Reflection for March 1, 2026

Second Sunday of Lent (A)

Genesis 12:1-4A | Psalm 33:4-5, 18-19, 20, 22 | 2 Timothy 1:8B-10 | Matthew 17:1-9

​Last Sunday, we reflected on how Jesus was led by the Spirit into the desert, where He was tempted three times by the devil. In that barren and desolate place, He answered every test by standing firmly on the Word of God. The desert reminds us that the Christian life is not sustained by emotion but by discipline—prayer, fasting, and works of piety—especially in this sacred Season of Lent. Yet the journey does not end in the wilderness. From the dryness of the desert, the Lord now leads us to another scene. He brings us from heat and hunger to height and glory. After the struggle comes revelation; after the testing, light. We move from the silence of temptation to the radiance of a mountain-top encounter with Him.

​There once was a mountaineer so full of himself he believed the mountain needed him. While his team wisely stopped at mid-camp to rest, he smirked, adjusted his gear, and declared, “Legends don’t nap.” Off he went—alone, heroic, dramatic. Minutes later, snap! His harness broke. Down he plunged into pitch-black darkness, screaming every prayer he had ever ignored. By sheer luck, he grabbed a stubborn little shrub growing out of the cliff. Dangling there, he cried, “God, are You there? Please help me!” A calm voice replied, “Yes, I’m here. Let go of the bush.” He blinked. “Are You really there, God?” “Yes. Let go of the bush.” He tightened his grip. “Nice try. I’m not that gullible.” He clung all night—terrified, stubborn, heroic in his own mind. At dawn, his teammates found him… hanging two feet above the ground. Had he obeyed, he would have landed safely and joined them by the fire. Sometimes, the only thing keeping us from safety is our refusal to listen and obey.

In our first reading, Abraham shines as a witness to obedience. God says, “Go forth,” and without delay he goes—leaving behind comfort, security, and certainty. In Hebrew, the word שמע (shema) means both to listen and to obey. To hear is to act; there is no separation. In Latin, obedience comes from ob (“under”) and audire (“to listen”)—to place oneself under the word that is heard. Abraham’s greatness was not accidental. God made his name great because he was willing to shema, to listen under God’s command. We, however, often hear but hesitate. We bargain with heaven, soften hard truths, and protect our comfort at all costs. But blessing flows where obedience burns bright. If we would shema as Abraham did, we would see God’s promises unfold in power.

There is a story about a woman named Beth, radiant and unshakably joyful, though confined by illness to an old shack on a mountainside. One day, her friend Patrick brought a wealthy companion, Mitch, to visit her. The climb was steep and exhausting. At the first camp, Mitch grimaced, “What a filthy, dreadful trail.” Patrick quietly answered, “It’s better higher up.” At the second stop, she complained again, “It looks even worse here.” The reply did not change: “It’s better higher up.” At last they reached Beth’s humble dwelling. Inside, though simple, it was clean, with flowers resting gently on the windowsill. Beth lay bedridden, yet her face shone with a peace the mountain air could not explain. Mitch, unsettled by the stark poverty, blurted, “It must be very hard for you to live like this.” Without hesitation, Beth lifted her frail hand toward heaven and said with serene conviction, “It’s better higher up.”

In our second reading, Saint Paul speaks with urgency: “Bear your share of hardship for the gospel with the strength that comes from God.” Glory is never gained without a cross. The Transfiguration reveals radiant light, but only after the long road to Calvary. We are quick to despair when trials visit us—when work fails, relationships fracture, health declines, or plans collapse. Yet suffering is not meaningless; it is the furnace where faith is purified. Christ embraced passion and death in order to enter glory. Can we expect a crown without carrying a cross? No tear offered to God is wasted. Every hardship endured in faith gathers eternal weight. If we persevere, the very fire that tests us will become the light that glorifies us.

A group of hikers finally reached the summit after hours of climbing. The air was crisp, the view endless, the clouds stretched beneath their feet. One of them whispered, “Let’s stay here. It’s peaceful. It’s perfect.” Their guide gently shook his head. “It is beautiful up here. But we were not trained just to admire the view.”

He pointed to the valley below. “Mountains give us vision. Valleys give us mission.” They had not packed ropes and supplies to build a cabin on the peak. Down there, bridges needed repair, yes—but also hungry families needed bread, wounded hearts needed comfort, lonely elders needed company, children needed teaching, and broken homes needed rebuilding. Fields had to be planted. Fires had to be rekindled. “It’s easy to feel close to heaven above the clouds,” the guide said softly. “The harder calling is bringing heaven down.” So they took one last look at the summit and began their descent—carrying strength from the heights into the valley of tears, ready not just to feel inspired, but to serve.

In our Gospel, Jesus leads Peter, James, and John up a high mountain. Throughout Scripture, mountains are sacred places of encounter—Ararat, Moriah, Sinai, Carmel, Calvary, Olivet. We ascend the mountain to speak with God. On Tabor, Christ’s face shines and His garments blaze with heavenly light; Moses and Elijah stand beside Him in glory. Yet we must not miss the center of the scene. The heart of the Gospel is not merely the dazzling vision but the voice from the cloud: “This is my beloved Son… listen to Him.” Moses embodies the Law; Elijah, the Prophets. The written word and the spoken word both point to one Person—Jesus. Only Jesus. Always Jesus. The mountain is a place of encounter, but not of escape. We cannot remain in tents of comfort. We must descend to Jerusalem, to a world marked by crosses and confusion. Our marching order is clear: listen to Jesus and obey Him—not only in prayer halls and sacred spaces, but in the demanding arena of daily life.

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