Transfiguration – A Contribution in Homiletics

Transfiguration by Giordano

With the Feast of the Transfiguration quickly approaching on the 6th of August 2025, the Church draws us upward to the mountaintop, where the glory of the Lord breaks through veil and shadow. It is a feast of light, not the gentle shimmer of dawn but the blazing brilliance of unveiled divinity. Here, in the company of Peter, James, and John, we behold the Son in splendour—His face shining like the sun, His garments glistening white. The Gospel tells the tale with trembling awe: “And He was transfigured before them” (Matthew 17:2).

But this is no theatrical display, no celestial interruption for dramatic effect. As Patrick Schreiner reminds us in his penetrating work, ‘The Transfiguration of Christ’, this moment on the mount is not a parenthesis in the Gospel narrative—it is its crescendo. Jesus does not merely shimmer with borrowed majesty; He reveals the glory that is His from eternity, and yet also prefigures the glory that will come through suffering. Divine light and cruciform destiny meet on this mountain. The voice from heaven proclaims, “This is my Son... listen to Him.” The cloud surrounds them, as it once surrounded Sinai. Moses and Elijah bear witness—the Law and the Prophets converging on the incarnate Word.

And so, we come to this feast, not merely as admirers but as participants. For the glory revealed in Christ is not His alone. It is the glory destined for all who are baptised into Him. This homily invites us to consider the link—deep, sacramental, and transformative—between the Transfiguration of Jesus and the transfiguration promised to us: a change from glory to glory through baptism, prayer, suffering, and daily fidelity.

Scripture is a mountain range of revelation. Each peak offers a vista into God's self-giving glory. And among them, Mount Sinai and Mount Tabor stand in dialogue—one wrapped in thunder, the other in light. One speaks of Law etched in stone; the other, of Word incarnate radiating divinity.

On Sinai, Moses ascends to receive the Law. There is fire, cloud, and awe—the people below tremble as the mountain quakes (Exodus 19:18). When Moses descends, his face shines, so much so that he must veil it (Exodus 34:29–35). This glory, however, is reflected glory—borrowed, transient. Yet it foreshadows another ascent.

On Tabor, Jesus ascends not to receive but to reveal. His face does not merely reflect glory—it is glory: unborrowed, eternal, personal. As Patrick Schreiner suggests, the radiance here is not a divine visitation upon flesh, but the bursting forth of the divinity within flesh. The Lawgiver and the Prophet appear—Moses and Elijah—bearing witness not just to continuity but to consummation. The Law bows, the Prophets rejoice, and the Father speaks—not of commandments but of Sonship: “This is My Son, the Beloved.”

The cloud descends again—but now not as terror, but presence. The very Spirit of God hovers, echoing creation itself. In Luke’s account, the disciples are enveloped in the cloud—invited into divine intimacy (Luke 9:34). The mountain becomes sanctuary, revelation, and threshold.

These scriptural events form more than typological parallels—they are sacramental hints. Sinai prepared Israel to receive the Law; Tabor prepares the Church to receive the fullness of grace. Sinai carved identity into the covenant; Tabor reveals identity through communion. The former points toward duty; the latter toward destiny.

And so, the Transfiguration doesn’t merely connect two mountains—it connects heaven and earth. It reminds the baptised that we do not merely ascend toward glory; we are being drawn into glory by the One who shone upon Tabor. Not by merit, but by participation.

The veil Moses once wore is no longer necessary. As Paul writes to the Corinthians: “We all, with unveiled face, beholding the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image” (2 Corinthians 3:18). Sinai gave us the Law to guide our steps; Tabor reveals the Face that guides our hearts.

To stand upon Tabor is to glimpse the mystery of Christ's glory. But as Patrick Schreiner articulates so beautifully, this glory is not singular—it is double. In Jesus, we behold both the eternal radiance of the pre-existent Son and the promised exaltation of the suffering Messiah. His transfiguration is thus not merely a declaration of identity—it is a prophetic unveiling of vocation.

First, the glory of eternity: The Word who was with God and was God (John 1:1) has never ceased to shine. Before Abraham was, He is. Before Tabor ever rose from the soil, His glory inhabited eternity. The Transfiguration is not an enhancement of His nature but a momentary lifting of the veil. The disciples do not witness something new—they witness what has always been.

Yet, second, we behold a glory that is granted through suffering. The Son of Man must go to Jerusalem, must suffer, must die—and then be raised in glory. This Messianic pattern echoes Isaiah’s Suffering Servant and is confirmed in the Gospel narrative: divine glory revealed not in conquest but in crucifixion. Tabor’s brilliance is not separated from Calvary’s darkness. Schreiner calls this a “Christology of movement”—from glory to suffering to glory once more.

And herein lies our path. The Christian life is not a call to admire Christ from afar; it is a summons to be conformed to His image. As Paul teaches, “If we suffer with Him, we shall also be glorified with Him” (Romans 8:17). Baptism is not mere cleansing—it is cruciform incorporation. We die with Him. We rise with Him. We ascend with Him. Our transfiguration begins not with mountaintop experiences, but in the hidden recesses of sacramental grace.

And what of the Eucharist? It is there that this glory becomes food for the journey. Veiled still beneath bread and wine, the glorified Christ feeds the pilgrim Church. In every Mass, Tabor and Calvary are joined—the shining face and the pierced hands present in one Paschal Mystery. To kneel before the Host is to kneel before the transfigured Christ—accessible, nourishing, and near.

Schreiner notes that the Transfiguration is both “theological revelation and eschatological promise.” It reveals who Christ is and proclaims who we are destined to become. Not gods, but glorified sons and daughters. Not mere mortals, but those robed in light—those who have seen the Face and live by it.

If His glory shines through suffering, then our sufferings are not obstacles but catalysts. The caregiver exhausted by love, the priest worn down by the wounds of his flock, the disciple wrestling with grief—all are drawn into this double glory. First the cross, then the light.

And so, when we behold Christ transfigured, we do not simply marvel. We recognise—this is our future. This is our calling. This is our hope.

If the Transfiguration is the summit, then Baptism is the threshold. It is the moment we step into divine light—not by climbing the mountain ourselves, but by being drawn upward into Christ’s own ascent. On Tabor, Jesus is transfigured before human eyes; in Baptism, we are transfigured in divine sight. The connection is not metaphorical—it is mystical and real.

Recall Christ's own baptism in the Jordan. The heavens open, the Spirit descends, the Father's voice declares, “You are my Son, the Beloved” (Mark 1:11). This baptismal moment inaugurates Jesus’s public ministry, just as His transfiguration foreshadows its culmination. Schreiner notes the parallel between the opened heavens of the Jordan and the unveiled glory of Tabor. Both reveal identity; both prepare for a mission.

In Baptism, we are drawn into this same divine declaration. “You are my beloved.” Through water and the Spirit, we are not merely cleansed—we are claimed, adopted, and configured to the Son. Paul is unapologetically clear: “Do you not know that all of us who were baptised into Christ Jesus were baptised into his death?... we have been united with him in a death like his, we shall certainly be united with him in a resurrection like his” (Romans 6:3–5). Baptism is both burial and birth—both dying and rising.

Schreiner's vision of the Transfiguration helps us see this with fresh clarity. Our baptismal vocation is not simply moral uprightness—it is transfiguration. The Christian life is not about managing sin but manifesting glory. We are not just called to avoid darkness; we are called to shine. In Christ, we become icons—images being restored, healed, and glorified.

St. Paul echoes this in his second letter to the Corinthians: “And all of us, with unveiled face, seeing the glory of the Lord… are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another” (2 Cor 3:18). This is not poetry—it is a promise. The journey of discipleship is not static or circular—it is progressive, radiant, upward. We are becoming who we already are in Christ.

But the path is not always easy. Schreiner reminds us that the glory of Christ is not isolated from His suffering. The Christian is transfigured not by escaping sorrow but by transfiguring it. The baptised are marked with Christ’s passion—every act of forgiveness, every sacrifice, every hidden act of love is a step toward Tabor. The Church is a people climbing still.

And the font is not the end. Baptism initiates, but it also calls forth life. The transfigured life is sustained through prayer, Eucharist, community, and charity. It is the life of Christ unfolded in ours—slowly, sometimes painfully, always beautifully.

To baptise a child is to announce destiny. To baptise an adult is to proclaim rebirth. In both cases, we say: You are now on the mountain. Perhaps not visibly, perhaps not yet fully—but mystically, truly. You are being changed.

