From Nuclear to Extended

The Holy Family of Jesus, Mary & Joseph (C)

Readings: 1 Samuel 1:20-22, 24-28; Psalm 127 (128):1-5; 1 John 3:1-2, 21-24; Luke 2:41-52

Picture: By Arian Malek khosravi on Unsplash

My dear friends, what’s the first thing that comes to mind when we hear the word nuclear? Perhaps many of us will think first of atomic energy. But it’s not just lifeless atoms that have nuclei. The living cells in our bodies do too. And as it is in an atom, so too in a cell. The nucleus is the most important part. It’s what lies at the core, at the very heart, of biological life. Which may be why we sometimes hear people talk about a nuclear family. Consisting of a man and a woman, united in marriage, together with any number of children. Which can then become the basis for a larger, more extended, family, including even members from different generations. And even if we may not use the word nuclear, we Christians believe that this arrangement lies at the heart of family life.

But does this mean then that every family must first conform to this ideal before it can be holy? What about those of us whose living situations appear to fall short of the ideal? What if, for example, we are single or separated, widowed or divorced, or even cohabiting or not married in church? And what if, for various reasons, it’s difficult, if not impossible, to change our situation? Can we still be holy? Does this lovely Feast of the Holy Family have something to say even to those of us who may find ourselves in these and similar situations?

Thankfully, the answer is yes, it does. And to see this, it helps to first acknowledge that each of the families we find in our readings is actually less than what we ourselves might consider conventional or ideal. In the first reading, although Hannah is the mother of Samuel, she is only one of her husband’s two wives. And, as we know very well, in the gospel, although Mary is the mother of Jesus, Joseph is not his biological father. But even though their situations may fall short of our ideal, there remains something nuclear about these families, albeit in a different sense. For at the heart of each of them, there lies something very important, something truly precious, something that actually makes them holy.

To appreciate what this something is, we need to recognise a second striking similarity in these readings. In both of them, much of the action takes place in a temple. First in Shiloh, and then in Jerusalem. But more important than their exact physical location, is what these temples signify. For what constitutes the nucleus of a temple, what lies at its very heart, what makes it holy, if not God, who lives in the worship and praises of the people? Isn’t this why a temple is also called the house of the Lord? And isn’t this true not just of buildings, but also of people as well? Both individuals and families? The presence and worship of God is what makes us holy. So that, even if our living situations may seem unconventional or less-than-ideal, through the loving mercy of God, we can still become living temples of the Lord. Isn’t this the experience of Hannah? When she is despised and abused for being barren, she courageously lays bare her heart to God. And when she finally gives birth to a son, she gratefully dedicates him entirely to the Lord. Leaving him in the temple for the whole of his life. After having first taken care to wean him. Allowing Samuel to eventually become a prophet of God.

Similarly, in the gospel, despite often facing situations that are beyond their comprehension and control, both Mary and Joseph continue to experience and to worship the presence of God. Mary also treasures their God-experiences in her heart. Even those that are challenging and difficult to understand. And it’s also helpful to notice that although, unlike Samuel, Jesus does not remain in the temple, he continues to live in God’s presence, in God’s house, by keeping himself occupied with his Father’s affairs, by doing his Father’s will. Which, for the boy Jesus, meant returning to Nazareth with his earthly parents, and being obedient to them. Isn’t this what it looks like when people do their best to keep God’s commandments, within the often messy constraints of their respective situations in life? And doesn’t the second reading tell us that, when we do this, we receive the grace to live in God, and to have God live in us? Making us grow in holiness, and allowing us to become part of a single extended holy family. One that recognises God as our heavenly Father.

All of which may remind us of these words of Pope Francis: In order to avoid all misunderstanding, I would point out that in no way must the Church desist from proposing the full ideal of marriage…. But I sincerely believe that Jesus wants a Church attentive to the goodness which the Holy Spirit sows in the midst of human weakness… “…even if in the process, her shoes get soiled by the mud of the street”… (AL, 307, 308).

Sisters and brothers, regardless of our current situation, what can we do to let the Lord be the nucleus of our lives today?

Between Floods & Tea

Christmas Day – Mass During The Day

Readings: Isaiah 52:7-10; Psalm 97 (98):1-6; Hebrews 1:1-6; John 1:1-18

Picture: By Jyoti Singh on Unsplash

My dear friends, what’s the difference between floodlights and tea lights? We know that floodlights are typically used to illuminate large venues, like soccer stadiums and concert halls. Where their great power enables them to illuminate everything they shine upon. Leaving nothing in the dark. Which makes floodlights all but impossible to ignore… In contrast, a tiny tea light is far more fragile and weak. When placed in a huge hall, it leaves many areas still shrouded in shadow. Which makes it so much easier to miss, especially if we don’t pay enough attention. Actually, to spot the tiny glow of a humble tea light, flickering in an obscure corner of a large space, we may need to be willing to search patiently among the shadows, and to peer bravely into the dark.

