Just prior to this week’s Passion narrative in St. Matthew’s Gospel, there is a small, striking story describing a woman’s scandalous action toward Jesus: “A woman came up to him with an alabaster jar of costly perfumed oil, and poured it on his head” (Matthew 26:7). The ointment was pure nard, worth more than 300 denarii. A year’s wages. Maybe a dowry, maybe a family inheritance. In any case, she breaks it. She does not measure or ration. She pours it all out, irreversibly, over Jesus. Why does this image begin Holy Week?

A friend of mine wrote an imaginative reflection on the raising of Lazarus that caught me off guard. She proposed that when Jesus called Lazarus from the tomb, the man was not joyful but angry and annoyed. After so much suffering, maybe death felt like a release. He had finally escaped the pain. And then, suddenly, Jesus' voice cuts through the silence: "Lazarus, come out!" (John 11:43) The light stings his eyes. The pain returns. And now he is dragged back into a world that had broken him.

If you are like me, it’s easy to fixate on our shadows: failures, guilt, shame. Especially when we suffer, it is easy to want to blame ourselves or others. In this week’s Gospel, Jesus’ disciples ask about the blind man, “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents?” (John 9:2) They, like us, focus on blame. But Jesus sees the entire situation differently: “Neither he nor his parents sinned; it is so that the works of God might be made visible through him.”

Recently I received a note from a teenager I met years ago. He wrote, “Dear Father Muir, you probably do not remember me, but I wanted to thank you for your inspiring and humorous homilies at the parish. They helped me appreciate the beauty of Catholicism, which I have now embraced in a personal way.” That small note moved me more than he probably imagined. I had no idea my words had taken root in him. I was simply sowing seeds — week by week, Mass by Mass. Someone else — his parents, a youth minister, or God Himself — was doing the deeper work. Now this young man is joyfully reaping a harvest of faith.

When I sit down to answer emails or write a Gospel reflection or return a phone call, I sometimes wonder: Does any of this humdrum work matter? Maybe you ask the same thing about your daily labor. Today’s Gospel, the Transfiguration, offers a surprising answer.

Jesus leads Peter, James, and John up a mountain. There, “his face shone like the sun face and his clothes become white as light” (Matthew 17:2). That detail regarding his clothes is worth considering.