A sunrise or a sunset over still water. The silence before a symphony begins. A child laughing in sleep. A blessing whispered from the deathbed. These are moments that do not ask to be explained. Only received. These are not events to be intervened, but mysteries to be knelt before. The Transfiguration is one such moment. The mountain is where the veil thins, where the ordinary gives way. “Mountains in Scripture are never destinations, they are thresholds. From Sinai to Tabor, they are where God speaks so we can descend changed. The climb is not about escape, but a preparation for everything waiting below.”
A Moment Meant for Silence
On a high mountain, Jesus prays, and suddenly, heaven borrows the language of light. His face changes. His clothes flash with brilliance. He stands between Moses and Elijah as if time itself folds in reverence. It is not a moment for theology. It is a moment for silence.
Peter speaks, because silence terrifies him. “Master, it is good that we are here” But before he can finish his thought, a cloud descends, thick, luminous, and unyielding. A voice speaks not of glory or law or prophecy, but of one thing: “This is my Son. Listen to Him.”
Learning to Listen
That is the command of the mountain. Not to admire. Not to analyze. But to listen. Yet how do we listen to someone who rarely shouts, who chooses silence over spectacle, who hides glory inside the mundane? Perhaps that is the point. The Transfiguration doesn’t happen to impress us. It happens to prepare us, for the garden, for the cross, for all the days when Jesus won’t look radiant, but ragged.
Because the same body that glowed on the mountain will hang limp on a cross. The same face that dazzled with light will be spat upon. The cloth that dazzled will be torn apart. The disciples are not given this vision to cling to, but to carry, like a lamp in their pocket for the long road ahead.
The Transfiguration of Presence
A Jesuit priest once told the story of being called to a prison hospital to anoint a dying man. He arrived late in the evening. The man was already unconscious, alone, with no visitors or family. The cell was dim, the air heavy. The priest anointed him, prayed softly, and turned to leave. But something held him back at the threshold. He turned back and sat in silence beside the bed.
A few minutes later, the man stirred. His eyes fluttered open. He looked at the priest and whispered, “Thank you, you stayed.” That was all. But in that moment, something broke open, something wordless, luminous, and eternal. Not a vision of Moses and Elijah. But of mercy. The priest said it felt like the cell itself had brightened, not with light, but with presence.
God's Glory in the Quiet
That’s the secret of the mountain: glory is not always spectacular. Sometimes, it arrives quietly, through presence, attention, love that lingers even when it’s not required. Most of us will not see mountaintop visions. We will see laundry, and traffic and hospital corridors. We will not hear voices from clouds. We will hear the hum of the ordinary, tv, phone, or of your spouse. But still, the command remains: Listen to Him.
Listen when He tells you to forgive again. Listen when He asks you to rest. Listen when He calls you to stay close in the silence. That, too, is transfiguration, not of His face, but of our own.
When we listen, even the dull ground beneath our feet becomes radiant. Transfiguration is not a place we visit, but a way we learn to see and listen until the quiet Christ before us begins to shine.
- Father Boby's inspirational homily was recorded live during Mass at the Father Peyton Center this morning. You can view the Mass (and the Rosary at the 30-minute mark) on the Family Rosary YouTube page.
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