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In our relationships with others, power is never seized; it is entrusted. Authority arises when others give us the freedom to act on their behalf. For instance, you give me the power to pray the Eucharistic prayers. This sacred act—by which bread and wine become signs of Christ’s presence and we are re-membered as his body—cannot be done alone. The power entrusted to me is neither for my sake nor yours alone. It is for the life of the world, in keeping with Jesus’s own prayer: “Thy kingdom come.” In this shared exchange of trust and power between you and me, we enact a glimpse of how the city of God operates.
In today’s Gospel, Jesus confronts the temptation of power. The tempter offers him forms of control and dominance, and while this figure is personified as “Satan,” the story speaks more broadly to how each of us encounters temptation. Often, no one is really tempting us; we tempt ourselves. Our desires—which we imagine to be our own—are, in truth, shaped by others, by systems, by unseen forces that define what seems valuable or possible. 1. The temptation to produce and provide. Jesus’s first temptation—to turn stones into bread—arises from compassion for human hunger. But beneath that compassion lies the danger of mistaking production for salvation. Our modern economy thrives on turning what seems worthless into something saleable. Both capitalism and communism, in their distorted forms, participate in this logic whenever they dehumanize or oppress. Jesus resists this by remembering that “one does not live by bread alone,” recognizing the Spirit as the true sustainer of life. He neither rejects material need nor accepts an economy built on manipulation of desire. Instead, he reveals that divine grace works through the cracks of every system. 2. The temptation to master mortality. The second temptation—throwing himself from the temple to test God’s protection—can be reimagined today as humanity’s struggle with the power of medicine. Modern science constantly strives to defy aging, to postpone death, even to achieve immortality. Yet few societies teach us how to die well. Jesus’s reply, “Do not put the Lord your God to the test,” reminds us that faith is not control over life’s outcome but trust amid its fragility. True healing comes not from escaping mortality but from embracing our shared dependence on God. 3. The temptation to dominate. “All governments suffer a recurring problem: power attracts pathological personalities,” writes Frank Herbert. The issue is not simply that power corrupts, but that it entices the corruptible. The third temptation—a promise of worldly power—exposes this allure. When desire becomes a will to control without responsibility or consequence, power turns godless, atheistic in the truest sense. In the city of God, however, power does not hoard or oppress; it self-empties. It is continually relinquished, poured out, and shared so that others may flourish. True power empowers. It is the power of grace working through the goodwill of God, calling each of us into harmony and fulfillment. Are there people who make you shine when you’re with them? You don’t have to do anything special to shine—just being around them seems to bring out your light. Who are those people for you? For some, they might be parents, siblings, friends, or even certain objects—like a quilt, a painting, or a poem. It’s a curious question, perhaps even a little odd, but it helps us reflect on who makes us shine—and for whom we become a source of light.
In today’s gospel, Jesus stands in the company of Moses and Elijah. Their presence illuminates him; he is transfigured in their midst. Their role is not to draw attention to themselves, but to let their presence and love reveal Jesus' glory. Who makes you feel like that—radiant, alive, and luminous just by being near them? By “shining,” I don’t mean literally glowing like a diamond or porcelain. I mean the experience of being fully seen, heard, and understood. When that happens, it feels as if we step into a light that reveals who we really are. It’s as though their gaze transfigures us. This kind of shining often begins in childhood when parents or caregivers truly see and delight in us. Later, we may experience it in friendship or love. Every form of genuine love—parental, romantic, or fraternal—holds the same dynamic: we are recognized, embraced, and made visible to one another. To shine in someone’s eyes is to be transfigured by their loving gaze, even with all our imperfections and fragility. In that moment, we become the main character in our own lives, standing at the center of the world as we perceive and interpret it. Yet, as the transfiguration story shows, the mountaintop is not the destination. After being transfigured before Moses and Elijah, Jesus does not remain in the glory of that light. He descends. His vocation is not simply to bask in brightness, but to help others shine. He gives his life so that others may be illuminated by the light of resurrection. When we gather as the church, this mystery continues. In the Eucharist, we are transfigured—bread and wine, body and spirit, consecrated together. In this act, we make one another shine. I see your light when we worship together, just as you help me radiate mine. Through the Holy Spirit, our communion transforms us so that we, too, may step down from the mountaintop—to be light for others, for our community, and for the world. How do we carry ourselves as salt and light wherever we are? I came across two fables, one on salt and the other on light, that I would like us to reflect on. Both of these short stories are from Anthony De Mello who was a Jesuit priest.
1. First, let’s start with salt. See ourselves as a salt doll. Yeah, having salt in us is not enough. See our whole being as salt-embodied! The Salt Doll A salt doll wandered the earth seeking to understand who it truly was. One day it arrived at the edge of the sea. Fascinated, it asked, “What are you?” The sea replied, “Come in and see.” Tentatively, the doll stepped into the water, and as it did, it began dissolving. “Now I know what the sea is,” it said softly. “But you are disappearing,” the sea observed. “Yes,” said the doll, “but now I know who I truly am.” My comment: Jesus calls his followers salt—not for preservation of rules, but as a self-giving presence that dissolves into love. The salt doll surpasses the Pharisees not by stricter law-keeping, but by surrendering the self to a deeper reality of grace. 2. Where do we find the light within us? I have been inviting all of us into the practices that cultivate it: silent prayer, contemplation, and a long, loving look at the Divine within. The Teacher and the Disciples A teacher once told his disciples that holiness lay in awareness. One disciple protested: “But we fast, we pray, we keep the commandments. Isn’t that holiness?” The teacher replied: “If you lose awareness, you become like a Pharisee. You observe everything except the one thing that gives life.” The disciples were puzzled. The teacher added: “When you are awake, your very presence is light. Laws help, but awareness transforms.” My comment: inner wakefulness is what illuminates others—echoing “You are the light of the world.” This story critiques a law-keeping that is technically correct yet spiritually dormant. What does it mean to be "blessed"? We use this word casually—"God bless you" after a sneeze, "I'm so blessed" when things go well. But Jesus's understanding of blessing turns our assumptions upside down.
In today's reading, Jesus offers a radically different vision: Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled. Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy. Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God. Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God. Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are you when people revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account. Here's an uncomfortable question: According to Jesus's definition, do we actually want to be blessed? Do we desire to be poor in spirit, mournful, meek, hungry, merciful, pure in heart, peacemaking, and persecuted? Can we truly "rejoice and be glad" in these states, trusting that our "reward is great in heaven"? If we told someone, "I bless you with poverty of spirit, mourning, and persecution," they might understandably decline. This blessing sounds more like a burden—even a curse—by worldly standards. Yet as Christians, we're bound to this blessing. What sounds like a curse by worldly measures—poverty, mourning, persecution—Jesus reframes as the surprising location of God's presence and power. These aren't punishments but invitations into a different kind of flourishing. This challenging path, I believe, is precisely what leads to a fulfilling life—not despite the difficulty, but through a transformation that happens within it. I invite us to approach these beatitudes not as statements to memorize but as practices to embody. Jesus's blessing isn't something to possess but to live into. Here's how:
These beatitudes aren't easy. They challenge everything our culture tells us about success and happiness. But perhaps that's exactly the point. |
Paul"...life up your love to that cloud [of unknowing]...let God draw your love up to that cloud...through the help of his grace, to forget every other thing." Archives
June 2026
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