As a diptych to the story of the temptation of Jesus, the Transfiguration is always proclaimed on the Second Sunday of Lent. The title masks its deeper meaning, since the earliest English use of "transfiguration" is for the feast, and the word rarely appears in "secular" discourse. A better translation of the Greek would be "transformation" of Jesus, which evokes the words of the hymn in Philippians: that Jesus "took on the form of a slave, coming in human likeness" (Phil. 2:7). The verb is found in only two other places: in Rom. 12:2, "do not be conformed to this age, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind," and in a passage from 2 Cor. 3:18, which shaped the theology of Irenaeus of Lyons and of Eastern patristic thought: "All of us gazing with unveiled face on the glory of the Lord are being transformed into the same image from glory to glory, as from the Lord who is spirit." The manifestation of Jesus’ glory is also a promise of transformation of his followers.

The Transfiguration comes at the beginning of Jesus’ journey to Jerusalem, which he has just predicted will end in a horrible death by crucifixion. Here a voice from heaven pronounces, "This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased," echoing that same proclamation at Jesus’ baptism (Mt. 3:17). Jesus is the beloved Son not only when he announces God’s mercy and love in the Sermon on the Mount and enacts God’s victory over evil through his healing ministry, but also when he enters into the mystery of suffering.

In preaching on this feast, Karl Rahner reflected on what the event meant for Jesus himself: "This then is the meaning of the transfiguration for Jesus himself: in the dark night of hopelessness the light of God shines, a human heart finds in God the power which turns a dying into victory and into redemption of the world" (The Great Church Year).

At the beginning of Lent, the feast is also about the journey of Jesus’ followers. Shortly before the ascent to the mountain, Simon Peter confesses Jesus as "Messiah, Son of the living God," and Jesus promises that he will be Peter as the rock on which his church will be built and that God’s power will safeguard his mission. Yet when Jesus talks about his coming death, Peter takes him aside and says: "God forbid, Lord!" No such thing shall ever happen to you. But afterward, gazing upon the glory of Jesus flanked by Moses and Elijah, Peter wants to build three dwellings and rest thereno more talk of crucifixion. Peter’s request is answered by a voice from a cloud-enshrouded mountaintop proclaiming Jesus, as at his baptism, beloved Son and charging Peter, "Listen to him." Peter’s "peak experience" is not an assurance of divine consolation, but a mandate to follow the very path of suffering discipleship that he earlier resisted. Yet that will be his ultimate destiny.

I have been writing these reflections on the anniversary of the birth of Martin Luther King Jr. Thinking about the mountaintop, I read again his last speech given the night before he died (April 4, 1968), a day that has seared my memory like the other horrors since that moment when, as a little boy, I heard first the words "day of infamy," unaware of how many such days lay ahead. Martin Luther King spoke with still unparalleled eloquence of the need for justice through nonviolence for the African-American people, and especially for the exploited sanitation workers of Memphis. He spoke of the hopes of his people, not only for "long white robes over yonder," but for "suits and dresses and shoes to wear down here." At the end of the speech, he said that he had been "to the mountaintop" and, prophetically, "I’ve seen the promised land. I may not get there with you," but even so "mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord." Now 34 years after his death, our nation must again "listen to him," and heed his message to follow the nonviolent quest for racial and social justice. His life, like that of Jesus, ended in a brutal and violent death. During this Lent, when violence and injustice are so much part of the air we breathe, we are challenged again to listen to both of these prophetic voices.

Lent developed backwards from a celebration of the paschal triduum, when the catechumens were baptized and admitted to the Eucharist. The Good Friday and Easter Vigil fast was gradually extended to a 40-day fast, and after the conversion of the Roman Empire, with the decline of adult baptism, the season was celebrated as an occasion of conversion for the whole church.

The Old Testament readings recount great events of saving history, especially those that prefigure the Gospel accounts. The first two Sundays of Lent in each cycle recount the testing of Jesus and his transfiguration, which are narrative forms of the hymn in the Letter to the Philippians (2:6-11): that Jesus emptied himself, taking on the form of a slave, even to a slave’s death, but was exalted by God so that every tongue might confess him as Lord. Since this hymn was most likely used very early in the liturgy of Christian baptism, it offered not only a theology of the Christ event, but a pattern to be imitated by Christians.

The traditional description, “Temptation of Jesus,” is misleading, since today we interpret “temptation” to mean enticement to sin. The Greek is better translated “testing” and reflects the Old Testament theme of the testing of righteous people—e.g., Job, the servant in Isaiah 53 and the suffering just person, who though tested by God remains faithful and is called a child of God (Wis. 2:12-20; 5:1-23). Trial or testing also enables good people who undergo undeserved suffering to see in Jesus one who is compassionate and has suffered with them (see Heb. 2:18: “because he himself [Jesus] was tested through what he suffered, he is able to help those who are being tested”).

In contrast to Mark’s brief statement that Jesus was tested by Satan during 40 days in the wilderness, Matthew and Luke have dramatic descriptions, derived from an earlier source, that reveal their distinctive theologies, which are expressed primarily in the order of the tests by Satan. In Matthew the final test, when Satan offers “all the kingdoms of the world,” takes place on a mountain, as does Jesus’ first great sermon and his final commissioning of the disciples, when he commands them to spread the Gospel to all the world—those very kingdoms offered by Satan.

