There are moments in life that feel like mountaintops—where clarity breaks through like sunlight, and the presence of God feels undeniable. The disciples had one of those moments on the mountain with Jesus, when his face shone like the sun and his clothes became dazzling white. Peter, James, and John saw the veil between heaven and earth drawn back, revealing Moses and Elijah beside Jesus, and they were overwhelmed.
Peter’s first instinct was to stay there. “Master, it is good for us to be here,” he says. Let’s build something permanent, something that holds onto this moment forever. But before he can even finish, a cloud covers them, and the voice of God reminds them: "This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!" And then—it’s over. The vision fades, and Jesus is standing alone.
What happens next?
They come down the mountain. They step back into the dust and noise of the world below, and immediately, Jesus is met with suffering: a desperate father, a child in torment. The glory of the mountain gives way to the reality of the valley.
This is where we stand on the edge of Lent. The brilliance of Epiphany—the glimpses of glory, the moments of revelation—have been preparing us for the road ahead.
Lent is not about staying on the mountain; it’s about stepping into the pilgrimage.
It’s about walking the dusty road toward Jerusalem, toward the cross, toward the mystery of resurrection.
In the Celtic tradition, pilgrimage was an act of faith that required profound trust in God’s leading. When monks set out in coracles—small round boats with no rudder or sail—they cast themselves upon the waters, believing that the Spirit would take them where they needed to go. They had no clear path ahead, no certainty of destination, only the conviction that their journey was in God’s hands. Sometimes, that’s what life as a pilgrimage means. We step into the unknown, trusting that God is guiding us, even when the way forward is unclear.
My own pilgrimage to Ireland felt like a mountaintop moment. My first week was spent on the island of Inishmore, in a small house perched above the bay, looking out toward the Connemara mountains. It was a retreat in the fullest sense—after months of wrestling with uncertainty, questioning my direction, purpose, and calling, I found myself in a place where the noise of the world faded. I walked ancient paths, read, prayed, and listened for God’s voice in the rhythm of the waves and the stillness of the morning air.
Each day, I prayed the blessing of deep peace, a prayer I continue to say every morning with my Anamchara Fellowship. And even now, when I pray it, I find myself back on that island—the salt breeze on my skin, the rich green soil beneath my feet, the quiet presence of God in the stones and the sky. It was a moment of clarity, of deep knowing. And yet, like Peter on the mountain, I could not stay there. I had to come down, to step back into the journey.
Isaiah’s words for Ash Wednesday remind us that this pilgrimage is not about empty rituals or surface-level piety. It is about transformation—about breaking the yoke of injustice, feeding the hungry, sheltering the homeless, and restoring what has been broken. True pilgrimage calls us beyond ourselves and into the work of renewal and reconciliation.
We live in a world where the paths before us often feel uncertain. Wars rage, divisions deepen, and the fabric of our communities can feel frayed. And yet, the invitation of Lent is to walk forward in faith—to become "repairers of the breach, restorers of streets to live in." This is a season not just of self-examination, but of movement, of stepping into the work of love and justice.
So how will we step off the mountain?
How will we walk this road with intention?
Over the next several weeks at Incarnation Holy Sacrament, we will be exploring life as a pilgrimage—not just metaphorically, but as a practice. We’ll reflect on what it means to journey with God, to embrace both the wilderness and the wonder, to walk this road of Lent together.
The season is before us. Let’s take the first step.
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