By Jenny Kraska

On this Second Sunday of Lent, the Church proclaims the account of the Transfiguration, when Jesus leads Peter, James, and John up a high mountain and is transfigured before them. In the light of glory, His face shines like the sun, His clothes become dazzling white, and the disciples glimpse who He truly is. The event is both revelation and preparation: revelation of Christ’s divine sonship, and preparation for the scandal of the Cross.

Peter’s instinct is telling. “Lord, it is good that we are here. If you wish, I will make three tents here…” He wants to remain on the mountain, to preserve the moment of radiance and consolation. But the Father’s voice interrupts: “This is my beloved Son…listen to him.” The command is not to build, but to listen. Not to cling to glory, but to follow the Son down the mountain toward Jerusalem.

Lent invites us into this same rhythm: ascent, encounter, descent. We long for mountaintop experiences – clarity in prayer, beauty in the liturgy, a felt sense of God’s nearness. Yet most of our lives are lived not in brilliant light, but in the ordinary valleys of work, family, and hidden sacrifice.

Here, the wisdom of Brother Lawrence, a 17th century French, Discalced Carmelite, lay brother becomes luminous. In The Practice of the Presence of God, he teaches that holiness is not confined to extraordinary visions or mystical heights. Washing dishes in a monastery kitchen, he discovered that the glory of God can fill even the simplest tasks when done with love. The same Christ who blazed with the light on Mt. Tabor is present in the quiet repetition of daily duty.

Pope Leo XIV has given high praise to Brother Lawrence’s little book, precisely because our age is so distracted and restless. We chase spiritual intensity or dramatic experiences, but neglect the steady, humble attentiveness that transforms the heart. The Transfiguration shows us who Jesus is; Brother Lawrence shows us how to remain with Him.

After the vision fades, Jesus touches the disciples and says, “Rise, and do not be afraid.” When they look up, they see “no one else but Jesus alone.” This is the heart of Lent: to see Jesus alone. Not the spectacle, not even Moses and Elijah, but Christ Himself – present in suffering, in silence, in the Eucharist, in the neighbor before us.

The mountain matters. We need moments of prayer, adoration, Scripture – moments when the veil lifts. But we cannot build tents there. Instead, we carry the light within us as we descend. If we practice the presence of God in the kitchen, the office, the parish meeting, or in acts of mercy, then every place becomes a kind of Mt. Tabor.

The Father’s command still echoes: “Listen to him.” To listen is to remain attentive in every circumstance. To listen is to trust Him on the road to the Cross. To listen, day after day, is to discover that the glory revealed in a flash on the mountain is quietly at work in the hidden fabric of our ordinary lives.