Homilies & Thoughts

Noon is a harsh hour. The sun is straight overhead. Shadows shrink. Nothing is softened. At Jacob’s well, a woman comes carrying her water jar and, without knowing it, carrying something heavier: a life she has learned to explain and excuse. Her history is no secret in that town. And Jesus’ knowledge of her is not a surprise. What surprises is the change in her: in the presence of Jesus, she begins to see herself clearly.

Despite biblical precedent, a mountain is an odd place for a revelation. The air is thin, the ground uneven, and the climb tiring. Jesus chooses height and solitude, as if he wants his friends to feel, in their bodies, how much they rely on him. Then the veil lifts. The apostles glimpse a beauty too intense for ordinary eyes, the kind that makes knees buckle and words fail.

And beside him stand Moses and Elijah. They are often described as the law and the prophets, a way of saying that Israel’s whole story points toward Christ. Which is true. Yet the scene also speaks to the human heart. Moses and Elijah look like us.

Anyone who has tried to choose a restaurant with friends knows the tension it can create. Options multiply, nobody wants to impose, and minutes vanish. So much energy for a decision forgotten before the bill is paid.

Meanwhile, the choices that shape a life can receive only hurried attention. A decision to forgive or to stay bitter. To speak honestly or to hide. Around those moments, voices multiply. Advice comes from friends, family, headlines, and the constant hum of opinion. Even the good voices carry some fog, because sin has dimmed God’s light in the world and made our own beauty harder to recognize.