Beyond First Come, First Served

25th Sunday in Ordinary Time (A)

Readings: Isaiah 55: 6-9; Psalm 144 (145): 2-3, 8-9, 17-18; Philippians 1: 20-24, 27; Matthew 20: 1-16

Picture: By Marco J Haenssgen on Unsplash

What is it like to receive a queue number? Some of us may remember a time when queue numbers were always sequential. Those who arrived earlier received a smaller number, and were called first. First come, first served. But these days things are not always so simple. Take a public hospital or polyclinic, for example. Rather than first come, first served, the queues at such places often follow a different, more complex, logic. The number I’m assigned, and exactly when it’s called, may depend on various factors, including whether or not I’ve made an appointment, the type and severity of my ailment, the procedure I’m scheduled to undergo, the doctor I’m consulting, and so on. Which makes it highly possible that some of those who arrive later than me, will be served before me. Is it reasonable for me to get angry and to kick up a fuss when this happens? Only if I stubbornly choose to cling to the idea that those who come first must be served first. Only if I refuse to accept that the queue at the clinic follows a different logic.

Accepting a logic other than first come, first served. Isn’t this something like what our scriptures are inviting us to do today? To see this, it’s helpful to note that the parable Jesus tells in the gospel is bracketed by two similar statements. Today’s reading begins from verse 1 of chapter 20. The opening bracket is found in the verse immediately before that, in verse 30 of chapter 19, where Jesus says, Many who are first will be last, and the last, first. And the closing bracket is found at the end of our reading, where he says, Thus the last will be first, and the first last. The shocking reversal of first and last. This is what the parable is meant to illustrate. For by choosing to pay all the workers exactly the same wage, even though some arrived earlier, and did more work, the landowner effectively treats the last as though they were first. Why does he do this? Before we answer this question, it’s important to note that one denarius was the standard daily wage at the time. So, in the parable, no one is being shortchanged. Everyone receives the daily wage. It’s just that some receive it for doing less. Again, the question is why?.

And the likely answer is that God’s kingdom operates according to a logic different from that of the world. What is this logic? It’s the same one mentioned in the collect, the prayer we offered at the start of Mass. Where we were reminded that all the commands of (God’s) sacred Law are founded on love… The generosity and compassion born of love. This is what moves the landowner not only to pay the latecomers more than what is just, but also to keep tirelessly going out and recruiting workers throughout the day. Even till the eleventh hour. Not just because the vineyard requires labourers, but also because the unemployed need work. Why have you been standing here idle all day? Can our hearts not hear and be moved by the tender care and concern expressed in the landowner’s poignant query?

And yet, if he is truly so generous and compassionate, then why, we may ask, doesn’t the landowner pay the first-comers more than the agreed wage? Why stick to one denarius? After all, isn’t this what distinguishes love from justice? That whereas justice seeks only what is enough, it’s in the nature of love to always go beyond. To overflow. To overwhelm. So why not more than one denarius? The parable itself doesn’t provide an answer. But it may be helpful for us to again consider its wider biblical context. In addition to being bracketed by the Lord’s statements about the reversal of first and last, the parable is also framed by two other important passages. Before Jesus tells the parable, he encounters a rich young man, who wants to know what he needs to do to gain eternal life (19:16-30). And later, in the passage immediately following today’s reading (20:17-19), Jesus will tell his disciples for the third time that they are on their way to Jerusalem, where the Lord will be handed over to the religious and civil authorities, and be condemned, tortured, and crucified, before being raised on the third day.

So why not more than one denarius? Could it be because, much as this may seem a paltry sum, it points to nothing less than the precious gift of eternal life, obtained for us at the cost of the life of Christ. Is there more that could be given us beyond what has already been given? Is there more that could be paid to us than what has already been paid? And could it be that it’s only by carefully and continually pondering the immensity of God's love for us in Christ, that we can then receive the grace to do what the other readings call us to do. To seek the Lord while he is still to be found… To (a)void anything in (our) daily lives that would be unworthy of the gospel of Christ… To strive to do what the rich young man was not yet ready to do. To let go of anything that might prevent us from accepting and living by the logic of Christ, the logic of love, the logic of the Cross.

