Sunday, April 30, 2017

Claiming the Promise

3rd Sunday of Easter (A)

Readings: Acts 2:14, 22-33; Psalm 16:1-2, 5, 7-8, 9-10, 11; 1 Peter 1:17-21; Luke 24:13-35
When you're down and troubled,
And you need some lovin’ care.
And nothing, nothing is going right.
Just close your eyes and think of me,
And soon I will be there
To brighten up even your darkest night.
You just call out my name,
And you know wherever I am,
I'll come running, to see you again.
Winter, spring, summer or fall,
All you've got to do is call.
And I'll be there. You’ve got a friend.
My dear friends, I think some of you may recognise these words. They are taken from a song from the 1970s. Do you remember what the song is about? It’s meaning can perhaps be summed up in four words. All beginning with the letter “P”. The first word is promise. The song is a promise made by someone to someone else.

And this promise has to do with a kind of power. The power to transform sadness to joy. Darkness to light. Loneliness to companionship. The one who is down and troubled, the one who needs some lovin’ care, is promised the power to brighten up even the darkest night. How does this happen? It happens through the third “P” word: presence. Not just any presence. But the presence of someone who cares. Someone who will come running in times of trouble.

But in order for this presence and power to be felt, the promise needs to be claimed. The person going through a hard time has to do something. To engage in certain practices. The fourth “P” word. Close your eyes and think of me… just call out my name… Winter, spring, summer or fall, all you've got to do is call. And I'll be there. You’ve got a friend…

A moving promise of power flowing from presence and practice. Promise and power. Presence and practice. This is what the song is about. And this is also what we find in our readings on this third Sunday of Easter. As we ponder more deeply what the Resurrection of Christ means for us. 

In the responsorial psalm, we find someone in trouble. What does the person do? He engages in certain practices. He cries out to God. Preserve me God, I take refuge in you. He takes shelter in God. And he experiences the fulfilment of God’s promise. He feels the powerful presence of God. Changing sadness to joy. Darkness to light. You will show me the path of life, the fullness of joy in your presence, at your right hand happiness for ever.

In the first reading, Peter interprets the words of this psalm as applying to Christ the Lord. Jesus is the one who faced the darkness of the Cross. And, in his suffering, the Lord engaged in the practice of crying out to his Father. Who came running to his side. Allowing him to experience God’s powerful presence, transforming death into life. You killed him, but God raised him up.

But Jesus is not the only one in our readings who experiences the fulfilment of this wonderful promise. His disciples do too. At the beginning of the gospel reading, Cleopas and his unnamed companion are in a very dark place. Their Master and Lord has been crucified. Their hopes have been dashed. And they are walking away from Jerusalem. The place of their dreams. Yet, in their darkness, something happens to them. They somehow receive power.

At the end of the reading, we find them changing directions. Even though night has already fallen, they run excitedly back to the place from which they had been trying to escape. How does this come about? This power comes to them when they are brought into the presence of the Crucified and Risen Lord. A presence that they experience by engaging in certain practices. As they walk together on the road, they share their disappointments with one another. And this openness somehow attracts the Lord to them. He helps them to let the scriptures shed light on their pain. Was it not ordained that the Christ should suffer and so enter into his glory? And gradually, they are transformed. Their broken hearts burn once again with faith and hope.

But that’s not all, after they’ve reached Emmaus, the two disciples engage in further practices. They invite Jesus to break bread with them. And as they are gathered around the table with the Lord, their once unseeing eyes finally recognise the gentle yet powerful presence of a friend.

Power and presence. Coming to those who engage in certain practices. This is how God’s promise is fulfilled. The same promise that is fulfilled in the Death and Resurrection of Christ. The promise that darkness will be changed to Light. Death transformed into Life. This same promise is addressed to us as well. To you and to me. And to all who may find ourselves facing difficult times.

