Month: February 2026

Mountain Light

(Gen.12:1-4a; 2Tim.1:8b-10; Mt.17:1-9)

One of the delights of Italy is the Dominican convent of San Marco in Florence.

To inspire quiet reflection, in the 1400s Fra Angelico painted simple, prayerful frescos on the walls of the monks’ cells.

Cell 6 depicts Jesus’ Transfiguration. It shows him standing tall, wearing white and lifting his hands in a blessing. Moses and Elijah flank him, while Peter, James and John have fallen to the ground, overwhelmed by Jesus’ radiant light.

Fra Angelico loved painting inspiring and peaceful images, and this one shows Jesus on Mount Tabor, quietly revealing his true identity as the Son of God. His disciples are stunned to witness his divine glory, and they take this memory with them as they descend the mountain and start facing the challenges of the valley below.

Someone else who was inspired by mountains was St John Paul II. As a young man in Poland, he escaped the grip of Nazi and Communist rule by heading for the hills around Kraków. He often skied, hiked and prayed there.

Later in his life, John Paul II said: ‘The mountains are a place of encounter, where a person is lifted above himself.’

On the mountaintop he got a clear view of his vocation. There, he also discovered the wonder of being called beyond fear. And he learnt how God was shaping him for a mission greater than anything he’d ever imagined.

But he never stayed long in the mountains.

His whole life was a cycle of going up to receive wisdom and strength, and then coming down to serve. He became a living example of the Transfiguration. Filled with light through prayer, he kept descending into the valleys of human suffering, into countries torn by war, into crowds suffering grief, and into hearts where faith had grown thin.

The light he received on his ‘mountains’ became the light he shared with others.

Something similar happened in the early life of St Teresa of Calcutta. Before beginning her ministry in Calcutta, she experienced intense moments of closeness to Jesus Christ.

In 1946, on a train from Calcutta to Darjeeling, she had what she later called ‘a call within a call,’ a profound interior experience of Jesus’ love and his hopes for the poorest of the poor.

Her early years were full of light, as Jesus spoke directly to her heart and gave her a clear sense of purpose.

But then, for decades, she found herself in a deep spiritual darkness and God seemed both silent and far away. And yet, just like the disciples leaving Mount Tabor, her memories of Christ’s light were enough to sustain her through the later valleys.

Her Transfiguration moments didn’t stop her suffering. Rather, they equipped her to walk faithfully through it, carrying the light of Christ into the darkest places on earth.

Every year, on the second Sunday of Lent, the Church always takes us to Mount Tabor for Jesus’ Transfiguration. Why? Because we, too, need clarity for the next part of our journey. We see more clearly from a mountaintop.

Fra Angelico painted Jesus on Mount Tabor for two reasons:

Firstly, to remind us who Jesus truly is – glorious, radiant and divine. Jesus isn’t just a wise teacher; he’s also the Lord of all heaven and earth.

And secondly, to remind us who we are called to become. Lent isn’t just about giving things up. It’s also about being transformed, by letting grace strip away what is false in us so that we can become more like Jesus Christ.

That’s why the disciples become fearful, for transformation can be challenging. And that’s why Peter offers to build tents, because it’s easier to stay on the mountain than face the valley below.

But a voice from the cloud says: ‘This is my beloved Son… listen to Him.’ So, they all follow Jesus off the mountain.

John Paul II left the mountain to confront totalitarianism with hope. Mother Teresa left the mountain to touch Christ in the poorest of the poor. And you and I come down from the mountain each week after receiving the Eucharist. For every Mass is our Tabor. Every Communion is a flash of divine light. And every prayerful encounter with Jesus strengthens us for mission.

But we’re not meant to stay on the mountain. Our task is to carry that light back down into the valley, into our world of sadness and confusion, of conflict and fear.

Fra Angelico’s painting is beautiful.

It reminds us who Jesus truly is, who we are meant to be, and what grace wants to achieve through us.

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Infographic courtesy of Fr Don at thewordthisweek.net:

The Desert Experience

(Gen.7-9, 3:1-7; Rom.5:12-19; Mt.4:1-11)

Every Lent begins with a journey into the desert.

Before Jesus even preaches a word or works any miracles, the Spirit calls him into the wilderness, and there he spends forty lonely days in silence, heat and hunger.

Why does he do that? It’s because the desert is God’s classroom. It’s where God forms the heart, sharpens the soul and prepares his disciples for mission.

Most people avoid the desert; they think it has nothing for them. But they don’t realise that a good desert experience can be the springboard to new life, for three reasons.

Firstly, it offers clarity. This is a point Antoine de Saint-Exupéry makes in his book The Little Prince. Saint-Exupéry was a French author and pilot who knew the deserts of North Africa well.

In The Little Prince, he tells the tale of a pilot who crashes into the Sahara, and there he finds a world of solitude and silence, with none of life’s normal distractions. He also learns what truly matters: love, friendship and seeing beyond the superficial. And the story ends with a powerful statement: that what is essential in life is invisible to the eye.