The testings also evoke the original falling away of humanity in Adam in the Book of Genesis. Satan introduces the first two tests with the phrase, “If you are the Son of God,” which evokes the image of Adam created as a child of God. What the devil proposes to Adam and Eve is immortality and that they will be “like gods.” Though as humans they are created in the image of God, they want to transcend humanity and usurp the power of the Creator. Jesus is then tested to show that he is Son by startling demonstrations of divine power: turning stones into bread, having command over the angels. Jesus, whom Paul will call the last Adam, reverses the sin of Adam.

Though called in Matthew “God With Us” from his birth, as the Gospel unfolds Jesus will not manifest his equality with God by demonstrations of self-serving power, but appears as “a glutton and a drunkard, a friend of tax collectors and sinners” (Mt. 11:19), as the servant who will not break the bruised reed (12:20). He draws to himself those who labor and are burdened—not by overweening power, but because he is meek and humble of heart (11:29). By accepting the fullness of humanity, Jesus is truly the Son of God.

This Lent would be a good time to reflect on the massive horrors that have resulted over the last century from the quest for unlimited power, that originating sin that strives for control over nature and other people. Christians should cringe every time they hear the refrain that we are “the most powerful (or better, power-filled) nation on earth.” Throughout the world, brutal dictators destroy the resources and spirits of their nations, and our ordinary lives often become miniature arenas of larger power struggles. Sadly, the quest for justice can be corrupted into a struggle for control. In our contemporary church, polarization over liturgical minutiae often represents nothing more than a desire to lord it over others.

Jesus resisted this primal temptation toward misuse of power, while emptying himself so that we could experience true power: liberation from the fear of death through his Passion and Cross; confidence that even when we are of little faith, we can hear his words, “Take courage; it is I; do not be afraid” (14:27); openness to see his presence not in the “kingdoms of the world in their magnificence,” but in the least of his brothers and sisters (25:31-46).

Lent is about to dawn, and today’s readings are a wake-up call. Even on a bleak February day, the readings are suffused with images of light. Twice the prophet of Second Isaiah tells the people that their light shall break forth like the dawn or rise in the darkness. It is not the light of victories in war or of resplendent worship, but giving bread to the hungry, sheltering the homeless and removing from their midst the malicious speech that can destroy a community. The psalm heralds the person who is gracious, merciful and just and gives to the poor. Such a one is a light in the darkness, and Jesus tells his disciples that they are the salt of the earth and the light of the world.

Images of light span the Bible. After the wind swept over the formless void, the first words spoken by God in the Bible are, Let there be light, and God saw how good the light was. The Book of Revelation ends when God will give light to his servants forever (22:5). In a modern city, where technology can turn night into day, the contrast between light and darkness loses its force. In Jesus’ time, darkness came suddenly, enveloping the whole land. Only with the help of light from a lampstand do the faces of others become visible. Light becomes a beacon to guide a travel-weary pilgrim; its faint glimmer signals the beginning of a new day.

A follower of Jesus is to be all of these, and Matthew tells us how this will happen. This section follows the Beatitudes, which describe the values to which a disciple should aspire, and it precedes the contrast statements that describe the higher form of justice evoked by Jesus: renunciation of anger, marital integrity, honesty in speech, breaking the cycle of violence and forgiving enemies. At the Second Vatican Council, echoing Isaiah and this Gospel, the bishops began their reflection on the church by calling it a light for the nations (lumen gentium). This description remains a mandate for every follower of Christ to live those values expressed in the Sermon on the Mount, and so become a beacon of hope for others and perhaps signal the dawn of a new day. Lent provides a time to reflect on this mission.

As a newly ordained priest I was working with a military chaplain at a base in Germany. As we prepared for Ash Wednesday, he told me not to distribute the ashes after the homily (the usual time) but to wait until the end of Mass. In his experience great numbers would come to church simply for the ashes and leave once they were smudged. His wisdom proved true; puzzled people huddled in the aisles, waiting throughout the eucharistic prayer. Ashes on the forehead have become the once-a-year public signature for most Catholics.

And yet for ordinary people this gesture symbolizes a profound truth. When confronting the crises of life, they realize that the church offers signs of hope, as we all acknowledge that we are dust and to dust we shall return. In his important work The Denial of Death, the psychiatrist Ernest Becker noted that by not entering into the mystery of death people waste their lives on palliatives. A man in his 90’s, bent over with arthritis, walks slowly down the aisle, and a lively little five-year-old girl skips out of church, both carrying their credentials as ambassadors of reconciliation, a smudge that is a sign of the mystery of death and a promise of victory over it.