Coincidentally (or not), in recent days, wages have featured very prominently in our local news. On the one hand, the sudden closure of an international fitness chain has underscored how precarious were the livelihoods of its staff, including many foreigners. On the other hand, the parliamentary debate on ministerial salaries has again highlighted the cost of attracting suitable talent to political leadership. If nothing else, doesn't news such as this remind us what the queue looks like? Who is first, and who last? And how different is the world’s logic from that of God’s kingdom? Sisters and brothers, in our own lives, which logic do we follow more closely, today and everyday?

Why So Long?

 23rd Sunday in Ordinary Time (A)

Readings: Ezekiel 33: 7-9; Psalm 94 (95): 1-2,6-9; Romans 13: 8-10; Matthew 18: 15-20

Picture: By Timo Wielink on Unsplash

Why is it taking so long? Why is it taking so long to make a reliable fully self-driving car? This is a question some people have been asking. Already back in 2019, Tesla CEO, Elon Musk, had announced that his company was only a year away from putting one million robotaxis on the road. Today, seven years later, that goal is still a long way from being reached. Just a couple of days ago, BBC Technology & AI editor, Zoe Kleinman, reported her experience riding one of Uber’s new autonomous taxis in London. At one point in Zoe’s brief ride, the safety driver had to take over the wheel, when the doors of a nearby van suddenly opened. Perhaps a sign that the car isn’t exactly fully autonomous. So, again, why is it taking so long? As far as an ignorant lay person like me can tell, the delay is due to a combination of at least two factors. On the one hand, driving is a highly complex activity. Vehicles may encounter any number of unexpected situations on the road. But, on the other hand, the artificial intelligence, which operates autonomous vehicles, needs to run according to pre-programmed instructions called algorithms. In other words, AI needs predictability. But driving is inherently un-predictable…

Why does it take so long? This is a question that might be asked, not just about self-driving cars, but also about what we find in our scriptures today. In the gospel, Jesus offers his disciples some important instructions for the practice of fraternal correction. What to do if your brother (or sister) does something wrong… At one level, this offers us valuable guidance for managing our own interpersonal conflicts. What to do if someone offends or backstabs us… But the first reading broadens our perspective considerably. For here we find the Lord God entrusting the prophet Ezekiel with the task of being a sentry for the people of Israel. To sound the alarm at any sign of danger. Warning the people to renounce their evil ways, so as to avoid suffering dire consequences. And one implication we might draw from the bringing together of both these readings is that, like Ezekiel, the whole community of disciples of Christ is called to be a prophetic people. As a body, we have been entrusted with the solemn responsibility of being a sentry. For one another, and even for the rest of the world. To promptly sound the alarm at any sign of danger.

But if this is true, then why does it sometimes take so long for us to live up to our call? In Magnifica Humanitas, Leo XIV’s first encyclical, released earlier this year, On Safeguarding the Human Person in The Time of Artificial Intelligence, our beloved pope offers a formal apology for the Church’s long delay in speaking up against the sin of slavery. It has taken eighteen centuries – eighteen hundred years – for the Church to explicitly recognise the full incompatibility of slavery with humanity’s inherent dignity. It is impossible, the pope writes, not to feel deep sorrow when contemplating the immense suffering and humiliation endured by so many in stark contrast to their immeasurable dignity as persons infinitely loved by the Lord. For this, in the name of the Church, I sincerely ask for pardon (MH, 176). Nor is slavery the only instance of delay. Ahead of the pope’s visit to Our Lady’s shrine in Lourdes later this month, the local bishop there has ordered all the mosaic frescoes created by a certain artist – a former Jesuit – to be permanently covered. Reason being that this same artist is facing highly credible accusations of psychological, spiritual and sexual abuse, dating as far back as the 1990s. That’s more than three decades ago. And the case is still pending. Again, why is it taking so long?

To ponder this question is not just to face the possibility of our own negligence and culpability. It’s also to deepen our appreciation for the complexity of fraternal correction. Just as it’s possible to encounter a wide variety of situations while driving, so too are there many different types of wrongdoing and wrongdoers. Which may mean that, to be truly helpful, the instructions offered in our gospel today need to be approached in a certain way. Not so much the way an AI relates to its algorithm. Not as absolutely binding rules. But more as flexible general guidelines. For example, it may not always be appropriate to keep things strictly private. Not even at the start. For example, what if the alleged wrongdoing is a serious crime? Could there not then be an obligation to report it? So how are we to know when and how to adapt the guidelines? Perhaps we need to follow the advice we heard Jesus give in last week’s reading, when the Lord rebuked Peter, and called him to get behind me. Perhaps we need to give up trying to be self-driving vehicles, and strive instead to let the Lord be our co-driver. For it is from him we learn what love requires of us in each and every situation. And, as the second reading reminds us, love is the answer to every one of the commandments…

Just 10 minutes before devastating flood waters swept away his school in Nepal, head teacher, Rajendra Dawadi received and promptly heeded warnings to evacuate. Thus saving the lives of 900 students, as well as his own. If we didn't make a quick decision, he is reported as saying, if it was 10 minutes later, we all… wouldn't be able to speak to you today… However complex the situation, prompt action can mean being spared great suffering, and even tragic loss of life. Sisters and brothers, whatever may be the future of autonomous vehicles, how might the Lord be calling us to be more prompt in practising loving fraternal correction, by allowing him to drive our efforts today?

Football is Life...

22nd Sunday in Ordinary Time (A)

Readings: Jeremiah 20: 7-9; Psalm 62 (63): 2-6, 8-9; Romans 12: 1-2; Matthew 16: 21-27

Picture: By on Connor Coyne Unsplash

Does the name Dani Rojas ring a bell? Some of us may recognise it as belonging to a fictional character in the delightful TV comedy series, Ted Lasso. In the show, Dani is a skilful and super-energetic professional football player, whose total devotion to the game is summarised in a mantra he keeps repeating with great enthusiasm: football is life! Then one day tragedy strikes. In a freak accident, while taking a penalty, Dani kills his club’s mascot, a dog named, Earl Greyhound. After that, Dani is stricken with guilt, unable to shake off the feeling that he is a murderer, and that football is death. Which severely affects his game. His worried coaches send him for therapy, and are pleasantly surprised when, after just a few sessions with a sports psychologist, Dani shows dramatic improvement. When asked how this came about, Dani reveals few details, except to say, rather cryptically: (the psychologist) helped me remember that even though football is life, football is also death. And football is football, too. But mostly football is life!… Football is life. Football is death. Somehow Dani was helped to reconcile and accept these apparently contradictory realities, allowing him to return to his beloved game with renewed vigour…

There are no footballers in our scriptures today. But what we do find are people who have devoted the whole of their lives to something or some-one else. In the first reading, Jeremiah is a prophet, dedicated to proclaiming the word of the Lord. And in the gospel, Peter has left everything to follow Jesus, the Word-of-God-Made-Flesh. As we may recall, just last week, we heard him profess his belief in Jesus as the Christ, the Son of the living God. So for both Jeremiah and Peter, the Word of God is no less than what football means to Dani Rojas. It’s much more than a favourite game, or a Sunday obligation, or even a professional career. No, to them, the Word of God is the whole of life itself.

Which makes it all the more difficult for them to bear when, in the course of serving the Word of God, they encounter severe trials, and even the very real risk of death. The word of the Lord has meant for me insult, derision, all day long, says Jeremiah. While, in the gospel, we’re told that, at Caesarea Philippi, Jesus began to make it clear to his disciples that he was destined… to suffer grievously… to be put to death… and to be raised… The Word of God is life. And the Word of God is also death… What to do when one is faced with these apparently contradictory realities? In the gospel, Peter’s initial reaction is to cling to one, while rejecting the other. Heaven preserve you, Lord… this must not happen to you… In other words, the Word of God is life. So it cannot, it must not, be death. And yet, much as we humans prefer to avoid talking or even thinking about it, isn’t death an unavoidable part of every human life? Isn’t this why Jesus rightly criticises Peter’s reaction not just for being too human, but also for being satanic? For whether he realises it or not, at Caesarea Philippi, Peter is doing precisely what the Devil did in the wilderness. He is tempting Jesus to be in-human. Yet we believe that Jesus, the divine Son of God, came to save us, not by escaping, but by fully embracing, our humanity.