This insight captures the essence of Lent, because what is truly essential in life can only be understood by the heart. And clarity of heart requires solitude. This is why Jesus goes into the wilderness.

It’s only when the noise stops that we can hear God’s quiet voice.

Another thing the desert offers us is discipline. It teaches us to be strong.

Consider the story of Odysseus in Homer’s classic work, The Odyssey. Odysseus is the legendary king of Ithaca, on his way home from the Trojan Wars. At one point he faces one of his greatest challenges: resisting the temptations of the Sirens.

The Sirens were half-woman, half-bird creatures who lured sailors to their deaths with their irresistible songs. Odysseus orders his crew to plug their ears with beeswax, and he has himself tied to the ship’s mast to restrain him when the temptation starts.

This is a good metaphor for the spiritual life, for we cannot rely on willpower alone. Even holiness needs support.

That’s why Lent gives us the three traditions of prayer, fasting and almsgiving. They are virtual ropes that anchor us firmly to Jesus and keep us safe. Fasting leads to discipline in the body. Prayer leads to discipline in the mind, and generosity leads to discipline in the heart.

These ancient practices aren’t for earning God’s favour. Rather, they help us stay faithful when the Siren song of temptation tries to lure us into the darkness.

And finally, the desert teaches us our mission in life.

St Charles de Foucauld provides a good example here. He was a wealthy young Frenchman who chased adventure, pleasure and fame, but none of that satisfied him. Eventually, God led him to the Tuareg people in the Algerian desert, where he lived in silence, poverty and prayer.

It was there, in that harsh landscape, that he discovered his mission: to imitate the life of Christ in humility and love. And he spent the rest of his life quietly radiating that love among the Muslim people.

The desert had revealed who he was and what God wanted him to be.

The same is true of St Teresa of Calcutta. For decades she found herself caught in a spiritual desert. One might have expected her to give up, but it was there that she discovered her mission: to serve Jesus in the poorest of the poor. And not because she felt his presence, but because she believed in him.

The desert did not break Mother Teresa; it clarified her mission, and her mission changed the world.

So, what can we take from all this today?

The point is that Lent is not about proving our holiness or testing our spiritual toughness. Rather, Lent is our opportunity to learn from the desert. For a good desert experience helps us clarify our identity: who we are, and what God wants of us.

It also helps us acquire some spiritual discipline, by taking on the ancient practices of prayer, fasting and almsgiving.

And finally, the desert helps us discover what really matters in life. Who today needs your attention, your forgiveness, your time, your compassion? Where is God calling you to love more deeply?

A good desert experience will not make you barren. As Jesus found, it will actually make you more fruitful.

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Infographic courtesy of Fr Don at thewordthisweek.net:

Beyond the Bare Minimum

(Ecc.15:15-20; 1Cor.2:6-10; Mt.5:17-37)

I expect we all know someone who likes to say, ‘Well, I haven’t done anything wrong.’

It’s a familiar attitude, as if the whole point of Christian living were simply to avoid the major sins and to stay out of trouble.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus challenges this thinking. He invites us to go beyond the bare minimum, beyond a faith that is defined by ‘not hurting anyone,’ towards a life that centres on the heart.

A heart that truly loves, and not just hands that stay clean.

‘You have heard it said… but I say to you…’ Jesus says. Not just ‘don’t murder,’ but be reconciled. Not just ‘don’t commit adultery,’ but let your heart be pure. Not just ‘don’t swear false oaths,’ but let your whole life be truthful.

Jesus isn’t interested in whether we have ‘done nothing wrong.’ He wants to know whether we have truly learnt how to love.

St John Henry Newman understood this well. He spent his early adult life trying to do everything right, ensuring that every prayer was perfect, every theological idea was correct, and every line of Scripture was precisely analysed.

But then something happened. Through years of prayer and struggle, he realised that Christianity isn’t about avoiding mistakes. It’s about becoming a certain kind of person, a person whose heart has been reshaped by grace.

Newman wrote: ‘Holiness is a habit of the heart; a new way of seeing, a new way of loving.’ It’s a habit of the heart, which means that it’s not merely the things we avoid, but the person we become.

Newman came to see that doing the minimum is not enough – not enough for God or for the dignity of the human soul. So, he followed Jesus into a deeper conversion where motives, desires and intentions form part of discipleship.

Victor Hugo’s story Les Misérables illustrates this well. It contrasts two very different characters: Inspector Javert, who is obsessed with law, order and catching people out, and Jean Valjean, who has been transformed by undeserved mercy.

Inspector Javert obeys every rule meticulously. He has ‘done nothing wrong,’ and yet his heart is cold, rigid and lifeless. He doesn’t understand love at all.

Jean Valjean, however, begins his life in violence, hatred and even crime, but his heart softens after one act of mercy from a bishop. He learns to live with mercy, courage and compassion.

Javert represents the letter of the law, while Valjean embodies the spirit of the law. This is the distinction Jesus makes today.

The Christian life is not about being a moral accountant ticking boxes. It’s about allowing grace to transform our hearts.