Lent is not simply 40 days of repentance or change of heart in preparation for Easter, but the beginning of a pilgrimage that moves through the paschal mystery and continues 50 days to Pentecost. The readings summon us to a return to a God who is slow to anger and rich in mercy, who gives back the joy of salvation and sustains a willing spirit (Ps. 51) and who knows how our hearts can turn quietly to him. Paul summons Christians to be ambassadors of reconciliation, because God made him who did not know sin to be sin, so that in him we might become the very holiness of God. Paul says that as we are reconciled to God we enter an acceptable time, a day of salvation. This is the ultimate reason why people should stay (willingly, I would hope) for the whole eucharistic liturgy. The signed foreheads signal a journey of renewal through death to all that wrenches us from love of God and neighbor, to the joy of victory over death at Easter and hope for continuing life in the Spirit, when the dust of death shall be no more.

She would have been a good woman,’ the Misfit said, if it had been someone there to shoot her every day of her life’so ends Flannery O’Connor’s celebrated story A Good Man Is Hard to Find. Like the Old Testament prophets and the parables of Jesus, O’Connor’s often grotesque stories shock readers into seeing reality in a new way. The story begins simply, The Grandmother didn’t want to go to Florida, and recounts the car trip that is detoured by the grandmother, who wakes from a nap at Toomsboro and promises the children a visit to an old plantation with secret panels. The reluctant father agrees and takes a detour, but the car crashes and turns over on a winding dirt road. The narrative moves from the comic to the tragic. A trio of escaped convicts led by the Misfit comes along and proceeds to murder the family (offstage, as in a Greek tragedy). As she realizes that death looms, the grandmother becomes kind and compassionate, finally saying to the Misfit, Why, you’re one of my babies. You’re one of my own children! Without a word the Misfit shoots her and praises her as a good woman.

Jesus’ saying, Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand, carries the same urgency. The way God rules, or is about to be revealed in Jesus, presents a life-and-death situation that causes people to reconsider their lives. This initial proclamation of Jesus anchors one part of an arch that extends through the Gospel of Matthew to Jesus’ concluding discourse to his disciples. The master returns suddenly to punish carousing servants (Mt. 25:41-51); the 10 bridesmaids do not have time to buy oil to replenish their lamps and hear the ominous words, I do not know you. The beginning and the end of the Gospel herald the crisis brought by the presence of God’s reign, warning that it may be too late!

Repentance is not simply an emotion, a feeling of sorrow. It means taking a second look at our lives. As appalling as have been the murder of innocent people in recent months, and as ghastly as are the murders by the Misfit, events can summon our nation to a second look at our values and lives. Tragedy and trash are only a click of the TV remote control away, and the world community often becomes the disposal bin. Michael Amaladoss, S.J., commenting in these pages (12/10/01) on how religion can address world conflict, argued that religion must challenge the practices and values that undergird social and economic structures and can foment injustice. He proposed that every crisis, even the crisis of 9/11, is an opportunity and concluded, In short, we need a conversion. What a strange combination of voices calls out to us: the Misfit; Jesus, who often does not fit in with people’s expectation; and a learned Indian theologian who has often sent ripples of concern through the hierarchy. What does this conversion involve? Stay tuned as the journey through Matthew’s Gospel continues.

The first of Matthew’s five great discourses begins with an elegant and poetic set of blessings on those specially favored by God. The first four speak of passive sufferers, the poor, the mourners, the gentle but strong (meek) and those starving and thirsting for justice. Keep in mind that Christian meekness is not a divinely sanctioned theology of Casper Milquetoast, since Moses is described as the meekest of men. It is the strength that comes from nonviolent commitment.

The second set praises those actively engaged in responding to God, people of integrity (clean of heart), the merciful (a major theme of Matthew), peacemakers and those who are persecuted in the quest for justice, even if they do not achieve it. Both sets significantly end with a concern for justice.

In describing those attitudes and actions, which bring God’s blessing, I have used justice rather than righteousness. The latter suggest personal piety and represents a religious patois that limits the impact of the Beatitudes. Imagine, for example, a Righteousness Department, or a Minister of Righteousness. Justice evokes rather the Old Testament motif of individuals and a community who are in proper relationship to God and neighbor. This is possible because of God’s gift manifest in the liberation from Egypt and in the Sinai covenant. The Beatitudes take up again the great prophetic concern for justice and also anticipate the final words of Jesus, which declare the just blessed again, because they responded to the sufferings of their neighbors (Mt. 25:31-45).

Another problem in interpreting the Beatitudes is a radical eschatological reading. The first and last Beatitudes promise the kingdom to the poor and those persecuted for justice, and the others speak of a future reward that parallels the attitudes of those blessed: the nonviolent meek will inherit the land, and the merciful will receive mercy. The future dimension is clear, but it is not necessarily an otherworldly future. For Matthew the arrival of Jesus and his proclamation of God’s kingdom creates the conditions by which the world can be changed. The promise to the poor in spirit and those who are persecuted for justice, that the kingdom of heaven is yours, might better be translated as on your side or for you.

The Gospel today, last Sunday and this coming Sunday lead us quietly into a Lenten journey of conversion and renewal. The dispositions and actions praised today by Jesus provide an alternate vision to contemporary, destructive attitudes and trends. Paul realized this when he said that God chose the foolish and weak of this world to shame the wise and the strong. Are Jesus’ praises and Paul’s declarations really too much for a contemporary church to believe? We give thanks that Lent comes every year.