The Word of God is life. The Word of God is also death… How is Peter to reconcile and to accept these apparently contradictory realities in a truly life-giving way? The gospel presents the process as one of re-location. Peter must relinquish the place of a tempter — who stands in front of the Lord — and resume the position of a disciple — who follows him closely from behind. And doesn’t the second reading give us more details as to what this might involve? First, one needs to think of God’s mercy. To ponder, to reflect on the immense love and compassion that led God to embrace our own weak and fallible humanity, even to the point of accepting a shameful death on a cross. Next, we need to resist being conformed to the world around us. And, instead, be transformed, or reformed, by the renewal of our minds. Only then can we discover, or recognise, the will of God… what it is that God wants. Reflection and resistance, reformation, renewal and recognition. For Paul, this is also a process of true worship. This is how we Christians join ourselves to the offering already made by Christ once for all. This is how we offer our living bodies as a holy sacrifice to God. As we are doing here and now, at this very Eucharist.

Reflection and resistance, reformation, renewal and recognition. Isn’t this a process that our world still sorely needs today? In his 2024 book, The Perfection Trap, social psychologist Thomas Curran details how (t)oday, burnout and depression are at record levels, driven by a combination of intense workplace competition, the comparative world of social media, the quest for elite credentials, and helicopter parenting. Society continually broadcasts the need to want more, and that we have to be perfect to get it… And Curran links all this to a form of idolatry. According to him, (e)conomic growth… is the almighty secular God. We worship at its altar and place it on a gilded pedestal high above all other considerations. Whatever the economy needs to grow, no matter the human or environmental costs, it’ll inevitably get… Yet, in contrast, we Christians profess to be disciples of One who mercifully became poor for us, even to the point of death, only to be raised up on the third day.

Sisters and brothers, like football for Dani Rojas, for us Christians, Christ is life, and Christ is also death… How is the Lord  helping us to reconcile and to accept this anew today?

Yearnings of a Yo-Yo

 Solemnity of the Assumption of the BVM

Readings: Apocalypse 11: 19, 12: 1-6, 10; Psalm 44 (45): 10-12,16; 1 Corinthians 15: 20-26; Luke 1:39-56

Picture: CC Bartolomej Jahoda on Flickr

Have any of us ever played with a yo-yo? It can be fun right? Especially if we know how to perform tricks with it. But what does it feel like to actually be a yo-yo? To have to keep scrambling back to the safety of the player’s hand, after being flung out into the unknown… And to have to do this again… and again… and again… In ways beyond our control… Until our body gets too old for the game… Or until it eventually breaks apart and is discarded or simply forgotten… If a yo-yo could speak, what might it say?… I’m not sure, but perhaps it’ll use words similar to those spoken by a 71-year old prison inmate in a recent CNA news report. Reflecting on his experience of being jailed no less than 14 times over the last 50 years, he says: It’s like a monkey clinging on to my back, this heroin, I just can’t take it out. And then, moreover, due to ageing, I have lost my sense of worth already… Sometimes I think to myself, it doesn’t make any difference… whether I’m outside or inside…

Although he doesn’t say it explicitly, after decades of yo-yo-ing in and out of jail, isn’t the inmate grappling with a truly profound question? The same question I recently heard someone else pose from behind the bars, not of a prison, but of a viewing gallery at the local crematorium. As the casket slowly made its way to the furnace, one of the mourners turned to me and asked rhetorically, What’s the point?… Faced with the stark simplicity and apparent finality of what he was witnessing, in his grief, the mourner was moved to question the very meaning of it all. Not just what’s the point of fighting to be free of addiction, and to stay out of prison. But what’s the point of struggling with the inevitable ups and downs, the unpredictable and repeated yo-yo-ing, of life itself. If this is how it all ends, then why even bother?

