Between Power & Parking

Solemnity of Our Lord Jesus Christ,

King of the Universe (B)

Readings: Daniel 7:13-14; Psalm 92 (93):1-2, 5; Apocalypse 1:5-8; John 18:33-37

Picture: By m on Unsplash

My dear friends, what is the first thing that comes to mind when we hear the word, ruler? Given the feast we’re celebrating today, it’s natural to think of a king or queen, or a boss. Someone who calls the shots, who wields power, and exercises control. But back when I was still in primary school, the word ruler brought to mind something quite different: a slim rectangular piece of wood, or plastic, used to measure distances, and to draw straight lines… A wielder of power, and a measure of straightness. The word ruler actually means both these things. Which reminds me of an experience I sometimes have, after stepping out of a car I’ve just parked. I look down at the lines painted on the road, and realise that my car is very crooked. As the driver of the vehicle, I’m the ruler, the one in control. And yet, my parking skills have just been ruled by those lines, and found to be seriously lacking. Don’t we find something similar in our scriptures today?

In the gospel, it seems quite clear who is calling the shots, who are the ones in control. As governor, Pilate has the power to decide, either to condemn Jesus, or to set him free. And we know that the chief priests are also pulling the strings behind the scenes. Pressuring and manipulating the governor to do what they want. This is how power works in the world. This is what earthly rule looks like. In contrast, Jesus seems utterly power-less. His fate lies in the hands of others.

But isn’t the Lord also ruling in a different sense? By humbly accepting the consequences of preaching the gospel, refusing either to back down or to run away, doesn’t Jesus uncover the injustice of his persecutors? Just as the lines on the road quietly show up the inadequacies of my parking skills, so too does the Lord’s Passion and Death reveal the crookedness of the world around him. Not just of Pilate and the chief priests, but also the crowds they mobilise, as well as the respective institutions and cultures they each represent. Isn’t this why the Lord says, my kingdom is not of this kind? The rule that Jesus exercises before Pilate, is not that of worldly power and control, but of God’s righteousness and truth. By the Lord’s brave witness to the truth, the values of this world are clearly shown to be seriously lacking.

And for those who have the courage to see it, isn’t this lack still very much on display today? When so many continue to suffer the effects of injustice in various forms. Civilians targetted in violent conflicts. Migrants exploited by ruthless human-traffickers. Refugees displaced by ever more intense natural disasters. Ecosystems destroyed by corporate greed. Frail senior citizens still struggling to eke out a living. Promising young people beset with mounting mental health challenges… Faced with these and many other examples of the crookedness of our world, isn’t it easy for us either to cover our eyes in apathy, or to throw up our hands in despair? Yet our scriptures offer us an alternative response.

Both the first and second readings invite us to dare to hope for the dawning of a new day. The coming of a different time. A moment when the two meanings of rule will coincide in a single person. When Jesus, our Crucified and Risen Lord, the faithful witness, and Ruler of the kings of the earth, will finally come in power and glory. And then, like it or not, everyone will see him, and face the final consequences of one’s acceptance or rejection of his kingship.

But that’s not all. While we wait and prepare for the day that’s yet to come, the second reading also reminds us of what Christ has already done for us. What we celebrate at this and at every Mass. Not only has he washed away our sins with his blood, he has also made us a line of kings, priests to serve… God… In other words, like the One whom we profess to follow, we too are called to be rulers. Not in the worldly sense of power and control. But in the Christian sense of bearing witness to righteousness and truth. Through the lives we live, and the values we embody, we are called to keep standing and speaking on the side of the Lord, on the side of truth, on the side of the poor, the vulnerable and voiceless. So that together, and each in our own way, we may all contribute to uncovering and even counteracting the crookedness that still remains within, among, and around us.

Sisters and brothers, in a world where many are often anxiously jostling to occupy the driver’s seat, how is the Lord calling us to become more like lines on the ground, ruling less by power and control, than by righteousness and truth today?

