Of Babies & Sirens

29th Sunday in Ordinary Time (C)

(World Mission Sunday)

Readings: Exodus 17:8-13; Psalm 120 (121); 2 Timothy 3:14-4:2; Luke 18:1-8

Picture: By Muhammad Shakir on Unsplash

What do these two things have in common?… A tiny baby bawling her eyes out, and the piercing siren from a speeding ambulance, screeching loudly in the night. Obviously, in each case, a cry rings out for some reason. The baby cries because there’s something it needs. Something it has a God-given right to receive, and yet is powerless to obtain on its own. When it’s hungry or thirsty, when it needs to be changed or carried, in its helplessness, the baby cries for assistance. And the siren too is a kind of cry, but for different reasons. To fellow road-users, it serves as a warning to make way. And to those waiting for the ambulance, it's also a cry of assurance. Encouraging them to hang on, to take heart, because help has arrived, or is at least on the way. A baby and a siren. Two cries with different motives. One seeking assistance, the other offering assurance. Don’t we find something similar in our scriptures today?

What is that widow in the gospel parable doing, if not crying for assistance? We’re not told exactly why. Perhaps a scammer has taken her life-savings, or an employer has failed to pay her a living wage. We don’t have the details. All we know is that it’s a matter of justice. Meaning that it’s something she has a right to receive. And yet, like a baby, she is powerless to obtain it on her own. Which is why she keeps begging the judge for help. And even though he is unjust, and doesn’t really care about her, the judge eventually gives her what she wants, just to stop her pestering him. And Jesus says that, if even an uncaring judge can be worn down by a widow’s persistence, what more our loving God, who cares so much for us? Implying that whenever we encounter injustice of any kind, whenever our best efforts to seek redress keep falling short, we should still persist in crying to God for help. And isn’t it reasonable to expect that we should do this not only when we ourselves are victims of injustice, but also whenever we encounter those who suffer the same, whether near or far away? For in any case, Jesus promises that God will see justice done… and done speedily.

Then, in the second reading, St Paul gives Timothy the duty to proclaim the (gospel) message and, welcome or unwelcome, (to) insist on it… In other words, like John the Baptist, Timothy is asked to become the voice of one crying out in the wilderness: ‘Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight’ (Lk 3:4). To persist in screeching like a siren piercing the night. At once warning people to make way, and also offering them assurance. Encouraging them to hang on, to take heart, for help is coming. Indeed, in Christ, it is already here. And more than just something that Timothy must do, isn’t this a duty that, by virtue of our common baptism, we too share?

All of which might help us appreciate the deeper significance of what Moses is doing in the first reading. He climbs to the top of a hill, and raises his arms, while carrying the staff of God in his hand. The same staff he has been using to show God’s powerful presence and action on behalf of the people. The staff that parted the Red Sea for the people to cross, and that drew water from the rock for them to drink. So that, even if no sound may escape Moses’ lips, just by his place and his posture, isn’t he effectively uttering a two-fold cry? On the one hand, from the hilltop, he must surely be engaged in prayer. Interceding for his people. Crying to God for assistance on their behalf. But that’s not all. His elevated position also probably makes Moses visible to those fighting below. Which may explain why, the tide of battle keeps shifting in their favour, whenever Moses is seen to raise his arms, with the staff of God in his hand. For isn’t it likely that this posture serves as a quiet morale-boosting cry of assurance for those who struggle? Encouraging them to hang on, to take heart, to keep going, for help is at hand.

And doesn’t Moses' place and posture on the hilltop easily bring to our minds the One whose arms were raised on Calvary? Not to wield a staff, but to hang on the Cross. From which he both cries out to God for unfailing assistance on our behalf, and offers us blessed assurance that help is truly here. Isn’t this what we celebrate every time we gather for the Eucharist? And isn’t this also why we commemorate World Mission Sunday? For as followers of Christ, what is our mission, if not to share in the Lord’s two-fold cry? At once begging God for assistance for the world, and offering assurance to those who need it most. Especially those who suffer injustice of one kind or another. Encouraging them, by our words and actions, to hang on, to take heart, for in the Dying and Rising of God’s only Son, help is truly here. And isn’t this cry still much needed in this troubled world of ours? Where, around the world, armed conflict continues to inflict terrible suffering on helpless civilians. And here at home, yesterday’s issue of the Straits Times carries a moving report, highlighting the needs of those caring for loved ones stricken with dementia…

Some of us may recall this moving opening line from that old hymn by John Foley: The Lord hears the cry of the poor. Blessed be the Lord… In Christ, this is what we believe. This is our faith. Sisters and brothers, inspired by this same faith, like both bawling babies and screeching sirens, how might we help one another to keep on crying out today?

A Light in Dark Places

27th Sunday in Ordinary Time (C)

Readings: Habakkuk 1:2-3, 2:2-4; Psalm 94 (95):1-2,6-9; 2 Timothy 1:6-8, 13-14; Luke 17:5-10

Picture: By Satyajit on Unsplash

What does it feel like to receive a gift just when we need it most? In the first instalment of the Lord of the Rings movie trilogy, a group of companions undertake a dangerous quest to destroy an evil ring of power. On the way, they are forced to pass through the terrifying Mines of Moria, where they lose the wisest and strongest member of their company. Then, just when they are exhausted, traumatised and grieving, the group arrives at a kingdom of elves, who offer them welcome, and a safe place to rest. And when they are finally ready to resume their quest, the elven queen speaks with them, and presents each with a gift. From her, the ring-bearer, the little hobbit, Frodo, receives a small glass bottle of starlight, along with these words of blessing: May it be a light for you in dark places, when all other lights go out. A precious gift that proves very useful, later in the story, when Frodo is trapped in the dark lair of a giant flesh-eating spider. 

A light… in dark places, when all other lights go out. Consoling words from a pivotal conversation, within the context of a titanic struggle between good and evil, between darkness and light. And despite the sharp contrast between the immensity and power of the dark, and the smallness and fragility of the light, the ring-bearer finds in these words the courage he needs to stay committed, and to persevere.

Context and conversation, contrast and commitment. These are also what we find in our scriptures today. In the first reading, the prophet Habakkuk finds himself surrounded by the darkness of tyranny and oppression, outrage and violence, contention and discord. This is the difficult context of his painful struggle. The frustrating and discouraging experience of the great contrast between his own meagre efforts, and the pervasiveness of evil. Yet, rather than allow himself to be swallowed up by the dark spider of despair, the prophet cries out to God. He engages the Lord in conversation. And God responds by offering him a timely gift: a consoling vision of future vindication, as well as a call to persevere. The prophet is asked to put down the vision in writing, so that it may be more easily understood and shared with others. And he is also encouraged to stay committed. To remain faithful, even if the vision’s fulfilment is delayed. For the upright man will live by his faithfulness… 

Context and conversation, contrast and commitment. These are also what we find in the gospel. As we may recall, from the reading of two Sundays ago, through the Parable of the Dishonest Steward, Jesus had been teaching his disciples how to relate with money. And after his opponents, the Pharisees, take offence at his teaching (16:14), last week we heard Jesus respond with the Parable of the Rich Man and Lazarus. Warning his disciples of the dangers of idolising and being blinded by money. The Lord then goes on to speak about the importance of resisting temptation, of not tempting others, and of forgiving those who repent, after falling into temptation (17:1-4). This is the immediate biblical context of today’s reading: the Lord’s struggle with the powers that be, the forces of darkness. This is what Jesus has been conversing with his disciples about.

Then, today, after hearing the Lord’s demanding teachings and, presumably, seeing the great contrast between their own weakness, and the immensity of the task at hand, the apostles are moved to ask the Lord to increase our faith. But rather than teaching them how to make things bigger, Jesus responds by highlighting the benefits of being small. Faith the size of a tiny mustard seed, he says, can overturn even a stubborn mulberry tree. A plant known for its extensive and invasive root system. On the one hand, we could interpret this to mean that faith is like chilli padi. Just a tiny bit goes a long way. But perhaps it also means that faith works best precisely when it feels fragile and small. How else will we learn the disposition of a servant, humbly waiting upon the master, except by realising how small and fragile our own efforts are? And isn’t this the commitment Jesus calls us to make? And the pattern of sound teaching the second reading encourages us to emulate? A pattern we see every time we contemplate the Lord’s agony in the Garden of Gethsemane, where, surrounded by darkness, Jesus cries out in anguish, before humbly submitting to his Father’s will?

A gentle reminder that faith works best precisely when it feels small and fragile. Isn’t this a gift we need very much today? When our world seems engulfed in such darkness, and so many are in danger of being swallowed up by the twin soul-devouring spiders of apathy and despair? Sisters and brothers, like the gift that Frodo received, how might we help one another allow the Lord’s teaching to be for us truly a light… in dark places, when all other lights go out?