thousand, He withdrew by Himself. Following exhausting days of healing and teaching, He rose before dawn to seek a lonely place.

And here, on the mountain of transfiguration, He takes Peter, James, and John and leads them upward.

Notice something important. The text says they were alone — but they were together.

Solitude does not always mean isolation. If solitude feels overwhelming, take someone along.

I remember my first foray into the silence of solitude. I was 22 years old and serving at Memorial Salem Church down on the flats. Our regional church sponsored a week of silence for all clergy to gather in the foothills of the mountains. In all transparency, I made it to Wednesday night before sneaking off to telephone Jason. 

It was an encouragement to gather for prayer, meals, meet along the forrest paths, knowing that others were walking this same discipline. That sounds contradictory, but it is biblical. Jesus took three disciples with Him. They shared a common purpose: to seek God.

If solitude with God is new for you, maybe a friend or prayer partner can travel with you. Mentors can accompany us through printed words — saints who have gone before us, devotional writers, ancient prayers. We do not climb alone.

But here is the heart of it: listening takes precedence over speaking.

Ecclesiastes says, “To draw near to listen is better than to offer the sacrifice of fools.” (Ecclesiastes 5:1)

On the mountain, when Jesus was transfigured and Moses and Elijah appeared, Peter burst out, “Lord, it is good for us to be here! If you wish, I will make three shelters…

He was offering what Scripture calls the sacrifice of fools — filling holy silence with unnecessary words.

How often do we do the same?

We sit down to pray — and we talk. We explain. We instruct God. We rehearse our to-do list. We fill the space. But solitude invites us to leave room.

Not just refraining from speech, but cultivating a listening heart.

Listening is an act of trust.

We are so accustomed to managing our world with words. Words persuade. Words defend. Words control.

Silence relinquishes control.

If we are silent, who is in charge? God is.

And we will never allow God to take control until we trust Him.

Silence is intimately related to trust.

What might this look like in Lent? It may begins with little solitudes.

The early morning before the house awakens.
A quiet cup of coffee with an open Bible.
The stillness of a car ride without the radio.
A few moments of gathered silence before a meal

And when interruptions come — as they will — we receive them with humility. Solitude is not rigid. It is not selfish. It bends in love.

And what will we hear?

Perhaps comfort.
Perhaps conviction.
Perhaps nothing at all.

We must enter solitude without demanding an experience.

There will be times of dryness. Times when prayer feels empty. Times when God seems distant.

The mystics called it the dark night of the soul. But dryness is not failure.

Sometimes God hushes our senses so that deeper work can begin. Stillness allows transformation we cannot see.

We do not seek extraordinary experiences. We seek God.

If we seek experiences, we will feed our vanity.
If we seek God, He will shape our souls.

In solitude we say, “I am here to be changed into whatever You desire.”

And then we do not stay on the mountain.

Peter wanted to build tents. He wanted to capture the moment. Preserve the glory. Freeze the experience.

Jesus would not allow it. They had to come down.

The test of solitude is not what happens on the mountain. The test is what happens after.

Do we return softened?
More merciful?
More obedient?
More attentive to the needs of others?

Or do we merely chase the next spiritual high?

True encounters with God do not make us less engaged with the world — they send us back into it with greater love.

The transfiguration was not given for Jesus’ sake, nor for Peter’s wonder, nor for James and John’s amazement. It was given for God’s mission.

And from this mountaintop we are pointed toward another hill.

Lent leads us not only to the glory of transfiguration, but to Golgotha.

Another mountain.
Another revelation.

There we will see the strange and life-giving truth: that our Messiah saves us not by conquest, but by sacrifice. Not by domination, but by surrender. Not by ascending a throne, but by being lifted on a cross.

And yet Jesus says, “Do not be afraid.”

The mountain of transfiguration prepares us for the mountain of crucifixion. And from there, we will move toward the empty tomb.

When the disciples came down from the mountain, Jesus walked with them. He did not remain in a tent. He did not stay suspended in glory. He walked beside them on the dusty road. He walks beside us.

So as we approach Lent, hear the invitation: “Come up the mountain to me.”

Come in silence.
Come in trust.
Come not to demand happiness, but to seek God.

And then come down again — strengthened for love, for obedience, for service.

May this Lenten journey lodge the Word of God so deeply within us that when we descend into the valleys of ordinary days, we carry the light of Christ into a waiting world.

God calls to us, “Come up the mountain to me.” May we heed His call. Amen.