There is an inspirational children’s story that may help us understand why the Church gives us the account of the Transfiguration on the 2nd Sunday of Lent. The book is called ‘The Black Stallion.’ It tells of a boy named Alec who survives a shipwreck and finds himself stranded on a deserted island with a wild stallion. Everyone else on the ship, including Alec’s father, is lost. The only thing Alec manages to save is a tiny figurine of Bucephalus, the horse of Alexander the Great—a gift from his father, a reminder of his love. On that island, Alec and the stallion learn to trust one another, to depend on one another, and to survive together. And whenever loneliness or fear closed in, Alec would reach into his pocket, hold that little figurine, and remember his father’s love. It became a lifeline. A small, solid reminder that he was not alone. That he was loved. That he could keep going.
The Gospel story of the Transfiguration is given to us for the very same reason. Matthew tells this story not simply to impress us with a moment of divine glory, but to give the early Christian community something to hold onto—a memory strong enough to sustain them when everything else seemed to fall apart. He uses symbols his Jewish listeners would recognise: the mountain where God is encountered, the cloud that signals God’s presence, Moses and Elijah representing the Law and the Prophets, and the shining face that echoes Moses after meeting God. And then the voice: “This is my beloved Son. Listen to him.”
Matthew places this moment between two others—Jesus’ baptism, where his mission begins, and his passion, where it seems to end in failure. The Transfiguration is a gift given in advance. A memory to carry into the darkness. Even Jesus needed that memory. On the cross he cries out, “My God, my God, why have you abandoned me?” He knows the feeling of desolation from the inside. Yet he dies entrusting himself to the Father whose love he had known so deeply. The mountain prepared him for the valley.
The disciples needed it too. Jesus tells them not to speak of this vision until after he has risen from the dead. In other words: You won’t understand this now. But you will need it later. When they see him betrayed, humiliated, and crucified, they will remember the light on the mountain. They will remember the voice that called him “beloved.” And that memory will save them from despair.
We know this pattern in our own lives. We begin with hope—studies, work, relationships, dreams. Then things shift. A relationship strains. A diagnosis arrives. A job disappears. A loved one suffers. A world event shakes us. And suddenly the God who once felt close feels distant. Prayer becomes difficult. Faith feels thin. We wonder if we’ve been left to fend for ourselves. This is where the Transfiguration speaks directly into our experience. It reminds us that God gives us moments of clarity, moments of consolation, moments of light—not so that we can stay on the mountain, but so that we have something to carry with us when the path becomes steep. Something to reach for when loneliness or fear closes in. Something that whispers, “You are not alone. You are loved. Keep going.”
In the Carmelite tradition, this is familiar territory. Our saints speak of the ebb and flow of consolation, the seasons of light and the seasons of unknowing. They remind us that God is not absent in the darkness; rather, God is drawing us deeper, inviting us to trust beyond what we can see or feel. The Transfiguration is one of those moments of light—given not to shield us from suffering, but to strengthen us to walk through it.
And there is something else. The disciples saw the life of God shining in Jesus. The astonishing truth is that this same divine life is planted within us. It may not dazzle like lightning, but it is real. It shows itself in the quiet, ordinary ways we love: a word of encouragement, a gesture of compassion, a moment of forgiveness, a willingness to listen. These are small transfigurations—glimpses of God’s light breaking through our humanity. They are how we become, for one another, a reminder of God’s presence. They are how we carry the mountain into the valley.
As we journey together in this season of Lent, perhaps the invitation is simple: to remember. To recall the moments in our own lives when God’s presence was unmistakable—however quietly it came. A conversation. A moment of peace. A sense of being held. A time when we knew, even briefly, that we were loved. These memories are not sentimental. They are Bucephalus in the pocket. They are the mountain light. They are what sustain us when the way ahead is uncertain. And perhaps the second invitation is this: to notice where the spark of God’s life is asking to shine through us now. Who needs a word of encouragement? Who needs patience, or gentleness, or forgiveness? Who needs us to be, even in a small way, a reminder that God has not forgotten them?The Transfiguration is not about escaping the world. It is about being strengthened to walk back down the mountain and face it with courage. It is God whispering to us: Hold onto this. You will need it. And you are not alone.
As you continue through Lent, what memory of God’s presence do you need to carry with you? And where might God be inviting you to become a small light for someone else?
Paul Jenkins O.Carm
