2nd Sunday of Lent @ Ss. Francis and Clare, Birch Run

A Glimpse of the Summit: The Grace of the Ascent

The Chaplain’s Ascent: Croagh Patrick, August 2018

In August of 2018, I found myself in County Mayo, Ireland, standing at the base of Croagh Patrick—the "Holy Mountain" where Saint Patrick is said to have fasted for forty days in the year 441. I was there as the chaplain for a group of young adult pilgrims. As we looked up at the daunting, mist-shrouded peak, I think we all felt a bit of that ancient Lenten trepidation. The mountain stands as a silent, stony sentinel over the Atlantic, and its history of penance is etched into every jagged rock.

At 56 years old, I was acutely aware that I wasn’t the youngest or the most athletic member of our group. I watched the twenty-somethings stretching their hamstrings and checking their high-tech gear, feeling every bit of my five-and-a-half decades. As we began the ascent, the grueling reality of the mountain set in. If you have ever climbed "The Reek," you know that the final stretch—the infamous "cone" near the summit—is a punishing wall of loose, shifting grey scree. This is not a stable path; it is a river of vertical stones. For every two steps forward, the sliding rocks seemed to pull you one step back. My lungs were burning, my knees were protesting, and a thick, damp Irish mist had swallowed the trail, making the summit feel like a distant, invisible myth.

There was a moment, leaning heavily on my walking stick and blinking back the mist, where I seriously considered calling it a day. Why am I doing this? I thought. The young people are probably miles ahead of me by now; I should just wait here for them to come back down. The temptation to settle for "good enough" is the greatest enemy of the spiritual life.

But a strange thing happens when you find your rhythm in prayer and persistence. Mustering a final reserve of strength, I pushed through that last vertical scramble. Suddenly, the terrain leveled out, the grey fog thinned, and I realized with a shock that I was standing next to the small, white summit chapel. I looked around, expecting to see my group of young adults already resting—but the summit was quiet. Somehow, at 56, the chaplain had made it to the top first.

In that moment, the heavy mist broke completely. Standing there on the ridge, I was gifted with a breathtaking, sunlit panorama of Clew Bay, with its legendary "365 islands" gleaming like emeralds in the deep blue water. The silence was absolute, broken only by the wind. In that single moment of transcendent beauty, every ounce of the preceding struggle suddenly made perfect sense. I needed that glimpse of glory to understand why I had made the climb.

As a "spiritual scout" for that group, I realized that my role wasn't just to keep up, but to prove that the summit was possible—that the view was worth the grit. This is exactly what the Liturgy of the Word does for us today. It reminds us that no matter our age or our fatigue, the climb toward God is never a fool’s errand.

From the Unknown to the Unveiled Glory

The readings for this Second Sunday of Lent (Cycle A) weave together a profound tapestry of divine calling, the necessity of endurance, and the promise of future glory. They remind us that the journey of faith is rarely easy, but the destination is more glorious than we can imagine.

The Call into the Unknown: Genesis 12:1-4a

Our journey begins with the Call of Abram. God says to him, “Go forth from the land of your kinsfolk... to a land that I will show you.” Notice the profound vulnerability God asks of him. He does not provide a map, a GPS coordinate, or a guaranteed timeline. He simply says, Go. Crucially, the verse immediately following our reading tells us that Abram was seventy-five years old when he departed Haran. If I felt the weight of a mere half-century on the slopes of Croagh Patrick, imagine Abram at 75, being asked to leave his security and his past to become a wanderer for God. At an age when most people are looking for stability, Abram is asked for mobility. His story reminds us that "retirement" is not a biblical concept in the spiritual life. God’s call is always "now." Whether we are 20 or 75, the "mountains" God calls us to climb require us to leave our comfort zones behind, trusting that the Lord who calls us will also sustain us.

Enduring the Valley: 2 Timothy 1:8b-10
Because the journey of faith involves leaving comfort behind, it inevitably involves suffering. St. Paul makes this clear to Timothy. Writing from a cold, damp prison cell, Paul does not sugarcoat the Christian life. He says, 

Bear your share of hardship for the gospel with the strength that comes from God.

Paul knew the valleys of life intimately. He knew what it was like to feel the "scree" of rejection and physical pain. Yet, he is not writing a letter of despair. He reminds Timothy that Christ Jesus "destroyed death and brought life and immortality to light." Paul is telling us that the hardships we face—whether they are the voluntary penances of Lent or the involuntary crosses of illness and grief—are not the end of the story. We can bear the "hardship" because the light of the Resurrection is already burning in the distance.

The Glimpse of Glory: Matthew 17:1-9

This brings us to the Transfiguration. Just prior to this moment, Jesus had revealed that He must go to Jerusalem to suffer and be killed. The disciples were devastated. They were entering a dark forest of doubt, and they wanted to turn back. They wanted a Messiah of immediate victory, not a Messiah of the Cross.

Knowing their faith was shaken, Jesus takes Peter, James, and John up a high mountain. There, He is transfigured. His face shines like the sun; His clothes become white as light. Moses and Elijah appear, representing the Law and the Prophets, all pointing to Jesus as the fulfillment of history.

Why does Jesus do this? He does it to give them a "Tabor moment"—a brief, dazzling revelation of His divine glory. He is essentially saying, When you see me on the cross, remember me on the mountain. When the mist of Good Friday swallows the world, remember this light. Peter is so overwhelmed he wants to stay—he wants the summit without the descent. But the Father’s voice interrupts: "This is my beloved Son... listen to him." When they fall in fear, Jesus touches them and says, "Rise, and do not be afraid." They cannot stay on the mountain; they must carry that light back down into the valley of the shadow of death.

Carrying the Light into the Valley

The scriptures today are a direct blueprint for our own spiritual lives. As we continue this Lenten hike, how do we respond?

1. Reclaim Your "Tabor Moments" 

In the spiritual life, we all experience "desolation"—when God feels distant and the climb feels pointless. In those moments, you must be like a hiker who keeps a photo of the summit in his pocket. Look back at your life. Recall the moments when God's presence was undeniable—a retreat, a moment of deep peace in prayer, or a time when grace carried you through a crisis. Hold onto those memories. God gives us those glimpses of glory precisely to sustain us when the trail gets dark and the rocks shift under our feet.

2. Be a Scout for Others 

Just as I found myself at the top of Croagh Patrick ahead of my group, some of you are "spiritual scouts" for your families, your children, or your coworkers. Your persistence in faith, despite your age or your struggles, serves as a beacon. When others see you continuing to "climb"—continuing to pray, to serve, and to hope despite the "scree" of life—it gives them the courage to keep going. Your grey hair or your years of experience are not barriers; they are your credentials as a witness that the mountain can be conquered.

3. Listen and Rise 

Finally, we must heed the command of the Father: "Listen to Him." To listen to Jesus is to align our pace with His. Lent is our time to tune out the noise of the world and listen to the voice of the Master. And then, we must heed the words of Jesus: "Rise, and do not be afraid." We cannot build tents on the mountain. We are called to take the grace we receive at this altar and carry it down into our homes and workplaces.

The hike of Lent continues. The trail may be steep, and the "cone" of our personal struggles may feel insurmountable. But do not turn back. Lift up your eyes, remember the radiant face of Christ on Tabor and the sun over Clew Bay, and keep climbing. The glory of Easter is waiting just beyond the ridge.