But in order for this promise to be fulfilled, we need to claim it for ourselves. By engaging in the right practices. As the second reading tells us, we must be scrupulously careful to remember that the ransom paid to free us was not paid in silver nor gold, but in the precious blood of a lamb without spot or stain…

We need to call out to Christ, by remembering the price he paid to set us free. Isn’t this what we do here at Mass? As we allow ourselves to be gathered by the Lord, around this ambo and that altar, we bring with us our broken hearts. Hearts broken not just by events in our personal lives. But also by what we see happening in the world around us. We bring the places in our hearts that have been touched by darkness and death. And we cry out to the Lord. We allow him to explain the scriptures to us. To show us how it relates to our lives and our world. We watch as he breaks the bread of his Body. The Real Presence of Christ that becomes food for our souls. Mending our broken hearts. Setting them on fire with the power to go out and to do the same for others.

Winter, spring, summer or fall, all you've got to do is call. And He'll be there. You’ve got a friend…

My dear sisters and brothers, how shall we continue calling upon Jesus, our Crucified and Risen Friend, today?

Saturday, April 15, 2017

From Place to Place

Easter Vigil (A)

Heal the world. Make it a better place,
for you and for me, and the entire human race…

My dear friends, do any of you still remember these words? They are taken, of course, from the chorus of an old Michael Jackson song from the 1990s. Do you remember what the song is about? It calls everyone to do something important. Something urgent. To heal the world. To make it a better place. And it’s not difficult to see why. It’s because the world is broken. There are people dying. From starvation and disease. From war and conflict. From loneliness and neglect. People are dying. So heal the world. Make it a better place…

And how do we do this? Where do we start? The song tells us in its opening verse…

There's a place in your heart, and I know that it is love. And this place could be much brighter than tomorrow. And if you really try, you’ll find there's no need to cry.
In this place you will feel there's no hurt or sorrow…

According to the song, we heal the broken exterior place that is our world by first finding a safe interior place. A location within our hearts that the song calls love. Apparently, if we really try to find this place inside ourselves, we will also discover the energy we need to reach out and to heal the world. So goes the song.

To move from inner place to outer place. To first find love here in our hearts. In order to then move out and heal the world out there. Sounds like a plan. Except that it’s easier said than done. For isn’t brokenness to be found not just in the big bad and pitiful world out there, but also in our own hearts as well? Don’t we often struggle to find and to sustain the love that we need to care for our own family and friends on a daily basis? Let alone to repair the whole wide world? Don’t our best efforts at reaching out sometimes result in more harm than good? We exploit instead of repair. Oppress rather than heal.

If the healing of the world truly depends on love, then surely we need to find a more reliable and consistent source. A better place than our own poor broken hearts. A place where love flows without pause or limit or hidden agenda. Where brokenness finds true healing… Where exactly is this place? What does it look like? How can it be found? These are the questions that our readings help us to ponder on this joyous Easter night.

Notice how, in all our readings tonight, reference is made to various places. Places that God provides. Places in which human beings can live and flourish. In the first reading this place is called the earth. God goes to great lengths to make it fit for human life. But to live in this place is not just a physical project. It is also a spiritual one. It requires obedience to God’s command. Be fruitful and multiply. Fill the earth and conquer it. Care for this place as a God-given responsibility. Instead of selfishly exploiting it as a mere resource.

In the second reading, God invites Abraham to go to a particular place. A certain mountain in the land of Moriah. Again, this is not just a geographic location, but a spiritual place. The place of trust and obedience. Of worship and sacrifice. Abraham is able to find and to remain in this place, because he trusts God enough to obey God’s command. He holds nothing back. Not even his only and much beloved son, Isaac. As a result, Abraham experiences God’s generous providence. On the mountain, the Lord provides

In the third reading too, we find God providing people with safe places. Pursued by the Egyptian army, the Israelites are led into the waters of the Red Sea. But instead of drowning, they find safe passage. God creates a road for them. A way from danger to safety. From certain death to new life. Eventually leading them to the Promised Land.

But, again, it’s important to see that the Promised Land is not just a physical place. It is, above all, a spiritual one. To live there is to remain faithful to God. But the people fail. They worship false gods. And end up in exile. Not just exile from their homeland. But exile from God. In the four readings from the prophets, God promises to bring the people back. But notice how this is described in terms of relationship. I did forsake you for a brief moment, God says, but with great love I will take you back… My love for you will never leave you… Pay attention, come to me…  listen, and your soul will live… Had you walked in the way of God, you would have lived in peace for ever… God promises to gather the people back to God himself. Enfolding them in God’s embrace.

And God promises to do this by cleansing them. By pouring clean water over them. By giving them a new heart. By putting a new spirit in them. For us Christians, this promise finds its fulfilment in baptism. Which for us is much more than just getting our heads and clothes wet. As St. Paul reminds us, when we were baptised we went into the tomb with Christ. We joined him in death. We died to our old selfish ways of life. So that as Christ was raised from the dead… we too might live a new life. A life of love. A life with Christ in God.

To be baptised–as you, our beloved elect will be, later tonight–to be baptised, is to be transported to a location in Mystery. To be brought to live in a special spiritual Place. A Place that is also a Person. The Crucified and Risen Christ. From whose pierced side flows the constant stream of God’s undying love. Here we finally arrive at that place that Michael Jackson was looking for in human hearts. That truly reliable and consistent source of love that alone is capable of healing our world. Except that this place is more than just an interior space.

Notice how, when the two Mary’s visit the tomb of Jesus in the gospel, they are told by an angel to go to a another location. To go to Galilee. Again, this is a spiritual place. Galilee is where Jesus carried out his public ministry. And, after his Dying and Rising, this ministry now extends to the whole world. To go to Galilee is to do what Jesus did. The same thing that Michael Jackson wanted everyone to do. To heal the world. Except that now, this work of healing doesn’t have to be something draining. No. Through the Dying and Rising of Christ, the work of healing has become instead something that energises. For the angel promises that, even out there in Galilee, we will see him. There, in the work of healing the world, we find Christ the Lord himself. Continually filling us with his power. Faithfully energising us to share his merciful love with a broken world.

Heal the world. Make it a better place, for you and for me, and the entire human race… To do this is to allow ourselves to be brought to that other Place who is Christ. Christ Crucified and Risen. Whom we joyously celebrate on this most holy night.

My dear sister and brothers, what must we do to continue seeking and remaining in this marvellous and mysterious Place, today and every day, for the rest of our lives?

Sunday, April 09, 2017

The Delicacy Beyond Disgust

Palm Sunday of the Passion of the Lord (A)

Picture: cc momovieman

[Brief Homily at Solemn Entrance: The Importance of the Donkey

My dear children, brothers and sisters. We have with us today a VVIA. A very very important animal. Do you know what it is? Yes, it’s a little donkey. And do you know why this donkey is important. Not all donkeys are important. But this particular donkey is important, because it has been chosen by the King. Chosen to carry the King.

And this is a very unusual choice. Because kings usually ride big horses. Not little donkeys. The choice of the little donkey shows us the kind of king we have. The kind of king described in the gospel reading. A king who is not proud and haughty. But lowly and humble. Not bossy and arrogant. But loving and kind. A king who comes not be served but to serve. And to give his life to set us free.

My friends, this is why this little donkey is important. It reminds us of the kind of king we have. And it invites us to follow this king more closely. To be loving and kind to one another. To love and to serve others. Together, let us now follow this donkey. Especially as we begin Holy Week. Let us follow this donkey. As it leads us nearer to our king. And draws us closer to one another…]


My dear friends, do you like durians? Even if you do, don’t you sometimes marvel at the different reactions that they evoke? On the one hand, because of their strong smell, many people actually feel disgusted by them. Find them repulsive. But then, on the other hand, there are also many who love them. Think they are delicious. For some reason, these people are able to overcome their repulsion. They manage to enjoy the delicacy buried beneath that disgusting smell. How do they do it?

To find and to savour the delicacy in what at first may look like an object of disgust. I’m not sure if you will agree with me, sisters and brothers. But I believe that this is also the challenge that Holy Week presents to us. For, over the next seven days, what our liturgy invites us to do is to listen to a marvellous story. To watch an inspiring drama. The story and the drama of Jesus’ final hours on this earth. The Passion, Death and Resurrection of Christ.

And isn’t it true that, not unlike the smell of durians, this story, this drama, is something that some of us may actually find repulsive? For what can be more difficult to stomach than the sight of a lively intelligent young man, being cruelly cut down in the prime of his life? Tortured and killed by his enemies. After having been betrayed and abandoned by his friends.

Nor is this the only reason why we may find it difficult to listen to this story. To watch this drama. For isn’t it true that, beyond the tragedy of torture and the pain of betrayal, what some of us may find even more off-putting is simply the fact that we know this story so very well. Or at least we think we do. Having heard it told again and again, so many times before. As they say, familiarity breeds contempt. So that the moment we hear the story’s beginning, our eyes quickly glaze over with boredom. Our minds drift into daydreams and distraction.

Nor does it help that the reading of the Lord’s Passion is so very long. So much longer than what we are used to on an ordinary Sunday. And what’s even worse is that, in Holy Week, we are made to listen to this same old story being recounted, exactly as we find it in the gospels, not just once, but twice. In two different versions. Matthew’s version today. And John’s on Good Friday. How can we reasonably be expected to endure such torture? Let alone find meaning in what we hear. Or be touched by the earth-shattering events that are being retold? How can we go beyond our disgust? In order to truly enjoy the delicacy buried beneath?

Perhaps what we need is what the prophet says God has given him, in the first reading. Each morning (the Lord) wakes me to hear, to listen like a disciple. The Lord has opened my ear…. For my part I made no resistance….  Open and unresisting ears allowing him to listen like a disciple. This is what the prophet receives from God. And, especially in Holy Week, this is also what we need most of all. What we need to pray for most earnestly. To beg God to open the eyes and ears of our hearts. So that we can listen more closely. Can see more deeply. So that we may truly be moved by the story of Christ’s Dying and Rising. May truly enjoy the delicacy hidden beneath what may at first appear to be nothing more than a cause for boredom. An object of disgust.

To see and to hear, to savour and even to enjoy the profound mystery that is described so powerfully in the second reading. The mystery of the selfless sacrifice of Christ. The story of how the One whose state was divine did not cling to his equality with God but emptied himself to assume the condition of a slave. Laying down his life for me. So that I might live.

To be able to appreciate this wondrous mystery in the liturgy is truly a great blessing. For when my senses are opened in this way, not only will I be able to find Christ in the readings and prayers recited in church. More importantly, I will also be able to find and to meet the Lord, as he continues dying and rising in the ordinary situations of my daily life. And, in meeting him, I will be better able to find meaning in even the most routine of days. The most challenging of circumstances.

My dear friends, although some may be disgusted by durians, others find in them a delicacy. In this most holy of weeks, what must we do, you and I, to find and to enjoy the delicacy who is Christ? The One who dies and rises to set his people free?

Sunday, April 02, 2017

When Someone Weeps...

5th Sunday in Lent (A) (3rd Scrutiny)

Picture: cc Phil Warren

My dear friends, have you ever come across a grown person weeping? Perhaps a spouse or a sibling. A friend or a colleague. How do you react? What do you do? How do you feel? I’m not sure about you, but I have to confess that my typical first reaction is to do one of two things. The first is to avoid the person. I may tell myself that he/she needs to be left alone. Given space to let it all out, without feeling embarrassed. 

But, if avoidance is not possible, the second typical reaction is to try to figure out and to solve the problem. Whatever it is that’s making the person cry. Of course, this isn’t always possible. For example, the person may be crying because a loved one is stricken with terminal cancer. No way for me to solve that. What to do? Well, the next best thing, it seems, is to give advice. I may tell the person to seek a second medical opinion. Or look on the bright side. Or pray. Pray to God. Pray to Mary. Pray to St. Jude, the patron saint of desperate cases. Go for a healing service…

Of course, in my quieter moments, I realise why I react like this. Why I choose either to avoid or to solve the problem. Both reactions are born of the same thing: my own discomfort. For some reason tears make me uncomfortable. Avoidance and problem-solving or advice-giving are just my ways of dealing with the discomfort. And, by doing this, by acting only out of my own discomfort, I fail to pay proper attention to the one weeping.

To actually pay attention to the one who is weeping. To simply be present to the person as he/she weeps. To allow the person to choose to be silent or to speak. To be open enough even to feel whatever it is the person may be feeling. In other words to first be willing to accompany and to be affected by the person. That’s the challenge I face whenever I encounter someone weeping. The challenge first to listen and to feel. To accompany and to be affected. Before deciding what other actions to take.

This seems also to be the challenge posed to us by our Mass readings today. For here too, we find people weeping. In particular, we find Jesus himself weeping. What is our reaction to this? How do we feel? What do we do? Again, perhaps the temptation for me is to allow my discomfort to get the better of me. Causing me to avoid the weeping. Or to problem-solve. To simply ignore the tears. Or to try to distract myself from them. But what happens when I actually pay attention? What happens when I allow myself to be affected by the tears? These are the questions that help me reflect more deeply on our readings. To penetrate the profound mystery that they contain.

What happens when we remain with Jesus, the Word-Made-Flesh and Splendour-of-the-Father, the Son-of-God and Son-of-Mary, as he weeps at the tomb of his friend Lazarus? Very likely, we will each have different initial reactions. Mine is strangely one of puzzlement. There is something I don’t understand. Something I want to ask the One weeping. The question is why? Why are you weeping, Lord? The gospel tells us that you experience great distress, when you see the tears of Mary and her companions. And that this distress moves you to shed tears at the tomb. And yet, don’t you know already that you are about to raise your friend to life? In fact, didn’t you deliberately delay your arrival at Bethany by two days? Presumably to allow Lazarus to die, so that you might raise him up again? Why then do you weep? What is the true cause of your grief?

I can’t be sure, sisters and brothers, but when I address this question to the Lord, he seems to invite me to find the answer in the rest of our readings. Through the first reading, he reminds me that it is not just individual persons who die. That there is a kind of death that afflicts whole peoples as well. The kind that afflicted the people to whom the prophet Ezekiel was sent. A people in exile. Far from God. A people who seem to be alive. But whom God considers dead. As dead as a bunch of bones, strewn out in the open, and dried by the scorching sun. It is to these dry bones, this dead people, that God’s promise in the first reading is addressed: I am going to raise you from your graves, my people…. I shall put my spirit in you, and you will live… 

But what exactly does this kind of death look and feel like? Does it afflict only the people of long ago? Or does it not also afflict us as well. We the people of this modern day? We who seem so very much alive. More alive than any of our ancestors ever were. We who enjoy the benefits of science and technology. Which enable us to live longer and healthier than ever before.

And yet, the second reading reminds us that to truly be alive is not just a matter of carrying out the biological functions of breath and digestion, of movement and thought. But to be able somehow to please God. And we’re told that people who are interested in unspiritual things can never be pleasing to God. People whose attention is focused only on the mechanics of daily living. However important these may be. People whose every waking moment is occupied by thoughts of eating and drinking. Of buying and selling. Of work and entertainment. People whose lives have become so painfully empty and so desperately dry. Without them even realising it. People whose self-centredness have gradually made them lose the capacity to feel, to truly feel, the pain of others. To be moved, as Jesus was moved, to accompany those who suffer. To be affected by the sorrows of another.

Could it be that it is also for all these spiritually dead people, among whom I may include myself? Could it be that it is also for them, for me, that Jesus weeps? Could it be that it is my suffering that causes the Lord to be moved to the very depths of his being. Causing him to experience deep distress. And to sigh. And to cry. And not just to cry. But also, soon after, to climb up that lonely hill called Calvary. And there to lay down his life on a cruel Cross, that I may live. May truly live, to the full, the life he calls me to live. The life in God’s Spirit. The life of love and joy and peace in the sight of God and of God’s people.

And while Jesus may have been confident that Lazarus would respond when he called to him. Perhaps the Lord is as yet unsure of how the rest of us will respond. Of how I will respond when he calls me out. Perhaps he knows quite well that there will be some who will refuse to come forth. Those who, having become so accustomed to the darkness, will actually be reluctant to walk into the light. Will choose to cling to selfish concerns, instead of coming to the Lord, and reaching out to those in need.

Isn’t this why we continue with our Lenten discipline? Which is fast coming to a close. Isn’t this why you, the Elect, are celebrating your 3rd and final scrutiny today? We prepare our hearts to respond ever more courageously and generously to the Lord, as he calls us from darkness to light. From death to life.

My dear friends, there is Someone among us who stands before us weeping. He weeps not just for Lazarus. But also for us. For you and for me. How will you respond to his call today?

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