Fire With Fire

26th Sunday in Ordinary Time (B)

Readings: Numbers 11:25-29; Psalm 18 (19):8, 10, 12-14; James 5:1-6; Mark 9:38-43, 45, 47-48

Picture: By Landon Parenteau on Unsplash

My dear friends, what does it mean to fight fire with fire? The expression is often used as a figure of speech, to mean adopting our opponents’ own methods against them. Such as by responding to violence with violence of our own. And we know that we Christians are not supposed to do this. Instead, we are called to follow Jesus’ example, and return good for evil (see, eg, 1 P 3:8). But there are people who fight fire with fire in a more literal way. In places where wildfires are prevalent, some indigenous communities start smaller controlled fires in cooler months, as a way to prevent larger fires when the days get hotter. The controlled fires help reduce the amount of fuel available to feed the more devastating wildfires. Fighting one type of fire with flames of another kind. Isn’t this what we find in our scriptures today?

In the gospel, Jesus describes hell––the ultimate consequence of sin––as a fire that cannot be put out. A fire so wild and devastating that drastic steps are needed to reduce the fuel available to feed it. Even if that fuel includes parts of my own body. If my foot or hand or eye should cause me to sin, I am to cut it off, or tear it out, for it’s better to be deprived of these body-parts than to be totally consumed by hellfire. This teaching is, of course, not meant to be taken literally. Otherwise, there’ll be a far higher proportion of physically disabled people among Christians than in the general population, including the one preaching this homily. So what then should I do with my errant body-parts?

In the second reading, what fuels the fire of sin isn’t human body-parts, but earthly riches that have been gathered corruptly, fraudulently, unjustly. Such as by withholding what others need to live a dignified human life. (L)isten to the wages that you kept back, calling out… Fuelled by unjust riches, the fire of sin becomes so strong, it’s able to corrode even precious metals like gold and silver. Yet it’s also subtle enough to consume less tangible forms of wealth. We may think of stocks and shares, bonds and futures, and yes, even cryptocurrency. This fire is so voracious, it gobbles up not just accumulated wealth, but also the one doing the accumulating. (T)he same corrosion will be your own sentence, and eat into your body… And if this stern reminder is needed, isn’t it because those in danger of being burnt up are often unaware of the peril they face? It’s possible to become numb to sin, and its deadly consequences. Isn’t this why the psalmist prays to be acquitted from hidden faults, and not to be ruled by presumption?

On earth you have had a life of comfort and luxury; in the time of slaughter you went on eating to your heart’s content. My dear friends, in a world where so many struggle just to survive, how does it feel to hear these words of warning? I have to confess that they make me tremble interiorly. For even if I may not have any personal wealth to speak of, I do benefit considerably from living in one of the richer parishes, and one of the most affluent countries in the world. Where much pride is taken, perhaps rightly, in the substantial reserves we’ve accumulated over the years. How sure can each of us be, that our national, familial, and personal wealth is truly free from the taint of injustice? That it’s not somehow fuelling the fires of sin? What steps might we need to take to prevent this from happening? What is the economic equivalent of cutting off a body-part to stay out of hell?

In pondering these questions, it’s helpful for us to see that there’s actually another kind of fire in our scriptures today. Without using the word explicitly, the first reading speaks of something that acts like fire. Except that, in contrast to hellfire, these flames do not consume or corrode. Instead, they purify and strengthen. Isn’t this what happens to the people on whom the Fire of the Spirit falls in the first reading? The Spirit ignites in them the wisdom and courage to truly hear and proclaim the prophetic life-giving word of God. Such that both those embraced by this Fire, as well as those to whom they prophesy, might become ever more truly who God calls them to be. Isn’t this why Moses wishes that the whole people of the Lord were prophets, and the Lord gave his Spirit to them all?

My dear friends, could it be that, whether it’s unjustly acquired wealth or wayward body-parts, the way to keep from fuelling hellfire is to offer all that we have and all that we are to the Fire of the Spirit? Just like how wise indigenous communities start controlled fires in order to prevent the devastation of wild ones. Which is not the same as cunningly setting aside some small portion of one’s time and money for charity, in order to appease God, and quiet one’s conscience.

Sisters and brothers, what type of flame is burning within and among us? How are we called to fight fire with fire today?

The Canary's Collapse

25th Sunday in Ordinary Time (B)

Readings: Wisdom 2: 12, 17-20; Psalm 53 (54): 3-6, 8; James 3: 16-4:3; Mark 9: 30-37

Picture: By Martin Hendrikx on Unsplash

My dear friends, what would it be like to imagine, just for a moment, an actual canary in a coal mine? A tiny, lively but fragile, bright yellow bird, trapped in a cage, and lowered into an eery pitch-black darkness. And what if that canary were to suddenly collapse? How will the miners feel? What will they do? Perhaps some will be too busy working to notice. And perhaps some others might pity the poor bird, and try to revive it. But what if, having failed to do so, they were to sadly shake their heads in resignation, and go back to work? How would this make us feel? On the one hand, the miners’ reaction seems understandable, since a coal mine contains toxic gases, like carbon monoxide. Gases that are deadly to a canary, which needs clean air to survive. So the bird’s collapse shouldn’t be a surprise. But isn’t carbon monoxide dangerous to miners too? Isn’t the canary’s collapse a sign of what will happen to them as well, if they were to remain in the mine? Shouldn’t they be trying to do something about it?…

In today’s gospel, like a canary lowered into a coal mine, Jesus descends from the Mountain of Transfiguration, and makes his way through Galilee. And for a second time, the Lord secretly tells his disciples what will happen to him in Jerusalem. How the toxic fumes engulfing and emanating from his enemies will eventually cause him to collapse. And it’s helpful for us to notice the disciples’ reaction, and to compare it with how they reacted the first time Jesus shared this shocking news with them. As we may recall from last week’s reading, the first time Jesus talks about his own Passion, Death and Resurrection, Peter starts to remonstrate with him. He tries to rouse Jesus from the troubling ideas that seem to be making the Lord dizzy. This time, after Peter’s failed attempt at reviving him, the disciples simply ignore Jesus. But instead of letting them off, Jesus questions them. For by arguing which of them was the greatest, the disciples show that they are breathing the same fumes as the Lord’s enemies. Fumes that are toxic to a full human life. Fumes that are incompatible with the life-giving breath of the Spirit, which sustains Jesus, and moves and empowers him to bravely and humbly accept the role of a helpless canary.

The stark contrast between the toxic fumes in a coal mine, and the life-giving breath that sustains a canary. Isn’t this what the other readings invite us to ponder more deeply? In the second reading, St James describes it as a contrast between two types of wisdom, two opposing kinds of logic, or orientations to life. The first we might name the logic of grasping. In an earlier verse, James calls it earthly, animal, and even devilish (3:15). It is characterised by jealousy and ambition or self-interest. It springs from the unruly passions of the human heart, and results in disorder in society, disharmony and hypocrisy, character assassination and murder, conflict and war. The second, we might name the logic of gift. James calls it the wisdom that comes from above, which is pure and makes for peace. It is full of compassion and shows itself by doing good.

The first reading tells us what happens when those who live according to one logic encounter those who live according to the other. What happens when the canary enters the coal mine, when the godly or virtuous person meets the ungodly or wicked ones. Annoyed by the witness of the godly person’s righteous life, the wicked are driven to persecute and even to kill her. Yet the psalm reminds us that, despite appearances to the contrary, God remains on the side of the virtuous. I have God for my help. The Lord upholds my life. Isn’t this also the experience of Jesus? And isn’t this what the Lord is trying to teach his disciples in the gospel? That even when, in the process of bearing witness to the wisdom of God, he collapses and dies, God will not only raise him up again, but will also draw others to follow his example. So that he might become the way to be free of the toxicity of the mine, and to find fullness of life. But to follow his example, the disciples need to be willing to make themselves last of all and servant of all. To welcome little children in his name. To pay close attention to other canaries in the mine, particularly those not there by choice, but by force of circumstance.

Which brings to mind that troubling piece of news from the front page of Friday’s print edition of the Straits Times. According to a recent nationwide survey on youth mental health, (n)early a third of young people aged 15 to 35 have experienced severe or very severe symptoms of depression, anxiety or stress. How do we feel when we read this? Could what is happening to our youth be a signal to the rest of us?