It’s helpful for us to keep this in mind, on this joyous Christmas Day, when our scriptures speak of the arrival of the true light that enlightens everyone, and give us the distinct impression of a mighty show of great power. In the first reading, for example, we’re told that the Lord bares his holy arm, achieves a victory so glorious that all the ends of the earth shall see the salvation of our God. And the second reading refers to Christ as the radiant light of God’s glory, who not only sustains the universe by his powerful command, but has also destroyed the defilement of sin, and taken his place in heaven at the right hand of divine Majesty.

Listening to descriptions like these, isn’t it natural for us to imagine powerful floodlights being suddenly switched on, illuminating everything all at once, and leaving nothing in the dark? An image that may understandably be comforting for some. And yet, might there not also be those among us who can’t help wondering how realistic this image is? How closely it matches what we know of life in our chaotic world? Where a woman sleeping quietly on a NYC subway train is suddenly burnt to death, after being set alight by an apparent stranger. And where, in his most recent Christmas address to no less than the Roman Curia, the Pope feels the need to remind everyone of something as basic as not spreading rumours and gossip. Even in a relatively peaceful country like our own, a police presence needs to stand ready in the shadows, to ensure our safety as we gather to worship. And each of us will likely be able to add, to this far-from-exhaustive list, our own personal brushes with evil and tragedy.

Thankfully, when we take the trouble to peer below the surface, our readings reveal another image to complement the first. For while the gospel speaks about the coming of the true light, it also takes care to remind us that this is a light that shines in the dark. And although the darkness could not overpower it, the light still has to contend with the pain of ignorance and rejection: He was in the world that had its being through him, and the world did not know him. He came to his own domain and his own people did not accept him. A reminder to us that the glory of the Lord’s Resurrection comes only through his utter humiliation on the Cross. Prompting us to ponder more deeply what we are celebrating today. What it really means that the Word was made flesh. That the only Son of the Father should mercifully enter the darkness of our human condition, not as a mighty warrior, but as a helpless infant, lying among domestic animals. Lovingly showing us a form of power that works in and through weakness. And a form of illumination that looks less like mighty floodlights, and more like a tiny tea light.

All of which offers us helpful guidance for how we might spend the rest of this brief Christmas season. For if the light of the Incarnation is indeed as obscure as a tiny tea light, then perhaps we need to beg God for the patience and courage to keep gazing steadily and unflinchingly into the dark corners and shadowy recesses of our lives and of our world. As well as for the wisdom and perception to recognise the light that shines in the dark. And for the openness and generosity to allow that same light to ignite our own hearts, so that we too may become humble light-bearers. And, wherever possible, to do all this not just individually, but also together, as families, as communities, and as church.

In a scene from the movie, The Hobbit, An Unexpected Journey, Gandalf the wizard is asked why he chooses a little hobbit as a companion on a dangerous quest. This is what he says in reply: Saruman (a fellow wizard) believes that it’s only great power that can hold evil in check. But that is not what I’ve found. I’ve found that it’s the small things, everyday deeds of ordinary folk, that keeps the darkness at bay. Simple acts of kindness and love. Why Bilbo Baggins? Perhaps it’s because I’m afraid, and he gives me courage…

Sisters and brothers, how might we help one another to better welcome the humble tea light of Christ this Christmas?

Water for the Thirsty

4th Sunday of Advent (C)

Readings: Micah 5:1-4; Psalm 79 (80): 2-3, 15-16, 18-19; Hebrews 10:5-10; Luke 1:39-45

Picture: By Johnny McClung on Unsplash

My dear friends, what is it like to experience a burning thirst? And what does it feel like when that thirst is finally satisfied? As we’ve probably seen in the news, in recent days, attention has again been drawn to the dire water crisis in Gaza. According to a report by Human Rights Watch, between October 2023 and September 2024, Palestinians in Gaza had access to only a few litres of water a day in many areas, far below the 15-litre-threshold for survival. Here in Singapore, on the other hand, despite water being so accessible, it is said that many of us are often so busy that we even forget to drink. Yet whether it’s due to scarcity or neglect, we know that if our bodies don’t get enough water, they become dehydrated, and we fall sick. So what a great relief it is when long-dehydrated bodies finally receive the water they need!

The joyful relief that comes from satisfying a burning thirst. Isn’t this what we find in our scriptures today? