The Transfiguration “Glow Up”: From Mountaintop Faith to Christian Service in the World

 2 Sunday Lent

In the Transfiguration, the disciples witness Christ’s radiant “glow up,” a glimpse of his divine glory and a preview of the resurrection. Yet the mountaintop is not a place to remain, but a moment of preparation that strengthens them to follow Jesus down into lives of service and sacrifice. When Christians encounter the transfigured Lord, they are sent into their families, communities, and civic life to help bring the light of Christ to the world.

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One of the privileges I have had as a priest is serving at times as a high school chaplain. Some years ago, I was visiting a Catholic high school in Vancouver. I would usually walk the halls once a week, greeting students and wishing them good morning. On one particular visit, I had just had my hair cut a few days earlier. As I walked down the hallway, a student called out, “Hey, Father Nick, nice glow up.”

It took me a moment to understand what that meant. If you are not fluent in Gen Z vocabulary, a “glow up” refers to a significant and positive transformation in someone’s appearance, confidence, or overall life. It suggests improvement, growth, and renewal.

We all appreciate a good glow up.

In today’s Gospel from St. Matthew, Peter’s response to Jesus’ transfiguration is very understandable. Jesus takes Peter, James, and John up a high mountain. In the Scriptures, mountains are places of encounter with God. It is there that Jesus is transfigured. His face shines like the sun, and his clothes become dazzling white. Moses and Elijah appear with him, representing the Law and the Prophets. In this moment, the fullness of salvation history converges. The disciples see a glimpse of Christ’s divine glory. It is, in many ways, a preview of the resurrection.

Peter responds as many of us would. “Lord, it is good that we are here. If you wish, I will make three tents.” He wants to stay. He wants to preserve the moment.

Mountaintop experiences are powerful. We experience them in prayer, on retreat, in moments of deep peace, in the beauty of creation, in the kindness of others. There are times when following Jesus brings clarity and joy, when life makes sense in the light of faith. These moments are real gifts. They strengthen us and remind us of who Christ truly is.

At the same time, the mountain is not the final destination.

After the transfiguration, the voice of the Father is heard: “This is my beloved Son. Listen to him.” As the Gospel unfolds, we learn what listening to Jesus means. He will speak about taking up the cross. He will walk toward Jerusalem. He will suffer and die. The mountain is preparation, not conclusion. It gives the disciples strength for the long journey ahead.

When they come down from the mountain, Jesus returns to the work of teaching, healing, and serving. The vision of glory does not remove him from the world’s needs. It sends him more deeply into them.

The same is true for us. Our faith is not meant to be an escape from ordinary life. The moments of consolation we receive are meant to strengthen us for mission. We are not called to remain in tents on the mountain. We are called to descend into the everyday realities of family life, friendships, workplaces, and our wider community.

The world does not need disciples who remain only in places of comfort and inspiration. It needs disciples who carry the light of Christ into concrete situations. When we encounter the transfigured Lord, we are invited to reflect his love in acts of service, in concern for our neighbour, in building up the common good, in contributing to a more just and compassionate society.

Christ loves every person. If we love him, we must also love those he loves.

The transfiguration is a gift of hope. It reveals that glory is the final word, even when the path leads through the cross. During this Lenten journey, we pray not only to glimpse the light of Christ, but also to receive the courage to follow him down the mountain. Strengthened by his grace, we are sent into the world to bring his love, his mercy, and his transforming light to others.

From Adam to Christ: A Lenten Journey of Hope

 1 Sunday of Lent, Year A

As the Church celebrates the Rite of Election and accompanies those preparing for Baptism, Lent invites all the faithful to rediscover the meaning of their own baptismal identity. The readings contrast Adam and Christ, reminding us that while we share in humanity’s woundedness, we are being transformed into the likeness of Christ, the new Adam. This season calls us to live both compunction and joy, honestly facing our need for conversion while trusting in the mercy that leads us toward Easter hope.

