This Sunday’s Gospel leads us to the mountain of the Transfiguration, at the heart of Jesus’ journey toward the cross. Far from being an isolated episode of glory, this event reveals that true light is born of self-giving. In this commentary on the Sunday Gospel, Friar Luciano Audisio invites us to contemplate how the identity of the beloved Son is revealed precisely in obedience and in the total gift of life.
Between origin and fulfilment
This Sunday’s Gospel leads us to the mountain of the Transfiguration, not as an isolated setting, but as a decisive moment in Jesus’ journey toward the cross. The account begins with an apparently simple time reference: “six days later” (μεθ’ ἡμέρας ἕξ). This is not an insignificant chronological detail. The sixth day, in the biblical tradition, is the day before shabbat; it is also, in the creation account, the day on which God creates the human being. And for us Christians, the sixth day inevitably evokes Good Friday, the day on which Jesus will give his life. From the outset, then, the text places us between the creation of man and the death of the Son of Man, between origin and fulfilment.
Jesus goes up the mountain after announcing his Passion. He knows that a violent death awaits him. He has begun to speak clearly about the path that will lead him to Jerusalem and has invited his disciples to follow him along that same way. Going up the mountain is not an evasive gesture; it is an act of discernment. Like every human being facing a radical decision, Jesus pauses, prays, and measures his mission against the Father’s will. On the mountain he meets Moses and Elijah, the Law and the Prophets—that is, all of Scripture. It is as though Jesus places his life and his death in the light of the Word, seeking in it the definitive meaning of his self-giving.
Tradition identifies that mountain with Tabor, which already foreshadows Calvary. Moses evokes Sinai, where the old Covenant was sealed; Elijah points to Carmel and Horeb, where God revealed himself in a gentle breeze. Sinai and Carmel converge to illuminate Golgotha. The old Covenant and the prophetic voice find their fulfilment in the supreme gift of the cross. Jesus understands that his “exodus,” his passage, will be the new and definitive liberation.
The glory that springs from a total yes
Peter, James, and John then behold something disconcerting: Jesus “was transfigured” (μετεμορφώθη, in the passive) before them. His face shines like the sun and his garments become white as light. This is not an external spectacle, but the revelation of an inner truth. When Jesus fully embraces his vocation to give his life, his whole being becomes unified. Love carried to the very end produces light. White, the synthesis of all colours, is an image of an existence in which there is no longer any fragmentation. The glory that appears on Tabor is not foreign to the cross; it springs precisely from a total yes to the Father.
But that light is unsettling. The disciples sense that this decision of love leads to death. And in the face of this tension between glory and suffering, Peter’s very human reaction emerges: “Lord, it is good for us to be here; if you wish, I will make three tents…” (Κύριε, καλόν ἐστιν ἡμᾶς ὧδε εἶναι…). Peter wants to fix the moment, build something, control the experience. The “three tents” evoke the feast of Sukkot (סֻּכּוֹת), the Feast of Booths, which celebrated God’s presence among his people and anticipated the messianic times. But Peter does not yet understand that it is not we who build God’s dwelling; it is God who draws us into his mystery.
For this reason there is no verbal reply from Jesus, but a divine action: a luminous cloud overshadows them. It is the cloud of the Exodus, a presence that guides and protects. God himself raises the true tent—not a structure made by human hands, but a living dwelling that envelops and sustains. The disciples are drawn into Jesus’ exodus, into his passage toward total self-giving.
From the cloud the Father’s voice is heard: “This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased” (Οὗτός ἐστιν ὁ υἱός μου ὁ ἀγαπητός, ἐν ᾧ εὐδόκησα). These are the same words as at the baptism. At the moment when Jesus sets out toward the cross, the Father confirms his identity and his mission. Self-giving is not failure; it is the place where the Father’s love is fully revealed. Here the resurrection is already anticipated: whoever gives his life in loving obedience does not lose it.
Rising and walking toward Easter
The disciples, however, fall face down, filled with fear (ἔπεσαν ἐπὶ πρόσωπον αὐτῶν). It is not only fear before the divine; it is fear before a love that goes to the very end. The cross frightens us because it confronts us with our own fragility. But Jesus comes near, touches them, and says: “Rise” (ἐγέρθητε). It is the same verb used for the resurrection. The Lord’s touch turns fear into strength, bewilderment into a path. Even before Easter, he already communicates to them something of the energy of new life.
Finally, Jesus commands them: “Tell no one about the vision until the Son of Man has been raised from the dead.” The Transfiguration can only be fully understood in the light of the resurrection. Without Easter, the light of Tabor would be an enigma or an illusion. With Easter, it is revealed as anticipation and promise.
Our life, too, has mountains and valleys, moments of light and hours of the cross. The Transfiguration does not invite us to flee suffering or to pitch tents in spiritual consolations. It teaches us that true light is born of self-giving, that God’s glory is revealed in faithful love, and that the Father sustains us even when the path leads to Calvary.
If we learn to listen to the beloved Son and allow ourselves to be touched by him, we will be able to rise from our fears and walk toward our own Easter, knowing that love that is given never ends in death, but is transfigured into life.