Sisters and brothers, through these and other canaries that may be collapsing around us, what might the Lord be teaching us today?

From Wall To Path

24th Sunday in Ordinary Time (B)

Readings: Isaiah 50: 5-9; Psalm 114 (116): 1-6, 8-9; James 2: 14-18; Mark 8: 27-35

Picture: By Tan Kaninthanond on Unsplash

My dear friends, what is the connection between deafness and suffering? The answer seems obvious, right? We see deafness as a dis-ability, a lack, a form of suffering. And deafness can also act like a path that leads to even more suffering. Such as when hearing-impaired children aren’t given a proper education. But isn’t there also another kind of deafness, for which the opposite is true? A deafness that operates not as a path, but as a wall to keep suffering at bay. One example is the psychological defence of denial. When someone dies suddenly, his or her spouse may keep insisting that the beloved is actually still alive. Subconsciously, the bereaved person turns a deaf ear to the pain of loss. Time is needed for the wall of deafness to crumble, and for the path to suffering to open up, along with the possibility of moving on. We find something similar in our scriptures today.

We may recall that, in the gospel passage we heard last week, Jesus healed a deaf man, who had an impediment in his speech. In today’s reading, the Lord again encounters deafness, except that this time the affliction is more spiritual than physical. When Jesus shares with his own disciples the troubling news that he himself is destined to suffer grievously… to be rejected… put to death, and after three days to rise again, Peter is unable to accept it. Like someone grieving the sudden loss of a loved one, Peter’s first reaction is denial. His spiritual deafness acts like a wall, preventing him not only from sharing physically in the Lord’s suffering, but even from simply empathising with his friend.

Deafness that acts as a wall to keep suffering at bay. We find this in the second reading too, where St James makes a sharp distinction between a living faith, and one that’s quite dead. A living faith expresses itself in good works. It is down-to-earth. It hears and responds generously and practically to the cries of the poor. A dead faith, however, is deaf, walled-off from the sufferings of others. Even when faced with those who lack the bare necessities of life, all it does is offer pious platitudes. I wish you well; keep yourself warm and eat plenty.

But what causes this deafness, and how can it be healed? In the gospel, Jesus attributes Peter’s condition to the things that fill his mind and heart. The way you think is not God’s way but man’s. The world typically sees suffering as no more than something to be avoided at all costs, sometimes even to the point of ignoring and abandoning those who suffer. In contrast, our loving and merciful God hears the cries of those who suffer, and draws close to them. Isn’t this the experience of the psalmist? I love the Lord for he has heard the cry of my appeal… And more than just hearing and drawing close, God actually takes on our sufferings. Isn’t this what Jesus is doing in the gospel? Isn’t this what we celebrate at Mass? Like the suffering servant in the first reading, Jesus allows his ears to be opened to the cry of the poor, and they courageously accepts all of the suffering that results from his closeness to them. I offered my back to those who struck me… I did not cover my face against insult and spittle…

And it’s important for us to remember that this path through suffering is not a dead-end. Rather it leads to the fullness of life in God. Not just in heaven, but already here on earth. For after Jesus dies on the Cross, God raises him from the dead. Which is why the Lord can say that anyone who loses his life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel, will save it. This is the way deafness is healed. This is how a dead faith is raised. By seeking, finding and following the Lord. Not just here in church, but also out there in the world. Wherever suffering may be found. Not just in faraway war-torn or disaster-stricken countries, but also in our own backyard, our own workplaces and schools, our own families and homes. For how else can our deafness be overcome, except by drawing close to those who cry out? And how else can our faith become more down-to-earth, except by allowing our hands to get dirty?

Perhaps this is why, in his recent state address, even as he praised our nation’s achievements, Pope Francis also chose to highlight the risk entailed in focusing solely on pragmatism or placing merit above all things, namely the unintended consequence of justifying the exclusion of those on the margins from benefiting from progress. The Pope also expressed his hope that special attention… be paid to the poor and the elderly––whose labours have laid the foundations for the Singapore we see today––as well as to protecting the dignity of migrant workers…. (who) contribute a great deal to society and should be guaranteed a fair wage.

Sisters and brothers, what can we do, as individuals, as families, and as a community, to allow the Lord to gradually transform the wall of our deafness into a path to life today?