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This 1st Sunday of Lent at Holy Rosary Cathedral, an important celebration will take place: the Rite of Election. Each year at the cathedral, the Archbishop gathers those adults who are preparing to enter the Catholic Church at the Easter Vigil. This year, Archbishop Smith will greet, welcome, and bless them as they continue their journey toward Baptism and full communion. The cathedral will be filled with catechumens, candidates, their sponsors, and members of RCIA programs from across the archdiocese who have accompanied them with prayer and encouragement.

In our own parish, we have much to give thanks for. Seventeen catechumens are preparing to be baptized at the Easter Vigil, and ten candidates, already baptized in another Christian tradition, are preparing to enter into full communion with the Catholic Church. Tomorrow, they will be called forward and chosen, their names inscribed as a sign of the Church’s confidence in God’s work within them.

It is helpful to keep this Rite of Election in mind as we begin Lent. In the early Church, these forty days were a particularly intense time of preparation for those awaiting Baptism. Lent was first and foremost their season. After the Rite of Election, they entered into a period of prayer, fasting, and instruction as they prepared to die and rise with Christ in the waters of Baptism. That remains true today.

Lent, then, is not only about personal improvement. It is about Baptism. As we accompany those preparing to enter the Church, we are also called to renew and deepen our own baptismal identity. We are invited to remember who we are and to rediscover the story into which we have been baptized.

In the readings today, especially in the first reading and in Saint Paul’s letter, we are presented with a striking contrast between Adam and Christ. These two figures shape the Christian understanding of our story. We descend from Adam, yet through Baptism we are joined to Christ. We carry something of both within us.

In Genesis, we hear of Adam and Eve in the garden, created in the image and likeness of God, endowed with extraordinary dignity. Yet through disobedience, their relationships were fractured: with God, with one another, and even with creation itself. Saint Paul reminds us that this woundedness touches all humanity. We share in that brokenness. Each of us knows, if we are honest, that we struggle. None of us are perfect.

Yet this is not a message of despair. It is the context for hope. Saint Paul proclaims that Jesus Christ is the new Adam, the one who comes to undo what was done in the beginning. Where Adam gave in to temptation, Christ remained faithful. In the Gospel, Jesus is tempted in the wilderness but does not fall. He lives fully our humanity, yet without sin.

Through Baptism, we are joined to him. The transformation has begun, even if it is not yet complete. We still feel within ourselves the pull of the old Adam, but we are being conformed more and more to Christ. The fullness of that transformation will come at the resurrection.

One of the most powerful images of this mystery is found in the ancient icon known as the Harrowing of Hell. In it, Christ descends to the realm of the dead and takes Adam and Eve by the hand, lifting them up and drawing them toward the Father. It is a vivid expression of what Saint Paul describes: Christ entering into our brokenness in order to raise us up.

This is the story into which we have been baptized. It is the story Lent invites us to remember.

Traditionally, Lent has been described as a season marked by two realities that exist together: compunction and joy. Catholic faith is often a matter of both and.

Compunction is a word we do not use often. It describes the sorrow we feel when we recognize that we have done wrong. It is the honest awareness that something in us needs healing. On Ash Wednesday, we heard the words, “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” Lent places our lives in perspective. We remember that we are finite. We acknowledge our need for mercy.

Like Jesus in the wilderness, we enter a place of testing and reflection. The wilderness is a place of struggle, but also of renewal. Israel passed through the wilderness on the way to the Promised Land. During Lent, we ask ourselves: Where am I falling short? What habits need to change? Where is God inviting me to grow?

Yet we do not remain in sorrow alone. Lent makes sense only in light of Easter. We do not approach a harsh judge, but a Savior who understands our weakness. Christ does not expose our wounds in order to condemn us, but in order to heal us.

As we begin this Lenten season, let us pray for both compunction and joy. Let us ask for the grace to see clearly where we need conversion, and at the same time to trust deeply in the mercy of Christ.

Perhaps during this Mass, each of us can identify one area where the Lord is inviting growth. Then let us turn our gaze toward Jesus, the new Adam, who has come not to leave us in our brokenness, but to raise us up and transform us into his likeness.

Crossing the Bridge: Lent as a Courageous Step Toward New Life

 Ash Wednesday

The closing of the Pattullo Bridge reminds us how easy it is to cling to what is familiar, even when we know a new and better path is needed. Lent is an invitation to step away from habits and patterns that are no longer life-giving and to embrace prayer, generosity, and sacrifice with renewed sincerity of heart. Through the symbol of ashes, we are reminded that what seems like an ending can become the beginning of new life when we trust Christ to lead us forward.

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On Monday, I had the opportunity to walk across the Pattullo Bridge one last time. As you know, the Pattullo Bridge is now closed and will soon be taken apart. In its place, a new bridge has been built: the stal̕əw̓asəm Bridge. It was a wonderful opportunity to cross that familiar span one final time. Perhaps some of you had the chance to do the same. If not, I am afraid the opportunity has passed.

What made the experience especially moving was what people had written in chalk along the bridge. Some messages were humorous: “R.I.P. Pattullo Bridge.” Others were heartfelt: “Thank you for your service,” or simply a heart with the words, “We will miss you.” Someone had even placed flowers there. It was clear that people felt attached to this bridge, this path that for decades connected New Westminster and Surrey. I saw someone interviewed on television who spoke about all the times they had crossed that bridge to visit family members, some of whom have since passed away. Of course there is nostalgia. Of course there is a certain hesitation about letting it go.

Yet in the midst of that nostalgia, we can forget something important: we needed a new bridge. Driving across the old one could be rather perilous. Some of you may remember having your mirrors clipped by passing trucks. Others may recall the netting installed underneath to catch pieces of concrete that might otherwise have fallen onto cars below. As much as we might feel sentimental, we needed a safer, stronger way forward.

Ash Wednesday, as we begin Lent, is something like that moment of crossing from the old bridge to the new. It is an opportunity to leave one path behind and take another. Often the path we cling to is familiar. It may even have served us well for a time. But deep down, we know that some habits, patterns of behaviour, or ways of relating to others are no longer life-giving. We sense that God is calling us to something new, something better, even if it feels uncertain or demanding.

In the Gospel, Jesus speaks about prayer, almsgiving, and fasting. These are not simply religious exercises. They are concrete ways of stepping onto that new bridge. Prayer deepens our relationship with God. Almsgiving reflects our love and generosity toward others. Fasting helps us let go of what does not truly nourish us, whether that be food or other attachments that distract or diminish us. Above all, Jesus reminds us that what matters is the heart. These practices are meant to be rooted in authenticity, in love of God and love of neighbour.

When I was younger, I used to dread Lent. It felt like a season of deprivation. We put ashes on our foreheads and speak about repentance. It can sound heavy. But the older I get, the more I recognize a simple truth: change is difficult. It is difficult for me, and I suspect it is difficult for all of us. We can see clearly where we need to grow, and yet taking that first step can feel daunting.

That is why Lent is a blessed season. It is a time when, as a community, we focus together on the changes to which God is calling us. We do not attempt this on our own. We trust that Christ gives us the grace and strength we need. The ashes we receive today are a sign of that grace.

These ashes come from the palms we held on Palm Sunday. Those palms once symbolized Christ’s triumphant entry into Jerusalem. Over time they dried and withered. Now they are burned and transformed into ash. What once seemed finished is given new meaning.

Ash can seem like a symbol of destruction, but it is also a sign of new life. After a forest fire, the landscape may look devastated. Yet the ash returns nutrients to the soil, and in time new growth emerges. What appears to be an ending becomes the beginning of something new.

So too in our lives. Lent invites us to let certain things die so that something better can grow. Leaving old paths behind is not easy. Taking a new bridge, a new direction, requires courage. But we do not do it alone. We walk this journey together, strengthened by Christ.

Like any significant change, what matters most is often the first step. Today, as we receive ashes, we take that step. We step onto the new bridge, trusting that the One who calls us forward will also give us the grace to cross.

From Law to the Heart

 6 Sunday Ordinary Time, Year A

In Matthew 5:17–37, Jesus teaches that he fulfills the law not by adding more rules, but by transforming the human heart, moving from external obedience to interior conversion. In the wake of the Tumbler Ridge tragedy, this Gospel reminds us that healing, reconciliation, and grace begin in the heart. Like the moon reflecting the sun at Lunar New Year, Christians are called to reflect Christ’s light, allowing his grace to renew our hearts and bring hope to a wounded world.

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There are some stereotypes when it comes to being Catholic. One is that Catholics have many commandments and instructions. Another is that Catholics are often burdened with guilt when we do not follow them perfectly. In today’s Gospel, Jesus speaks at length about the commandments, and at first glance it may seem that he is adding even more to our plate.

He tells us, “I have come not to abolish the law but to fulfill it.” He also says, “Unless your righteousness exceeds that of the scribes and Pharisees, you will not enter the kingdom of heaven.” Those are strong words. What does it mean for our righteousness to exceed that of the Pharisees? What does it mean for Christ to fulfill the law?

In the end, Jesus is drawing our attention to the heart. The commandments matter. They guide us in loving God and loving our neighbour. But Jesus has come not simply to reinforce external observance. He has come to change our hearts.

This Gospel comes to us at a difficult moment in our province. Many are struggling with grief and sorrow after the violence in Tumbler Ridge. There is confusion, anger, pain, and mourning. There is a deep need for healing and reconciliation. Into this reality, Jesus speaks about the heart. He comes not to condemn, but to heal and to give hope. He desires to transform what lies at the root of our actions.

In the Gospel, Jesus repeatedly says, “You have heard that it was said,” and he recalls the commandments. Then he adds, “But I say to you.” It is not only about murder, but about anger. It is not only about adultery, but about lust. It is not only about oath-breaking, but about the integrity of our speech.

Jesus is not multiplying rules in order to make us anxious or scrupulous. He is showing us that everything begins in the heart. Violence in the world, whether physical or verbal, does not appear out of nowhere. It begins with resentment, with hatred, with a failure to see the other person’s dignity. It begins in the heart.

Jesus speaks in strong and even startling language. If your hand causes you to sin, cut it off. Of course, he is speaking in hyperbole. He is underscoring how serious our interior life is. Small seeds, if left unattended, can grow into something destructive. Anger can lead to resentment. Resentment can lead to division. Division can lead to conflict.

Yet Jesus is not trying to lead us into despair. He fulfills the law not by giving us more regulations, but by giving us the grace to live what the law intends. The Sermon on the Mount, including the Beatitudes, is impossible without God’s grace. Our hearts are central, and Christ has come to renew them.

This week, many also celebrate the Lunar New Year. In many cultures it marks a hopeful beginning, a chance to look forward with confidence. Even though we celebrate January 1 according to the solar calendar, we are not strangers to lunar rhythms. The Jewish tradition followed a lunar calendar, and even the dating of Easter depends on the cycle of the moon.

The moon has long been a rich symbol in Christian reflection. The sun produces its own light, but the moon shines by reflecting the light of the sun. At times it appears dark, and at other times it is full and radiant. Its light is borrowed light.

This image can help us understand what Christ does in our hearts. He does not ignore the darkness within us, the grief, the anger, the wounds, or the unforgiveness. But when his grace touches us, our hearts are illuminated. Like the moon that begins as a small sliver and gradually grows brighter, our hearts can grow in light when they reflect Christ.

So we return to that question. How can our righteousness exceed that of the scribes and Pharisees? Not by adding more rules. Not by becoming overly scrupulous. Not by being driven by guilt. Our righteousness exceeds when Christ changes our hearts. From the heart flow all our words and actions.

In this Eucharist, we pray especially for those whose hearts are heavy with grief. We pray for healing and peace in our province. We also pray for ourselves, that we may allow Christ to transform us from within. We fall short each day, but with God’s grace we can walk the path set before us.

May the Lord enter our hearts once again and fill them with his light, so that we may reflect his love and peace to the world.

Salt, Light, and Credibility: What Real Christian Witness Looks Like Today

 5 Sunday OT, Year A

In a world filled with loud public claims of Christianity that are not always compelling, Jesus reminds his followers that true witness is measured not by volume or power, but by credibility. Through the images of salt and light, the Gospel shows that Christians are called to draw out the goodness in others and to reveal what is life-giving, without overpowering or dominating. Authentic Christian witness makes God visible not through force or status, but through a quiet presence that enhances goodness and illuminates the path toward Christ.

