Each year, just before Lent begins, we read the story of the Transfiguration. Jesus takes Peter, James, and John up a mountain, where his face and clothing begin to shine, bringing to mind the phrase “light of light” that appears in the Nicene Creed and the hymn “O Come, All Ye Faithful.” Afterwards, the mountain summit becomes enveloped in a cloud; the disciples have a vision of the prophets Moses and Elijah and hear God’s voice speak the words closely resembling those spoken at Jesus’ baptism: “This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased; listen to him!” 1
In fact, I see the Transfiguration as a blend of the Baptism of Jesus and Easter: an instance of God’s self-revelation and a preview of the resurrection. Like Jesus’ Baptism, the Transfiguration illustrates the Trinity and demonstrates Jesus’ dual nature. He is both God who chooses to be human by plunging into the muddy waters that symbolize his embodiment, and a man who transforms into the so-called “uncreated light” that stands for his divinity.
But note that just as baptism did not “demote” Jesus from God to human, here he did not change “back” from human into God. Both narratives only re-emphasize aspects of who Jesus had always been. In this sense, the Greek word metamorphosis, used to describe Jesus’ change in appearance, carries the meaning familiar to us from biology, where it refers to a change into mature form. Think of a caterpillar becoming a butterfly, or a tadpole becoming a frog. These creatures transform as they mature, rather than merely growing larger and more capable. But just as God’s nature had always been present in Jesus, so the promise of a butterfly is already present in a caterpillar. Likewise, even “seated at the right hand of God,” Jesus never ceases to be human; he retains the wounds inflicted on his body, just as a frog will always hold within it the essence it had as a tadpole.
The most marvellous aspect of Christian theology is that the same may be said about us! We too carry within us the promise of what theologians variously call glorification, deification, or theosis; that is, somehow actually becoming God – not merely becoming “like” God! Uniquely in Matthew’s Gospel, the Transfiguration happens “after six days.” What occurred six days prior is left unstated, but we know that in Scripture six days mark both the time of creation and the period Moses waits before being invited to enter the cloud in which God once rested on another mountain, Mount Sinai. As such, in Matthew, the light and the cloud represent God’s presence as both hidden within and surrounding us, both present from creation and a goal toward which we strive. And the two reasons for reading this passage just before Lent, in addition to its dedicated feast in August, have to do with this key concept of changing and yet remaining oneself.
First, in the chronology of Jesus’ life and in our liturgical calendar, to arrive at Easter one must go through the Passion. In the Synoptic Gospels, the Transfiguration marks the beginning of the end, the moment when Jesus is said to “set his face toward Jerusalem”.2 Until then, Jesus had been teaching and healing; now he sets out toward suffering and death. Previously, his miracles gave temporary relief; now he will triumph over evil for good. Yet Jesus’ story represents that the only way to truly save anyone, to overcome evil with good, is to give of oneself without losing who one is. I believe that the memory of seeing this divine light strengthened Jesus and his friends when all seemed lost, as a reminder that no amount of violence may erase our God-given dignity, worth, or purpose.
This is an important truth for those who face bullying, aging, disabled or suffering bodies, degrading lifestyles, or abuse. None of this diminishes who we are, made good by God’s creative act. This is all I can think of in response to tragedies such as that which has recently happened at Tumbler Ridge, in BC: the fact that violence is perpetrated against someone is not a sign that God has turned his back on them or that they have done something wrong to deserve it. Who Jesus was, in light of what happened to him, asserts the opposite. I cannot begin to comprehend what kind of evil must take hold of a person to act in such a less than human way, nor what kind of life story led them to that point, including what violence or misunderstanding they themselves endured. It is harder still to accept that God had created the would-be murderer “good” as well, and that this goodness never fully departed from them either, even at the time of committing an unspeakable crime. All I can do, standing outside such a situation, is pray that God’s presence may still be felt by those who suffer loss, and trust that in eternity the answers to our many questions will be revealed.
The second reason we read about Jesus’ Transfiguration on the Sunday before Lent is that the coming season calls us to change by growing more fully into who we already are, just as Jesus did on that mountain or at his baptism. According to Paul, who applies the same word metamorphosis to us that is used in the Transfiguration for Jesus, we are to acquire “the mind of Christ.” But what kind of mind is that? Well, if metamorphosis means growing into a more mature version of oneself without ceasing to be who one is, then the mind of Christ reflects mature humanity. And the most widely recognized marker of maturity beyond physical development or the accumulation of knowledge is, in fact, emotional intelligence; that is, the ability to recognize and regulate one’s emotions. What is wonderful to see is that Jesus not only taught others to grow but also demonstrated a remarkable capacity in every domain of emotional intelligence: self-awareness, emotional regulation, social awareness, and relational skill.
His self-awareness and self-regulation are most evident in conflict. When a woman is about to be stoned, he pauses to write on the sand, redirects the crowd’s hostility, and addresses her with dignity despite any bias he may have held. With another woman, the Samaritan, he speaks plainly about what he offers and remains secure in his identity, notwithstanding the centuries of generational antagonism between his people and hers. After being nearly thrown off a cliff in Nazareth, he leaves with no sign of retaliation, bitterness, or clinging to validation. At his arrest, Jesus heals the man with a cut-off ear. In Gethsemane, he names his inner conflict, fear and grief, yet perseveres in his mission.
Jesus’ relational wisdom and social skill appear in the way he discerns motives and adjusts his responses accordingly. When the Pharisees question him about paying taxes to Caesar, he perceives their malice, navigates a politically charged situation calmly, and answers in a way that neither incriminates him nor alienates his hearers. He behaved similarly when people ask why a man was born blind. On the road to Emmaus, he walks alongside two grieving disciples, allows them to articulate their disappointment, and waits before reframing it. Lastly, his empathy permeates his entire ministry. He weeps with Mary and Martha over their brother, and he recognizes that the crowds he is about to teach are harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd.
Across these stories, Jesus recognizes his emotions without being ruled by them. He discerns the emotional currents around him and takes time to respond. He enters others’ suffering yet does not become overwhelmed by it. His profound emotional strength helps him choose how to respond rather than allowing reactions to dictate behavior. Since we see this in Jesus, we may say that emotional maturity is one of the ways divine love becomes embodied in human life. Also, it helps us remain true to who we are, even when emotions threaten to make us act otherwise. If you enjoy fiction, think of characters such as Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird, Aragorn from The Lord of the Rings, or Marmee in Little Women. The latter is explicitly said to have confessed that she struggled with anger all her life and learned to govern it.
This maturity is not always easy to embody. What I will say now may sound like Mr. Rogers advising children, yet he does often seems to replicate Jesus’ approach: naming emotions, noticing conflict and not escalating it, hearing a critical comment and letting it pass, recognizing when someone needs listening rather than solutions, and granting others the benefit of the doubt before taking things personally. We can just imagine how much better our relationships would be if we were more self-aware, less reactive, and more empathetic! Should we now turn to our loved ones and tell them to grow up already?
Well, I suspect that people won’t necessarily change just because we ask them to do so. What we can do, and what we are repeatedly called to do, is change ourselves, beginning with “removing the log from our own eye”. In the context of emotional intelligence, this might mean to recognize our triggers, notice our patterns of response to conflict, acknowledge feelings as real and valid, and only then decide how to act. When someone speaks sharply, we might take a breath. When envy surfaces, we might reflect on our own aspirations without allowing another’s success to diminish our self-worth. In all this, I find that reducing self-judgment actually leads to greater compassion toward others. Mother Teresa said that if we judge people, we have no time to love them, and this insight applies equally to oneself. I find that to refrain from harsh thoughts toward others, it really helps first to recognize and release arbitrary or manipulative expectations imposed on ourselves.
And as emotional maturity develops, relationship dynamics may also shift. Children’s friendships are often built-in, whereas adults have to cultivate connection intentionally. Sociologists describe weak ties as everyday points of contact that hold the magical potential to grow into meaningful relationships, as long as someone “goes first”. In a church setting, this may involve introducing oneself, guiding someone toward coffee hour, or beginning a conversation even when it feels awkward. In established relationships, maturity appears as loving people as they are, rather than as we wish them to be or who they once were. Healthy, mature love is free of quid-pro-quo expectation or obligation; yet we also learn to accept that not all connections will be mutual, and to recognize situations in which we lack the power to help those who engage in destructive patterns or treat us harmfully. Emotional maturity allows us to cease chasing love and affirmation without bitterness and to direct energy toward relationships that sustain life now and await us. Even Jesus permitted people to “shake the dust from their sandals”!
Once transfigured, Jesus leads the disciples back down into ordinary life. The season before us invites us to inhabit life with freedom and generosity, and treat others kindly because we choose to do so, rather than from fear of judgment, loneliness, or hoped-for reward. How might Lent help us grow in this? Two of the four traditional Lenten disciplines are fasting and almsgiving. In this context, might we consider fasting from judgment of self and others, from seeking affirmation, and from trying to change others? Might we try giving by pausing between emotion and action, and by going first to form new connections? As we hope for others to change, may we begin by modelling the transformation we seek. And may the work we undertake this Lent contribute to the patient and hopeful process of maturing into who we already are, with God’s help.
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