And so, let us not treat baptism as a memory. It is a present reality—a doorway through which the light of Tabor shines, and a path upon which our feet may tread.

If Tabor teaches us anything, it is that glory is not confined to heights—it seeks to inhabit hearts. The transfiguration of Jesus is not an isolated spectacle but a paradigm for our own transformation. As Schreiner writes, “Discipleship is a process of transfiguration,” not only in eternity but in time. We are invited not merely to admire Christ but to be changed by Him.

This process begins, as Luke’s Gospel reminds us, in prayer. “Jesus took with Him Peter and John and James, and went up on the mountain to pray” (Luke 9:28). Tabor was not a random stage—it was chosen in prayer. And it was during prayer that His appearance changed. If prayer is ascent, it is also encounter. To enter into authentic communion with God is to become luminous, not in spectacle, but in sanctity.

We have surely seen this quiet light—on the face of a mother who forgives without being asked, in the eyes of a hospice chaplain who bears sorrow with serenity, in the enduring hope of the marginalised who yet cling to grace. These are transfigured lives. Not distant, not dazzling—but real, radiant, and rooted.

And yet the path remains cruciform. Schreiner is clear: there is no transfiguration without suffering. Peter wants to build tents, to remain in the glory—but the voice reminds them to listen to Him, and Christ’s path leads not to permanence on the mount, but to purpose in the valley. From the heights of Tabor, Jesus sets His face toward Jerusalem.

So it is with us. The moments of light—retreats, revelations, consolations—are gifts. But they are not destinations. They are nourishment for the journey. The transfigured life embraces suffering not as defeat but as transformation. Baptised into His death, we find our sorrows charged with meaning. As Teilhard de Chardin once wrote, “Christ does not save us from suffering; He transforms it.”

This transformation unfolds in communion with God and with one another. The ecclesial community is a school of transfiguration. Here, we behold the glory of Christ reflected in the body gathered: the faithful who confess, forgive, sing, and serve. This is not theory; it is sacramentality lived. The parishioner who welcomes the stranger, the priest who anoints in silence, the child who prays with simple trust—all radiate the light of the mountain.

Indeed, we are surrounded by a cloud, not of mist, but of witnesses. Saints canonised and hidden alike. Schreiner encourages us to see the Transfiguration as a template for formation—beholding Christ so that we may become like Him. This is no easy ascent, but it is sure.

And so we live transfigured lives not by withdrawing from the world, but by entering into it with luminous love. The Christian should glow—not with pride, but with peace. Not with brilliance, but with beauty. The glory of Christ seeks a home in every heart open to grace.

We are being changed—from glory to glory.

Peter’s words on the mount are often read as naïve: “Lord, it is good that we are here. Let us make three tents…” (Matthew 17:4). But beneath the nervous blur of awe lies something deeply human—a longing for permanence in glory, for abiding in divine nearness. That desire is not condemned, only redirected. Christ does not allow tents to be built on Tabor, because His glory is not meant to be contained—it is meant to be carried.

Peter would later descend the mountain, walk with the crucified One, betray Him, be restored, and ultimately glow with courage at Pentecost. Tabor was not his destination; it was his preparation. And so it is with us. The luminous moments of our lives—prayer, communion, healing, call—are gifts to be remembered but also missions to be enacted. We are not given glory to hoard it, but to become vessels through which it pours.

What then of the Eucharist? It is our weekly return to the mountain. In this sacred liturgy, the veil is lifted once more. We do not see Christ’s face shine, yet we behold His Body given. The same voice that spoke on Tabor echoes quietly in our hearts: “Listen to Him.” And as we listen, kneel, and receive, we are drawn again into transfiguration. Not in fire, but in bread. Not in spectacle, but in sacrament.

To live as the transfigured means to carry light into shadowed places. It means that every act of mercy, every embrace of suffering, every moment of silent prayer is a participation in Tabor. Schreiner reminds us that transfiguration is not a moment—it is a movement. We are not who we once were. Nor have we yet become what we shall be. But in Christ, we are being changed.

From baptismal font to Eucharistic altar, from prayerful silence to compassionate action, may we ascend with Him. And may His glory—once revealed in splendour—now shine quietly within us.

Amen.