Beyond the Hoarding & Through the Veil

33rd Sunday in Ordinary Time (B)

Readings: Daniel 12:1-3; Psalm 15 (16):5, 8-11; Hebrews 10:11-14, 18; Mark 13:24-32

Picture: cc Matt Brown on Flickr

My dear friends, when was the last time you looked at an artist’s impression of something? How did it make you feel? We often rely on artists to help us see things that are hidden in some way. For example, it was reported on Friday that a new waterfront development has just broken ground on Sentosa. It’s scheduled for completion in 2030. Which means, right now, we can’t see what the finished product will look like, since it doesn’t exist yet. Like the hoarding around a construction site, time hides it from our eyes. Thankfully, the news report provides two artist’s impressions, which help us imagine what is to come… And it’s not just time that causes things to be hidden from us. Certain life experiences can have a similar effect. Do any examples come to mind? How about trauma? Isn’t it true that traumatic experiences can shock our hearts to such a degree that we become blind to the possibilities of hope, and need help to see again? Isn’t this what our scriptures do for us today?

In both the first reading and the gospel, we find a form of literature called apocalyptic. A kind of writing that aims to reveal or un-veil hidden things. It’s likely that each of these passages was written at least partly in response to the desecration of the Temple in Jerusalem. First by the Greeks, in the 2nd century BC, and then by the Romans in the 1st century AD. The Jews believed that the Temple was where God had chosen to make a home among them. It was a tangible reminder that God is both with us and for us. So how traumatic it must have been for them when it was desecrated. Perhaps at least as traumatic as watching one’s parish priest being assaulted at Mass, or losing a beloved child to suicide. And just as the hoarding of time prevents us from seeing what an unfinished building project will eventually look like, the experience of trauma acts like a veil, covering up any reasons we may have for hope. After all, what possible future might there be for us, if even our loving God has forsaken us?

In response, both the first reading and the gospel provide something like an artist’s impression, helping the people to imagine a hope-filled future. Three aspects in this image are worth highlighting: a turning point, a heavenly figure, and an assurance of eternity. Even though they are suffering now, even though they may still be blinded by shock and grief, the people are invited to look ahead to a different time. To a moment when the tables will be turned. When the powers of this world will be shaken, and those presently in distress will be rescued and gathered into safety. And this turning point will be brought about by a heavenly figure. In the first reading, it is the angel Michael, the great prince who mounts guard over (the) people. In the gospel, it is the Son of Man (Jesus himself) coming in the clouds with great power and glory. Both these figures will gather up all God’s chosen people, assuring them of an eternity of peace and joy…

But that’s not all. While both the first reading and the gospel paint for us a landscape of what is to come in the future, the second reading presents us with a portrait of Jesus, as he is, already now, in the present. And again we may highlight three aspects in this image. First, the reading reminds us that it wasn’t just the Temple in Jerusalem that suffered desecration, our Lord’s precious Body was desecrated too. For by his Dying and Rising Jesus offered one single sacrifice for sins for our sake. Second, we’re told that, by virtue of that one single offering, Jesus has achieved the eternal perfection of all he is sanctifying… Meaning that, unlike an unfinished project, our hope is not in something yet to come. Rather, in a mysterious but real way, what we hope for has already been accomplished. It is with us and among us. It is why we gather to celebrate the Eucharist. Third, more than just inviting us to gaze upon Jesus, the reading also prompts us to imagine how Jesus gazes upon us, as he patiently waits for more people to submit to his gentle embrace. Including those who may now be counted among his enemies. Those still resisting his call. For it is from the Lord’s merciful gaze, that we draw the strength we need to live as he lived, to truly become members of his Body here on earth.

So more than just consoling the traumatised, our scriptures also present a challenge to those who may contribute to their trauma. Including those mentioned in that verse we quoted at the start of Mass. Those whose hearts are weighed down with dissipation and drunkenness and the worries of this life (Lk 21:34). Like the psalmist, both the traumatised and those who traumatise others are called to keep the Lord ever in (their) sight. Not just here in the Eucharist, but also out there in the lives and bodies of the poor.

Sisters and brothers, unlike that building project on Sentosa, we don’t have a scheduled completion date for all this. What must we do to remain vigilant, so as to be ready to welcome the Lord whenever he comes?