I have never been to Rome, but I’ve been to the Rockies. No offence, Michelangelo, but no Renaissance glory can compare to the majesty of Creation. 
            I suppose this is why I love the story of the Lord’s Transfiguration atop Mt. Tabor. It is not your typical Gospel passage in which Jesus teaches the crowds, feeds the hungry or heals the sick. Rather, he invites three friends to go mountain climbing with him. 
            My home is the flatlands of the Midwest. Around the time of my mid-life crisis, I had the chance to join a group of men from my parish on a horseback trip along Colorado's Continental Divide. With a wilderness guide named Pete to lead us,  we spent a week campong, fishing and marveling at the majesty of the mountains. 
            For this priest, it was the trip of a lifetime. Never had I witnessed the brute power of a horse scaling thousand-foot peaks. Never had I known the bonds of brotherhood formed in situations of fear and rescue. Now, each time I read the account of the Transfiguation on Mount Tabor, I cannot help but nod in agreement with St. Peter: “Lord, it is good to be here! ”
            But then, my mind shifts to the Pete, the guide on our trip. In addition to his back-packing gig,  Pete owned a liquor store, a bar and worked as bail bondsman on the side (business professionals call this "vertical integration"). Interestingly enough, he also served as a parish catechist and was the Grand Knight of the local K of C council. 
             Each morning, after the horses were saddled, Pete led us in prayer and it did not take me long to realize the necessity of this act of worship. The trip entail dangers at every turn in the trail. 
            Since that excursion, mountain ranges have served as templates for parish life. When I witness a middle-aged son maneuvering his elderly father's wheelchair into church,  for instance, I think of twisting paths along cliffs of granite. When a parishioner speaks about chemotherapy treatments, I recall the ginger steps of my mount on knife-edge switchbacks. When an addict gives an account of his addiction, I recall stumbling down a scree of rock, only to grab a boulder to prevent a downward plunge to disaster.
            Such are the companions and guides I behold each Sunday at Holy Mass, the Sacred Liturgy, the “source and summit” of our life in God.

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