Second Sunday of Lent - Transfigured Love

This is a Gospel I love to use for weddings—at least, when the couple leaves the choice to me (which, of course, they usually don’t).

At first glance, it might seem like a strange Gospel for a wedding. What does the Transfiguration have to do with marriage? But to me, it has everything to do with it. The scene on the mountain, where Jesus is transfigured before His disciples—shining with radiant light—reminds me so much of a wedding day. On that day, everyone is changed. Everyone is glowing. There’s joy, wonder, light, flowers, and celebration. It’s a mountaintop moment.

Culturally, we tend to treat weddings as the culmination—the peak of the story. From fairy tales to rom-coms, everything builds to that final moment: the wedding. And then the credits roll.

But anyone who’s been married for more than a few weeks knows that the wedding day is not the end. It’s the beginning.

It’s the beginning of something difficult, demanding, and deeply transformative. And that’s exactly where the Transfiguration appears in the Gospel—right after Jesus announces His suffering and death, and just before He begins His journey to Jerusalem. Betrayal, abandonment, crucifixion—it’s all ahead. And yet God allows the disciples to see, for a brief moment, the glory that lies behind and beyond it all.

It’s not that the Transfiguration is false. It’s real. It’s a glimpse of the truth—but not the whole truth. It’s a promise, a foretaste, a vision to strengthen them for what’s coming.

And that’s what a wedding is.

The beauty and joy of a wedding aren’t false—they’re real. But they aren’t the whole picture. That young couple standing there glowing with excitement and hope—what they’re experiencing is a glimpse of something greater. But the fullness of what they’ve begun will only be revealed through years of sacrifice, perseverance, and love.

We don’t hang “Transfiguration Jesus” over our altars. We hang the Crucified Christ—because we follow not just the glory, but the path that leads through the cross. And only through the cross do we reach the Resurrection.

This is why weddings remind me of the Transfiguration. It’s not infatuation or romance that defines love—it’s the long road that follows. Real love begins not in the dazzling moment, but in day-to-day self-giving. Love is not a warm feeling. It’s not sentiment. It’s the decision to give yourself—again and again—even when it’s hard, even when it costs you everything.

And that’s not just true of marriage. Not all are married—Christ wasn’t married. I’m not married. Many of us are single, widowed, separated, or called to religious or priestly life. But all of us are called to the mystery of love. All of us are called to self-giving.

That’s what the Transfiguration points us toward. Whether it’s through the vocation of marriage, or celibacy, or consecrated life—we’re all called to be mothers and fathers in a spiritual sense. To give. To nurture. To sacrifice. To love.

And that’s hard.

Love demands everything. Love means giving until you have nothing left—and then giving more. But that is how God transforms us. That is how we become light.

Because the light of the Transfiguration isn’t physical light. We’re not called to glow like lightbulbs. We’re called to shine the light of love—to let Christ’s radiance shine through us. The Transfiguration is a visual symbol of what we are called to become: icons of divine light through lives of self-giving love.

I’ll close with a prayer from Saint John Henry Newman, which captures the mystery of the Transfiguration and the kind of light we are meant to radiate:

Dear Jesus, help me to spread your fragrance everywhere I go. Flood my soul with your Spirit and life. Penetrate and possess my whole being so utterly, that my life may be only a radiance of yours. Shine through me and be so in me, that every soul I come in contact with may feel your presence in my soul. Let them look up and see no longer me, but only Jesus. Stay with me, and then I shall begin to shine as you shine, so to shine as to be a light to others. The light will be all from you—none of it will be mine. It will be you shining on others through me. Let me thus praise you in the way you love best: by shining on those around me. Let me preach you without preaching—not by words, but by my example, by the catching force, the gentle influence of what I do, the evident fullness of love my heart bears to you. Amen.