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Sometimes people suggest that one of the problems Christians face in the world today is that they need to be quiet about their faith, or that they should not really show it to others. Certainly, in some parts of the world, Christians do face persecution, and it is also true that at times people may feel embarrassed or hesitant about practising their faith openly. But despite these challenges, it is difficult to say that Christianity is always quiet in the public sphere. In fact, there are many very loud expressions of Christianity in the world today.

For example, one could argue that the Super Bowl is one of the days of the year when the most prayers are offered. In many sporting events, athletes quite openly make the sign of the cross, whether at the Olympics or the World Cup. In politics as well, we often hear public figures quoting the Bible or referencing the fact that they are Christians and followers of Jesus. Christianity, it seems, is not always subtle or hidden. And yet, these loud expressions are not always compelling. At times, they even push people away.

What seems to be missing is not volume, but credibility. In fact, simply saying that one is Christian can sometimes act less like an announcement of good news and more like a warning sign. Christianity can acquire a bad reputation, not because of the Gospel itself, but because of the way it is sometimes embodied. This is not new. Throughout history, people with power or wealth have often claimed the Christian name while living lives very far from the Gospel. In the early centuries after Christianity was legalized, many Roman emperors called themselves Christians, yet their lives bore little resemblance to Christ. Later, during the Renaissance, some popes, despite being regarded as the vicars of Christ, lived in ways that were deeply scandalous. The same pattern continues today when those in positions of power claim Christianity while offering an example that contradicts the message of Jesus.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus seems to anticipate this problem. He offers two simple but profound images that show us what credible Christian witness looks like: salt and light. Both images point to a way of being present in the world that is not forceful or domineering, but transformative in a quieter and more authentic way.

Consider first the image of salt. In the time of Jesus, salt was extremely valuable. The word salary itself comes from the fact that Roman soldiers were sometimes paid with salt. Salt was used to preserve food, to disinfect wounds, and, as today, to enhance flavour. It is this last use that is especially helpful. When used properly, salt draws out the goodness of what is already there. But too much salt can ruin a dish.

I remember when I was in elementary school becoming interested in cooking and baking, long before you could look everything up online. I once attempted to make meringue, those baked desserts made from whipped egg whites and sugar. The recipe called for just a small amount of salt, but I misunderstood what that meant and added far too much. The result was inedible and had to be thrown away. Salt, when it overpowers, destroys rather than enhances.

The same can be true of Christian witness. When Christianity becomes overbearing or dominating, it ceases to be attractive. There are forms of Christianity that imply that believers are better than others or that seek to control rather than serve. This is not credible witness. To be salt in the world means helping to draw out the goodness already present in others, helping people recognize the dignity and goodness with which God has created them.

The image of light carries a similar meaning. Today we take light for granted. We simply flip a switch. In the ancient world, light was precious and difficult to come by. Yet light, too, can be misused. I was driving recently on a rainy evening when a car approached from the opposite direction with extremely bright headlights. They were so intense that they actually made it harder to see. Good light, however, does the opposite. It illuminates the path, reveals direction, and allows us to move safely.

Light should never blind. It should reveal. Think of a sunrise. Gradually, what was hidden in darkness becomes visible, and the beauty of creation emerges. When Jesus calls us light, he is inviting us to live in a way that reveals goodness, that helps others see both the path forward and the beauty already present in their lives. Christian witness should illuminate, not overwhelm. It should guide, not dominate.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus invites us to reflect seriously on what kind of witnesses we are. When people think of a Christian, what comes to mind? Someone who claims faith but contradicts it in practice, or someone whose presence brings out goodness, sheds light, and quietly points toward God?

As we continue with this Mass and enter the coming week, perhaps one final question is worth considering. Imagine that someone encounters you this week and knows that you are a Christian. Imagine, in fact, that you are the only Christian they ever meet. What kind of picture of Christ would your life give them?

The Paradox of Blessedness: Finding Fulfilment Through the Beatitudes

 4 Sunday of Ordinary Time, year A

Jesus’ Beatitudes challenge our usual ideas of success by revealing that true blessedness is not found in comfort or status, but in right relationship with God and with one another. Even in poverty, grief, or struggle, a person can experience deep fulfilment through trust in God and a life shaped by self-giving love. Lived out in the Christian community, this paradoxical way of life becomes a powerful witness to the Gospel and a sign of God’s work among us.

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We hear the words of Jesus so often, especially the words we heard in the Gospel today, the Beatitudes, such a familiar and beloved teaching. We can become so accustomed to hearing them that they lose their power to surprise us. And yet, when we listen carefully, the teaching of Jesus, particularly in the Beatitudes, really should shock us. It is strange. It is paradoxical. At first glance, it does not make much sense. Today we are invited to allow ourselves to be surprised once again by the teaching of Christ.

For those who first heard Jesus preach, the Beatitudes would have been deeply unsettling. If we were asked to identify someone who was most blessed in life, we would probably not point to the people Jesus describes. In Jesus’ time, just as in our own, to be blessed meant to be fortunate, fulfilled, and successful. It meant good health, a strong family, financial security, comfort, and perhaps social standing. This is what it meant to live a good life. And yet Jesus turns all of this upside down. He declares blessed the poor, the meek, those who mourn, and those who are persecuted. This is unexpected and unsettling, and it should give us pause.

Jesus is not glorifying suffering for its own sake, nor are Christians meant to seek out hardship. What Jesus teaches in the Beatitudes is that while the good things of life are indeed gifts from God, they are not the final measure of blessedness. Even in the midst of struggle, poverty, grief, or persecution, a person can still be blessed. True beatitude, true fulfilment, comes from living in right relationship with God and in right relationship with one another. When we live in communion with Christ, we can experience blessedness even amid difficulty and struggle.

Jesus often points to children as a model for how we are to relate to God. This truth struck me in a particular way this past Wednesday during our parish PREP program, when we celebrated First Confession for about fifty children, mostly in Grade Two, with some a little older. That evening, I was feeling a bit on edge and distracted, carrying the weight of many concerns. Yet as I listened to these young children make their confessions, something remarkable happened. No matter how heavy my heart may have been, the simple and sincere faith of these children was deeply moving.

In them we see a profound trust in God, a simplicity and directness, and a genuine sense that God is a loving parent who cares for them. This is precisely the relationship Christ invites us into. Each time we pray the Our Father, at Mass and throughout the day, we approach God as children who trust in their Father’s care. When we live with this kind of trust and abandonment to God, we can experience peace, fulfilment, and blessedness even in the midst of life’s struggles.

We also experience this blessedness through right relationship with one another. In the Beatitudes, Jesus gives us a picture of life in the Kingdom of God, a way of living marked by mercy, humility, forgiveness, and generosity. This way of life is sometimes described as the law of the gift, a phrase articulated by figures such as Saint John Paul II. It captures the paradox at the heart of the Beatitudes and of the Christian life itself. At first, this way of living does not seem logical. Yet we discover its truth when we live it. We find our life and our fulfilment precisely when we give our lives as a gift to others, when we serve, forgive, and place the needs of others before our own.

In today’s readings, Saint Paul reminds us that not only the teaching of Jesus but the very life of the Christian community can appear strange to the world. Writing to the Corinthians, Paul explains that God did not choose the powerful or the wise by worldly standards, but those who seemed insignificant. The wisdom of the cross stands in contrast to the wisdom of the world. Historically, many early Christians came from the margins of society, including the poor and the enslaved, people who recognized in the Gospel a message of liberation and hope.

A Roman governor named Pliny, writing around the year 115, described this new movement of Christians to the emperor. He noted that Christians lived within society and contributed to its well being, yet they also lived differently. They shared what they had, refused to deceive or defraud others, and sought to live honest and faithful family lives. Even from the perspective of a pagan observer, their way of life stood out as something unusual and paradoxical.

Today, Jesus once again invites us to be surprised by the strangeness of the Beatitudes. This teaching may appear illogical, but its truth becomes clear when it is lived. As a parish community, we are called to be a place where the Beatitudes are made visible, where this paradoxical blessedness is lived out. May we commit ourselves anew to being people of the Beatitudes, trusting that true joy and fulfilment are found not in the absence of difficulty, but in living in right relationship with God and with one another.