Saved from the Sinkhole

23rd Sunday in Ordinary Time (B)

Readings: Isaiah 35: 4-7; Psalm 145 (146): 7-10; James 2: 1-5; Mark 7: 31-37

Picture: cc horslips5 on Flickr

My dear friends, did you hear about that sinkhole, which appeared suddenly in Kuala Lumpur about a fortnight ago, and swallowed up a tourist walking along the pavement? How did the news make you feel? To be honest, I was very surprised, not just that a sinkhole should open up out of nowhere in the middle of a modern city, but also that despite an intense search lasting nine days, involving sniffer dogs and scuba divers, the unfortunate tourist still could not be found. I had naively thought that rescuing her would simply be a matter of lowering someone into the hole and lifting her out. Which just goes to show that a sinkhole is far more complex than I had imagined. And the same can also be said about what we find in our scriptures today.

The psalm tells us that the Lord is just to the oppressed, and raises up those who are bowed down. But what does oppression really look like? How does it feel to be bowed down? At first glance, each of our readings offers a simple enough answer. But upon deeper reflection, we find a far more complex reality. In the first reading, oppression comes in the form of a conquering foreign army, which both swallows up the nation, and carries off its people to a far-off land. Seems simple enough. And yet, the political sinkhole of conquest and exile has complex spiritual depths. For before being overrun by foreign armies, the people and their leaders had worshipped pagan gods. They had also oppressed the poor and vulnerable among them. And their idolatry and injustice have made them spiritually blind, deaf, and dumb. They have lost their ability to recognise the providential actions, to hear the loving communications, and to sing the joyful praises of the one true God. So more than simply releasing them from exile, rescue from oppression will have to involve somehow reopening their hearts to God.

Although the word oppression doesn’t appear in the second reading, the reality can be clearly seen in the discrimination suffered by the hypothetical poor person, who visits a synagogue and is treated as shabbily as he is dressed. At first glance, the remedy seems simple enough. Rebuke or replace the biased official. But the reading takes pains to point out that, although the official may play a part in it, the oppression doesn’t originate from him. It can be traced back to the double standards that he applies. Standards of the world, which are opposed to the standards of God. While the world favours the rich and powerful, God chooses those who are poor… to be rich in faith… and heirs of the kingdom… So it’s not just the one who is discriminated against who is oppressed, but also the one doing the discriminating. Again, as in the first reading, rescue will require a complex operation to help the oppressed become more open to God.

Finally, in the gospel too, what at first seems simple is actually more complex. At first glance, the deaf-mute is obviously oppressed by his own disability. And by healing him, Jesus seems to be performing a simple enough rescue operation. But the Lord’s words and actions before, during, and after the healing make it clear that something more complex is going on. Before healing the man, the Lord takes him aside in private, away from the crowd. Could this need for privacy be an indication that the man’s affliction is somehow related to the influences of the society in which he lives? Next, during the healing, Jesus says Ephphatha, Be opened. Could this command have not only a physical meaning, but also a spiritual one? Restoring the man’s ability to hear God’s word, and to sing God’s praises? Then, after the healing, the crowds persist in publicising it enthusiastically, even though Jesus had ordered them to keep it secret. Ironically, although the Lord succeeds in restoring the deaf man’s hearing, he fails to get the crowd to listen to his instruction. For they still do not understand who he really is. They remain closed. In Mark’s gospel, it is only when the Lord’s body hangs broken and lifeless on the cross that someone will finally be open enough to say, Truly this man was God’s Son! (Mk 15:39).

And what about us? What comes to our minds when we hear the word oppression? In this Season of Creation, we may rightly think first of our ailing planet… Or perhaps of the pitiful Palestinians in Gaza… Or the roaming Rohingya of Myanmar… Or the late Ms Piang Ngaih Don, that poor domestic helper, cruelly beaten and starved to death by her employers, back in 2016, right here in our own shiny city… Or all those struggling to cope with the changing face of work, and the rising costs of living… And how can we forget the current cohort of students and their parents, desperately preparing for that annual trial that we call the PSLE?…

Sisters and brothers, how might the Lord be seeking to rescue us from different sinkholes of oppression, as well as recruiting us to help rescue others today?