What’s the point? Isn’t this question capable of haunting not just inmates and mourners, but any one of us as well? Except that we Christians see neither the prison nor the crematorium as our true end. Isn’t this the deeper significance of the feast we are celebrating today? We are recalling and reaffirming our belief, not just that, at the end of her earthly life, the Blessed Virgin Mary was assumed body and soul into heaven. But also that this great blessing, bestowed on the one we call Mother of God and Mother of the Church, is bestowed also on us, the disciples of her Son, and her children by adoption. We rejoice in the belief that, like her, we are not meant for destruction or disintegration, but for wholeness and integrity. Like a yo-yo making a final return to the safety of the player’s hand, all of us are destined to remain, both body and soul, in the loving embrace of God.

For as the second reading reminds us, the raising of Christ from the dead isn’t just a one-off event. Rather, Christ was raised as the first-fruits of all who have fallen asleep… Meaning that, just as the Master was raised, so too can his disciples expect to be raised. Just as we believe Mary was raised. For more than just his mother, wasn’t she also his chief disciple? Like the string wound around a yo-yo, didn’t the rhythms of her Son’s Life, and Death, and Rising––the rhythms of this Eucharist–––govern her whole life? A life she devoted to the furthering of his kingdom? Isn’t this what she is doing in the gospel?

The reading tells us that, after the Annunciation, after accepting the invitation to bear Christ to the world, Mary set out. The word translated as set out, shares the same root as the one used elsewhere to describe Jesus’ rising from the dead. So even before she had given birth, Mary arose and bore Christ to the members of her extended family. Like a yo-yo, she allows herself to be flung out, while paradoxically remaining safely within the hand of God’s holy will. Something she will keep doing again and again… At the wedding in Cana… At the Cross on Calvary… In the Upper Room on Pentecost Day… And amid the many ups and downs of discipleship, like the inmate and the mourner, Mary too is moved to reflect on her own existence. But in a different way. Instead of asking, What’s the point?, she sings the praises of God. Just as her life remains wrapped up in the Divine Will, her soul proclaims the greatness of God… The One who has routed the proud of heart… and exalted the lowly…

All of which may remind us that in order to share in how Mary ended her earthly life, we need also to partake in how she lived it. Isn’t this the deeper message of the first reading? Scholars tell us that, even though we typically associate the woman in the reading with Mary, in the biblical context, she also represents the young Christian community. Flung out to live in the mighty Roman Empire. And under constant threat of being either persecuted for its own beliefs, or seduced by the empty promises pervading the surrounding culture. Just as a helpless baby might be in danger of being devoured by a scary red dragon. Yet God keeps her safe, by preparing for her a refuge in the desert. Allowing her to remain spiritually secure, even as she strives to keep bearing Christ in the world.

And isn’t this our vocation too? Living as we do in an economically advanced, yet rapidly ageing society, anxiously grappling with its own failure to reproduce? Could it be that in addition to material support, what’s needed is also help to ponder the yo-yo’s query: What’s the point? Sisters and brothers, how might the Lord be helping us address this question today?

So Far & Yet So Near

19th Sunday in Ordinary Time (A)

Readings: 1 Kings 19: 9, 11-13; Psalm 84 (85): 9-14; Romans 9: 1-5; Matthew 14: 22-33

Picture: By Stoyan Kolev on Unsplash

Has anyone here been to the Ikea store at Alexandra? I expect many of us have. When we stand at the entrance on the second level, how far away are we from the exit on the first? It depends on the route we take, right? If we choose the scenic route, going through the showroom, like most shoppers do, it can be quite a long walk. But there are also shortcuts that bypass certain parts of the showroom, considerably shortening the walking distance. Actually, if we wanted to, we could use all the shortcuts, and bypass everything. But then why bother visiting the store in the first place? Wouldn’t it be great if we could somehow reduce the distance without taking any shortcuts? Without bypassing any of the scenery?… Bringing near what at first seems so far away. Isn’t this something like what we find in our readings today?

The gospel focuses our attention on two different locations. After miraculously feeding more than five thousand people in the reading we heard last week, today we’re told that Jesus and his disciples have a brief parting of ways. He makes them get into the boat, and set off across the sea. He himself, however, goes up into the hills to pray. In another translation (NRSV), he goes up the mountain… The disciples on the sea…and their Master on the mountain. How far away is one location from the other? The gospel provides no measurements. But can’t we imagine what a great distance this must have felt like to the disciples? Struggling, in their little boat, against a head-wind and a heavy sea? Knowing that it was Jesus who had made them do this, while he himself stayed on land. Perhaps we ourselves have had similar experiences too. Had to endure one type of trial or another, because we’re trying to obey the Lord. To stay true to him. Yet, for some reason, he remains all too silent and distant. Seemingly as far away as a high mountain from the choppy sea.

But is the distance really as great as the disciples may think? Is the mountain really so much more peaceful than the sea? The gospel doesn’t tell us what the Lord’s prayer was like. After all, who could say? No one else was with him. But can’t we at least make an educated guess? Remember that last week’s gospel began by telling us it was after receiving news of John the Baptist’s death at the hands of Herod that Jesus withdrew… to a lonely place… Isn’t it reasonable to suppose that the Lord was not only grieving John’s passing, but also coming to terms with the realisation that a similarly violent fate was likely to befall him too? In other words, even in his prayerful seclusion, Jesus was likely struggling with winds and waves of his own. So that, whatever might have been the physical distance between the mountain and the sea, experientially, the Master was actually very close to his disciples. Even so, by the time he descends from his lofty retreat, Jesus is able to walk calmly across the turbulent waters of the sea. How does he manage this?

Again, the gospel doesn’t tell us. But the first reading gives us an indication, by inviting us to ponder the experience of someone else at a mountain retreat. Someone whose life was also under threat, as a result of his obedience to God. For this is what had brought Elijah to Mount Horeb. Burnt out and despairing, while fleeing for his life from a vengeful queen, the prophet was led up the mountain by the Lord. So the violent wind, and fire, and earthquake, swirling around him externally, actually mirror Elijah’s own turbulent interior state. What does he do? How does he cope? Instead of panicking, the prophet simply waits in the cave of his own heart. Waits till the turbulence passes. Till he hears the sound of a gentle breeze. In other words, like the psalmist, Elijah patiently listens out for what the Lord God has to say, a voice that speaks of peace… Not the naive bliss that results from apathy or wilful ignorance. From bypassing the inevitable tumult and storms of life. But the God-given calm that comes after one has courageously faced them. Only then does the prophet exit his cave. Except that now the exit has also become an entrance to a new God-experience. Bringing near what had once seemed so far away.

Isn’t this what Jesus is teaching Peter and the other disciples to do too? Not so much to look for shortcuts, in order to bypass the storms. Much less to deny their presence. But rather, how to respond to them when they do come. To patiently manage them in prayer. So that the storms might become new pathways to a fresh encounter with God. And what at first looks like a scary ghost is revealed to be the loving presence of a caring Lord. Isn’t this also the experience of St Paul in the second reading? For what is he describing if not his own stormy interior state? His sorrow and mental anguish at the way in which many of his fellow Israelites continue to resist the gospel. And yet, Paul is somehow able to accept this trial, while clinging to the sure hope that those who now remain so far away will, in God’s time, be brought very near.

By now, probably many of us have seen the recent news report telling us that, in 2024, suicides among those between 30 and 39 years of age rose by a whopping 50%. And what is suicide, if not the ultimate shortcut? The bypassing of life itself. Could this disturbing statistic be a clear sign to us, that what the scriptures are teaching us is something we urgently need both to learn and to share with others? Particularly those struggling in some way? Sisters and brothers, today, how might the Lord be inviting us to help bring near what may still seem so far away?