Some people worry when they hear this part of the Sermon on the Mount. To them it feels impossible, for how can anyone have totally pure motives? And who can avoid every angry thought?

But Jesus isn’t raising the bar to make our life harder. He’s trying to raise us all to a higher level of existence. He’s calling us into a more beautiful, more human and more courageous way of living.

If you’re the sort of person who tends to say, ‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ ask yourself: Have I done anything right? Have I done anything beautiful? Have I done anything courageous? Have I done anything merciful, or reconciling?

Christianity is not just about the absence of sin; it’s also about the presence of love.

This week, Jesus invites us to look not only at our own behaviour, but also at our intentions: Is there someone I need to reconcile with? Am I still feeling resentful?

Do my words reflect who I truly want to be? And do I live with integrity even when nobody is watching?

St John Henry Newman learnt that Christianity is not a matter of rules, but of growing into the mind and heart of Christ. And that growth always starts with honesty and humility.

But here’s the best part: Jesus isn’t asking us to do this alone. He’s offering us his grace, the power of his Holy Spirit, to help transform us from within.

‘Let me give you a new heart,’ Jesus says. A heart just like his own.

So, our challenge today is to stop saying ‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ and to begin praying, ‘Lord, make my heart like yours.’

For following the rules is not enough, and the bare minimum is never sufficient.

What we need is a grace-filled heart that loves with courage and integrity.  

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Infographic courtesy of Fr Don at thewordthisweek.net:

What About You?

(Is.58:7-10; 1Cor.2:1-5; Mt.5:13-16)

Today, Jesus famously says, ‘You are the salt of the earth… you are the light of the world.’

Note that he doesn’t say ‘you should be salt…’ He says you already are. He spells out our identity before saying what he expects of us.

But why salt and light? Because they are both ordinary, and that’s exactly how God’s kingdom spreads: through the small, steady and faithful action of certain things we all consider very ordinary.

So, what can we learn from salt and light?

Firstly, note that salt doesn’t change food ingredients; it simply enhances what’s already there. In the same way, Christians are meant to be a subtle presence, awakening the goodness that already exists in the people and world around them.

Think of someone you know at work, at home or in your community, who just by their presence makes things better. They don’t have to give speeches or force any change; they simply and quietly bring out the best in others.

This is what Jesus wants us to do: to be the pinch of salt that makes things better.

Secondly, salt has long been used to preserve food from decay. Today, there are many places where conversations, attitudes or relationships can begin to spoil; where negativity, cynicism, or injustice can start to spread.

And sometimes, even without realising it, we become the ones who hold things together. We stop things from decaying. We preserve the truth. We keep things on track. This is what salt does, and what Jesus calls us to do.

Then Jesus talks about light, and light has one essential task: to be visible.

Light is a remarkable thing. It doesn’t panic when darkness approaches. It doesn’t argue with the darkness or resent it. It simply shines, and by shining, it changes the whole room. This is what Christians are called to do.

In a world that often seems dark, confused or unhappy, Christians are meant to shine with a quiet, steady goodness that points people to God. Not showy or loud, but quietly radiant, so that others see something in you that points beyond you.

A good example of this was St Katharine Drexel. She was born in 1858 into one of the richest families in Philadelphia, USA. Her parents believed that their wealth was a blessing from God, and that the poor must always be treated as Christ himself. This wisdom shaped her life.

Katharine felt a deep call to serve people who were overlooked or mistreated, especially Native American and African American families who suffered from poverty, discrimination and poor education.

She could have sent cheques from her mansion, but the Gospel stirred her heart.

In 1887 she visited Pope Leo XIII in Rome, and asked him to send missionaries to help these poor people. He replied by asking, ‘What about you? Why not be a missionary yourself?’ That question changed her life. It reminded her that every person, by virtue of their baptism, is called to help build God’s kingdom.

Katharine then shocked high society by joining a convent, and later founding the Sisters of the Blessed Sacrament. She spent her entire inheritance establishing 145 missions and over 60 schools across the country, building facilities, employing staff, empowering local leaders and pouring out her life in love.

St Katharine Drexel didn’t seek to draw attention to herself. She simply allowed the light of Christ to shine through her, especially into the dark corners of the world.

She was light: visible love in action. And she was salt, preserving human dignity where society let it decay. And she showed that holiness is never about escaping the world; it’s about illuminating it.

Today Jesus tells us that our light must shine in the sight of others, so that, seeing our good works, they may give praise to our Father in heaven.

This is holiness. The goal isn’t to let people think we are wonderful, but to help them see that God is wonderful. Katharine Drexel didn’t shine so that people would admire her. She shone so that people would discover the love of God.

That’s our task, too.

So, this week: let’s try to be salt for someone. Let’s try to bring out the goodness in them by offering a word of praise, a moment of patience or a sincere thank you.

And let’s be light where light is needed, by being kind, calm or forgiving.

We do it not to be noticed, but because light is meant to shine and salt is meant to season.

For we are already the salt of the earth, and light of the world.

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Infographic courtesy of Fr Don at thewordthisweek.net: