When Glory meets Change (Matthew 17:1-9)

The story of the Transfiguration takes place between two of Jesus’ predictions of his suffering and death. It stands like a radiant pause between announcements of impending change. Change frames this entire story, and perhaps that is the first lesson for us. Change, whether on the mountaintop of joy or in the valley of the shadow of death, is not optional. It is the landscape of every human life. In times of change, many voices begin to speak. Some come from outside us, commentators, critics, pundits, and prophets of doom. Others rise from within, fear, self-doubt, regret, second guessing, blame, and denial. Some voices urge us to run and hide, while others tell us to fight and control. Some demand explanations, and others insist that everything is ending. The noise can be overwhelming and confusing. Yet in the Transfiguration there is only one voice that truly matters. From the bright cloud comes the voice of God saying, “This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased; listen to him.” In the midst of change, we are invited to listen, not to every anxious whisper, but to Christ. When we listen to him, we begin to see that no change has the final word over our lives.

 

Listening, however, is only the beginning. When the disciples fall to the ground overwhelmed with fear, Jesus comes to them, touches them, and says, “Get up.” The word he uses carries the echo of resurrection. This is not simply a command to stand on their feet. It is a promise that fear will not define them and that what feels like an ending is not the end. We all know changes that knock us down. Loss, illness, failure, shattered expectations, and global crises can leave us disoriented and unsure of who we are or where we are going. Sometimes the change itself is not clearly good or bad; it simply unsettles us. We lose our footing and wonder whether life as we knew it has ended. Into those very circumstances Christ comes to us as well. He touches us in our confusion and says, “Be raised.” Life may have changed, but it has not ended. New life is often hidden within the very place that feels like loss. God does not necessarily cause the changes that wound us, but God wastes nothing. Every circumstance can become material for resurrection.

 

Suffering, as painful as it is, has a mysterious capacity to draw us into oneness. We see it at gravesides and in times of communal tragedy. For a moment, divisions fall away and we remember that we belong to one another. The image of a crucified God reveals a profound truth that God does not stand apart from human suffering but enters into it in solidarity. Not only for us but with us. We do not carry pain alone, and in truth we cannot. There are two great paths by which the human soul comes to God, the path of great love and the path of great suffering. In the end they are the same path. To love deeply is to risk suffering, and to suffer honestly is to discover the depth of love. Still, the disciples cannot remain on the mountain. Jesus leads them back down into the ordinary world, into healing, teaching, confronting injustice, and ultimately walking toward the cross. When Jesus tells them not to speak of what they have seen, perhaps it is because glory cannot be borrowed from someone else’s story. It must be lived. Each of us must climb our own mountain. Each of us must experience our own transfiguration. And each of us must walk back down into the world carrying that light into daily life.

 

-        Lilly Pushpam PBVM

 

In the Wilderness of Identity (Matthew 4:1-11)

Every year, as Lent begins, the Church leads us into the wilderness with Jesus through the story in the Gospel of Matthew 4:1–11. We often speak of three temptations, but beneath the three lies a fourth temptation - the one that runs through them all. The temptation to doubt who he is. “If you are the Son of God…” Those words echo not only in the wilderness but later at the cross: “If you are the Son of God, come down.” The question is between Jesus and himself. The primary temptation we all face is to doubt our divine identity. The evil one does not need to make us evil; he only needs to make us unsure of who we are.

 

The first temptation is about misusing power. It is the temptation to prove ourselves by being spectacular, impressive, important. We want to be noticed. We want to do something extraordinary so that others will see us and say, “You matter.” But Jesus refuses. He will not use power to prove his worth. The second temptation is about misusing religion. It is the temptation to play games with God. To make faith transactional instead of transformational. “If I do this, God must do that.” But Jesus refuses to manipulate the Father’s love. He will not turn trust into a spectacle. The third temptation is the temptation to secure identity through control and dominance. Power itself is not evil. There must be ways to use it for good. But until we are tested, and until we no longer need power to validate ourselves, we will almost always misuse it. If we are not grounded in who we are, we will end up worshiping power just to have it.

 

The fourth temptation is universal. Our greatest struggles are between us and ourselves. Before I betray you, I betray myself. Before I compromise outwardly, I disconnect inwardly. How often have we tried to turn stones into bread - not literally, but by trying to prove ourselves? How often have we thrown ourselves from emotional pinnacles, testing whether we are truly loved? How often have we bowed to lesser powers in exchange for approval, recognition, or security? we are tempted daily to prove we are enough. Temptations reveal where we are hungry. They uncover our wounds. They show us where we seek validation, where we grasp for control, where we doubt, we are loved. They are diagnostic. They can become doorways to healing. When we are in touch with our deepest identity and value, we remain true to ourselves. When we lose touch with that identity, we betray ourselves.

 

The wilderness is an initiation. It teaches us to clarify who we are and whose we are. It invites us to ask: What are my temptations teaching me about myself? It would be tempting to say, “Well, he’s Jesus.” As if he had an advantage we do not. But that too is a subtle betrayal. What if we approached our temptations as invitations to deeper self-knowledge and wholeness? What if every temptation became a moment to remember: I am beloved. So, this Lent, let us not waste a good temptation. Let us enter the wilderness honestly. Let us listen to what our struggles reveal.

 

- Lilly Pushpam PBVM 

 

The Undivided Heart (Matthew 5:17-37)

There is something both deeply unsettling and deeply hopeful about today’s Gospel because Jesus refuses to let us stay on the surface of things. He will not allow us the comfort of appearances, the safety of rule keeping without relationship, or the illusion that we can live divided lives one on the inside, and another on the outside. We know what that divided life looks like. "You have heard that it was said"… but I say to you. With those words Jesus does not abolish the law, rather, he reveals its deepest meaning. He takes what was written on stone tablets and writes it into human hearts, drawing us back to the God who gave the law in the first place as a path to life. From the beginning what has been at stake is not rule keeping but relationship, not compliance, but communion, not appearances but wholeness. God’s law was never meant to be an end in itself. It was meant to guard what is fragile human life, human dignity, human connection. Because of that Jesus names what we would rather not name. He speaks of anger that murders relationships long before any weapon is lifted, of words that kill through insult, contempt, and dismissal of desires that reduce people to objects of truth that is bent or shaded. He shows us that we can look righteous and still be deeply divided.

 

And what we refuse to face within ourselves will inevitably spill outward onto spouses friends, coworker’s,strangers,even enemies,. In the deep heart of our lives we find love and anger, faithfulness and betrayal, compassion and indifference, forgiveness and condemnation. We find wounds we have not tended, desires we have not named, grief we have buried, and longings we barely admit even to ourselves. And yet God already knows all of it. Nothing is hidden from the One who created us. Jesus is not trying to shame, us he is trying to make us whole. He is calling us to live undivided lives where our yes is truly yes, and our no is truly no, now here our inner life and outer life speak the same language. This is why Jesus is so critical of the scribes and Pharisees. They mastered compliance but lost connection. They kept the rules but forgot the relationship. They knew the law but missed the heart of God. So when Jesus tells us not to harbour hateful anger or call people fool or worthless . he is not merely giving moral advice. He is revealing a spiritual reality. If we walk around all day thinking, What idiots  we are ,we are not living out of life we are living out of death. What lives in our hearts shapes the world we create around us. How we live in our hearts is our deepest truth.

Teresa of Avila offers a simple image. She says the soul is like a great castle and most of us live in the outer rooms,busy ,respectable, and distracted while God waits for us at the centre. God is not absent. We are simply afraid to go inside. Yet when our inner life is rooted in God, our outer life will bear the fruit of the kingdom. And that is where true freedom, true wholeness and true life are found.

 

- Lilly Pushpam PBVM

 

Already Salt, Already Light (Matthew 5:13 - 16)

When we are asked, “Who are you?” most of us answer with our name. Maybe we add where we come from, something about our family, our work, or how we spend our time. Rarely-if ever-do we say, “I am the salt of the earth. I am the light of the world.” In today’s Gospel from the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus looks out over the crowds and says plainly, “You are the Salt of the earth… You are the Light of the world... You are the City built on the hilltop...” He does not say this to a select few or to spiritual elites. He speaks to ordinary people who have come from everywhere. They come searching for healing, meaning, direction, and purpose. They come carrying wounds, hopes, questions, and longings. We are standing in that same crowd. We come for the same reasons. And to us, here and now Jesus says the same words: You are salt. You are light. This is our identity we must grow into someday. Jesus does not say we should become salt or strive to be light. He says we already are. We already possess what we need. The question is not whether we are salt and light, but whether we will live as such.

To be named salt and light carries real implications. Salt exists to flavour, to preserve, to transform what it touches. Light exists to reveal, to guide, to push back darkness. If we truly are salt and light, then our lives are meant to make God visible in the world. We are meant to help others taste goodness and see hope. We are meant to illuminate places of fear, injustice, loneliness, and despair. This week’s Gospel calls us to be God-givers, God-sharers. What Christ has poured into us is not meant to stay contained. The salt placed in our hands is meant to be sprinkled on the world. The light filling our hearts is meant to shine outward. And this calling is deeply practical.

It looks like meeting another person’s eyes and speaking a kind word—especially to those we have labelled or dismissed. Being generous with our compassion, our time, and our resources for the poor, the hungry, and the homeless. Initiating reconciliation when indifference, pain, or anger would be easier. Praying for those who differ from us, disagree with us, or have wounded us and sincerely asking God to bless them. Choosing faithfulness and presence over speed, efficiency, and productivity. Being vulnerable instead of defensive, self-giving instead of self-protection.

If we do not flavour the world with Christ, we become salt that has lost its saltiness. If we do not illuminate darkness, we become light hidden under a basket. The issue is not belief alone, but congruence—whether our inner life and outer life reflect one another. Faith that remains private and disconnected from how we live is incomplete. Perhaps we are called to spend less time speaking about God and more time doing the truth of God. The world needs flavour. It needs light. It needs you and me. When we live this way, we discover something surprising: our own souls are healed, our lives are rebuilt. And in that place, God stands before us and says, “Here I am.” So, the question before us is simple and searching: Where is the salt in your life being tasted? Where is your light breaking through the darkness?

- Lilly Pushpam PBVM