There is a moment in the morning when the light is still only a glimmer behind the curtain, and the weight of the day has not yet begun. This minute belongs to the mountain. You don't have to climb for it; it is enough that you are here, and God is already here with you, before you have done a thing.
Maybe the low things are already pulling at you: the list, the restlessness, some unresolved matter. Down below everything looks larger than it is. Don't solve any of it now. Just take one slow breath, and let this quiet minute lift you a little higher, up to where you can look at everything from the side of the light.
"You will do well to pay attention to it, as to a lamp shining in a dark place, until the day dawns and the morning star rises in your hearts." 2 Peter 1:19
Peter writes this after he has seen the light of the Transfiguration on the mountain with his own eyes. And still he does not say: wait until the same radiance floods you too. He says: even in the dark there is already a lamp; hold on to it, and stay until the dawn rises in you on its own. The light is not kindled outside you first, but in the deepest place within.
An old, almost forgotten habit calls to us this morning: every day we should climb a high mountain. Not with our feet — with our heart. To step back for a moment from everything, from everyone, even from ourselves, because the true proportion of things can only be seen from above. Down below, caught in the rush of tasks and feelings, every obstacle looks like a giant. From higher up you can see what a thing is really worth, and how little of it will remain a week from now.
But there is no path up this mountain by our own strength. No method carries you up; gritting your teeth is not enough. You can only go up with Jesus, the way He took Peter, James, and John with Him. "While He was praying, His face was changed" — and we are to keep praying until, one day, that change happens in us too. It is not a vision. It is more like the moment you recognize, with your whole being, who Jesus is for you.
On the mountain one sentence comes from the cloud: "This is my beloved Son; listen to Him." So simple, and yet so hard. We miss it not because God is silent, but because we are full of noise: the world's clamor outside, our own restlessness within. Even someone standing beside us, speaking to us, is drowned out until we turn toward them. To go up the mountain is to quiet the noise for a minute, so we can hear that one Voice.
And when the disciples fall on their faces, afraid of the light, Jesus comes over, touches them, and says: "Rise, and do not be afraid." Saint John Paul II carried that sentence through his whole life. Today it is spoken to you. What do you really fear? Failure? Losing control if you hand yourself over completely? Or maybe having to get up again? The transfigured Christ does not flash above your fear; He bends down, touches you, and lifts you to your feet.
This is why today's message from Baja comes to you so simply: strengthen your trust in Him. Not by pulling yourself together, but by going up the mountain and letting His light shine on you. Trust does not grow from finally understanding everything; it grows from having once seen who He is. Peter lived off that one mountain morning for the rest of his life. One minute up there can be enough for you today too: the difficulties don't vanish, but you see them differently, in the light of the morning star that is rising in you right now.
Find one short pause today, before the day sweeps you off. You don't need a mountain, only a minute of silence: in the kitchen, in the car, in front of a window. This is your Tabor. Close the door on the noise below for a moment and say to Jesus: "Here I am with You on the mountain."
Then name the one thing that weighs on you most right now, or that you fear most. Don't dress it up, don't explain it. Place it in your open hand and say quietly: "Rise, and do not be afraid. Strengthen my trust in You." Stay there one more breath, and let yourself see it from the side of the light. Then go — with different eyes.
I glorify You for who You are. You are the One who speaks from the cloud on the mountain, and You do not give a command; You say a name with love: "This is my beloved Son." Blessed are You, for You do not draw near in the voice of fear; You point to Your Son and entrust me to Him: listen to Him.
I magnify You for what You do. You give the moments of light, at the right time, even when I am downcast or alone. You do not leave me groping in the dark below: You light a lamp, and You Yourself bring the dawn within me. Blessed are You, for Your light does not blind me but leads me home.
I glorify You for who You are. Your face shone like the sun, Your clothing became white as light — and it was no foreign radiance, but what You always were, now let to be seen. You are the Light of the world, who stepped down into the dark to open my eyes. Blessed be Your name, for in You the light is not far off but bends down close.
I magnify You for what You do. When I fall on my face and am afraid, You do not leave me on the ground: You come over, You touch me, and You say, "Rise, and do not be afraid." You are the Good Shepherd who does not dazzle me with light but lifts me with His hand. Blessed are You, for with You even coming down the mountain is possible — with a different heart than the one I climbed up with.
I glorify You for who You are. You are that quiet light that is not kindled outside first but in the deepest place: the morning star who rises in my heart, until the day dawns in me. Blessed are You, living Fire that does not burn but slowly shines through what is still dark and hard in me.
I glorify You for what You are doing in me today. You are the One who quiets the noise, outside and within, so I can hear the one Voice: "listen to Him." Without You I would only look at the light; with You I let it transform me. Make me fit today not only to see the light but to let it change me.
I glorify You, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, one living light in three faces. The Father points from the cloud to the Son, the Son transfigured opens my eyes, the Spirit lights the morning star within. Grant that today I may not measure things from the noise below, but from the side of Your light; that when I begin to be afraid, I may feel the touch of Your hand: "do not be afraid." Strengthen my trust in You, and let me, coming down the mountain, see with new eyes all that waits for me and for those I love. Glory to You in the morning's glimmer, glory to You in the day's burden, glory to You even where only a lamp flickers in the dark. Amen.
Good morning, Lord. Here I am, just as I am, with yesterday's tiredness and today's things not yet begun. Before I ask for anything, let me say this first: thank You. Thank You for this breath, for this quiet minute, and that You call me up the mountain to Yourself before I have earned anything.
I know the noise in me: the clamor from outside and the restlessness within that drowns out Your voice. Today I will not promise that it will be quiet in me all day. I only ask: when the many voices sweep me off again, let me hear the one from the cloud: "This is my beloved Son; listen to Him." And let me turn toward You.
I entrust to You my family and those I love. Especially those groping now in the dark below, who cannot see the way out. I cannot carry them up the mountain in their place; I can only bring them to You and ask that You light a lamp for them too. I entrust to You my work, my decisions, my fears. Teach me to see from the side of Your light everything that looks like a giant down below.
And if today I fall on my face, afraid, do not let me stay on the ground. Come over, touch me, and say to me too: "Rise, and do not be afraid." Strengthen my trust in You. It is enough for me to know this, and to stand up. Amen.
Stay quiet for a minute on the mountain. Don't solve anything; just let the light shine on you, and the morning star rise in you.
Today's song is built around a single image: the Light of the world stepped down into the dark to open our eyes. This is exactly what happens on the mountain: the light does not only shine, it lets us see. If today you catch yourself with the noise below drowning out the Voice, sing this instead: "here I am to worship." Don't let it play as background; let it become a prayer, and carry you up the mountain.
Here I Am to Worship (Light of the World)
Tim Hughes · worship song (on the Light of the world who stepped into the dark)
▶Listen on YouTubeDon't measure the day from the noise below, but from the side of the light. Go up the mountain for a minute with Jesus, and say: strengthen my trust.
The heart of today's companion was the Cistercian House message for the day: "Strengthen your trust in Me!", woven together with the Feast of the Transfiguration. The verse comes from one of the day's readings (2 Peter 1:19: the lamp shining in a dark place, until the morning star rises in our hearts). The image of climbing the mountain is from Barsi Balázs's Daily Attunement ("Up Mount Tabor with Jesus": we should climb daily to see things in their true proportion from above, and pray until we recognize with our whole being who Jesus is). "Rise and do not be afraid," and the inner and outer noise that drowns out "listen to Him," are from the Regnum Christi meditation (Mt 17:1-9); the thought of releasing anxiety is from the A Miracle Every Day letter. The Gospel is from the Daily Gospel. First15, Daily Hope, and Jesus Calling had not yet arrived for today's date; Lectio 365 and Our Daily Bread were not available. Today's feast is the Transfiguration of the Lord, so the footer quote is drawn from the rotating saints' quotes.
The companions of earlier mornings gather in one place. Yesterday the Lord spoke of sitting at His table already in the middle of the battle, because He loves us with an everlasting love; today He calls us up the mountain, to see from the side of His light all that looks like a giant down below, and to have our trust in Him strengthened: "Rise, and do not be afraid."