A Lenten Homily given by Fr. William Duffell to the Sisters of Charity of New York on March 1, 2026
On this Second Sunday of Lent, we stand with Abram under a wide, unknown sky, and with Peter, James, and John on a mountain washed in light. In Genesis, the Lord says to Abram: “Go from your country… to a land that I will show you.” Abram is already advanced in years when that call comes. It is not a call to youth and adventure; it is a call to trust, late in life, when routines are settled and plans are already made. Yet he goes. He walks into a future held only by God’s promise.
Many of you know that kind of call. You heard it once as a young woman, when you left home and entered the Sisters of Charity of New York. You entrusted your future, your dreams, your gifts to the Lord. But the story did not end with first vows or first assignments. God has kept calling—in every transfer, every ministry change, every illness, every loss, every homecoming to the motherhouse, every quiet morning when the schedule looks less full but the heart still listens. Abram reminds us that God does not stop calling when we grow older; God deepens the call. Lent asks: What is the Lord inviting me to leave behind now, at this age, so that I can move again toward a land that God will show—perhaps a land of reconciliation, of simplification, of deeper prayer, of gratitude?
In the second reading, Paul tells Timothy that we have been “called to a holy life—not according to our works but according to God’s own design and grace.” Holiness is God’s project before it is ours. For many of you, that may come as a gentle relief. You have already poured out your strength in teaching, nursing, administration, pastoral work, hidden intercession, and faithful presence. You have borne the weight of communities, institutions, and families. Today, as the body slows and the list of what you “can no longer do” grows, it is easy to measure yourselves by activity and feel diminished. But Paul insists that holiness is grace: something God is doing in you, even now, perhaps especially now, when your primary ministry may be to receive, to bless, to remember, and to pray.
Then we go up the mountain with Jesus. He takes Peter, James, and John aside, and he is transfigured before them: his face shines like the sun, his clothes become dazzling white. Moses and Elijah appear—figures of the Law and the Prophets—speaking with him. And from the cloud the Father’s voice is heard: “This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased; listen to him.” It is a moment of unbearable beauty, a glimpse of the glory that lies beyond the cross. Some writers say that Jesus shows this glory to strengthen the disciples for what is coming, to give them a memory of light strong enough to carry them through Gethsemane and Calvary.
Many of you carry such “mountaintop” memories in your own story: the joy of first profession, the energy of a new mission, a classroom full of eager faces, a patient’s hand squeezed in gratitude, a community liturgy that seemed to touch heaven, a chapter where the Spirit clearly moved, a mission field that expanded your heart. Those moments were not illusions; they were real gifts, real glimpses of God’s glory shining through your life and ministry. Lent invites you to gather those memories not as nostalgia, but as food for the journey—like the disciples remembering Tabor when they could no longer see anything but the cross.
Notice, though, what happens next. Peter, overwhelmed, wants to build three tents and stay there. But the cloud overshadows them; the disciples fall to the ground in fear. And then comes one of the most tender gestures in the Gospel: Jesus comes to them, touches them, and says, “Rise, and do not be afraid.” When they raise their eyes, they see no one but Jesus alone. The vision fades. The glory withdraws. There is only Jesus—ordinary-looking, walking back down the mountain toward Jerusalem, toward suffering, toward apparent failure. Yet the Father’s word remains: “Listen to him.”
For many us, life now can feel like the “after” of the Transfiguration. The shining moments of active ministry seem to be behind us. The world moves quickly; structures you helped build change or disappear; ministries you founded continue without you or not at all. It can feel like coming down the mountain into a valley of diminishment or uncertainty. In that place, today’s Gospel gives three consolations.
First, the Father’s voice still speaks over us in Christ: “This is my beloved.” Your worth has never depended on productivity, titles, or schedules, but on the Father’s delight in you as daughters in the Son. That word is as true in a wheelchair or on a walker as it was at your first assignment; as true in the quiet of the chapel as it was in the bustle of the classroom or hospital.
Second, Jesus still touches you and says, “Rise, and do not be afraid.” The “rising” he asks of you now may not be physical; it may be the rising of the heart from discouragement, from regret, from the temptation to think your time is over and your story complete. It may be the willingness to wake each morning and say, “Lord, I am still here. Use me as you will—in my prayer, my smile, my listening, my suffering offered quietly for the Church and the world.”
Third, when the dazzling lights fade, the Gospel tells us, “they saw no one but Jesus alone.” Perhaps this is the deepest grace of later life: to have the secondary lights gently dim, so that only the face of Jesus remains. Roles, recognition, responsibilities—all these pass. Jesus remains. Lent can be, for you, a slow, loving gaze at him alone: in the Scriptures, in the Eucharist, in the faces of those who care for you and those you live with, in the poor and suffering whom you hold daily in intercession.
There is also a word to the whole Church in this assembly. You, our elders—especially you women religious—are not a “finished chapter” but living icons of what we all are becoming. You show us that vocation is a lifelong journey, that trust does not retire, that fidelity can stretch across decades, that the body’s frailty can become a transparent window for grace. You teach us how to age as disciples: with humor, patience, realism, and hope. You teach us how to die, eventually, as believers in the Resurrection: not as people clinging to what we cannot keep, but as those who have already practiced letting go, again and again, into the arms of God.
As we continue this Eucharist, we bring to the altar the long story of your “yes”: all the classrooms, hospital rooms, parish halls, meetings, retreats, missions, and quiet nights of prayer; all the people you have loved, taught, healed, and reconciled; all the sorrows you have borne and the hopes you have carried. We ask the Lord to weave all of that into the mystery we celebrate here: the Paschal journey from cross to glory. For in the end, what we glimpse on the mountain today is our own destiny in Christ. One day, the light that shone from his face will be the light that shines through you, fully, forever. Until then, we walk together, like Abram, trusting the promise; like Peter, James, and John, remembering the light; and like Jesus, setting our faces toward the Father’s will.
So in this Lent, let us ask for three simple graces: to hear again our name spoken in love, to rise without fear in whatever way we can, and to keep our eyes fixed on Jesus alone. And let us entrust these days of prayer and penance to Mary, who pondered everything in her heart, and to the communion of saints—including those of your own congregations who already see the glory that today we only glimpse. May the Lord, who began this good work in you long ago, bring it to completion in the radiant light of Easter. Amen.