Submitting to the Shape

22nd Sunday in Ordinary Time (B)

Readings: Deuteronomy 4: 1-2, 6-8; Psalm 14 (15): 2-5; James 1: 17-18, 21-22, 27; Mark 7: 1-8, 14-15, 21-23

Picture: By Benjamin Voros on Unsplash

My dear friends, what is the shape of water? This is obviously a trick question, right? For we know that water takes on the shape of whichever container it happens to be poured into. But even if water doesn’t have its own shape, it does have a distinct purity. It can be polluted by impurities found in its container, which can interfere with water’s ability to fulfil its different functions. Badly polluted water can no longer be used for quenching thirst, or sustaining life. It may even endanger public health. Which is why it’s important to keep water containers clean. And to do this, we rely on yet another function of water, its ability to purify… The shifting shape, the distinct purity, and the different functions of water. It’s helpful to keep all these in mind, because we find something similar in our scriptures today.

When the word of God is poured into the people of Israel in the first reading, it takes on a particular shape. It is received as a set of laws and customs, commandments of the Lord. Which are meant to fulfil various functions. By carefully observing the Law, the Israelites will allow themselves to be moulded into God’s own people. They will live a full life in the Promised Land. They will also demonstrate to their gentile neighbours how good and how wise is the God they worship, as well as how close God is to them. By keeping the Law, the Israelites will both enrich their lives, and glorify God’s name.

So the Law is not intended to be a crushing burden, but a precious gift. A blessing, not just for the Israelites, but also for the gentile nations among whom they live. As the second reading reminds us, it is all that is good and everything that is perfect, which is given to us from above. Unfortunately, the Israelites fail to maintain the purity of the Law. Over time, their leaders allow their observance of the Law to be polluted by worldly concerns, tainted by the craving for power and money, security and control. And the second reading teaches us how to recognise when pollution like this occurs, by reminding us that, in addition to its other functions, religion is also an expression of mercy. Pure, unspoilt religion… is… coming to the help of orphans and widows when they need it. Much like how God rescued the Israelites from slavery in Egypt, and led them into the freedom of the Promised Land. In contrast, just as contaminated water loses its ability to sustain life, so too does polluted religion fail to show mercy. On the contrary, it leads to oppression. Both the material oppression of the poor and vulnerable, as well as the spiritual oppression of the rich and self-sufficient. Polluted religion results in the sacrifice of human life and wellbeing.

Thankfully, out of God’s infinite mercy, the word of God is again poured into our world, more generously than ever before. Appearing among us no longer in the form of mere legal pronouncements, but in the shape of a living human person. Someone humble and secure enough in God’s love to resist every form of pollution. And just as water can be used to cleanse contaminated containers, so too does Jesus purify the perverted religion practised in his day. In the gospel, he does this by uncovering the hypocrisy of certain external religious observances, and tracing them back to their origins in the human heart. If the Pharisees and scribes abuse religion by turning it into just another way to line their pockets and inflate their egos, it is only because their hearts are filled with impurities like anxiety and avarice, which hinder them from truly accepting and submitting to God’s word. For it is from within human hearts that evil intentions emerge, rendering even outwardly pious practices unclean.

Actually the dangers of polluted religion should come as no surprise to us. We see its tragic effects all around our world, most obviously in outbreaks of religiously motivated violence. But if these deadly fruits of pollution are truly rooted in the evil intentions within human hearts, then more than simply lamenting and denouncing polluted religion in others, don’t we need to also seek to uncover it in ourselves? By prayerfully examining the sincerity of our external actions, and the dispositions of our own hearts. As well as by gauging the extent to which our religious observance translates into actual expressions of mercy shown to those who suffer, including those closest to us, as well as creation itself. But we need to do this with great care. For if it is true that all that is good originates not from us, but from above, then the power to purify our hearts can come to us only as God’s merciful gift. Which God already bestows upon us so abundantly in Christ. What is left for us to do is to beg God for the willingness to humbly accept this gift, even if it may sometimes appear in inconvenient shapes. Such as the call to change our lifestyles in the direction of greater sustainability.

Sisters and brothers, what particular shape or shapes is God’s mercy taking in our lives today?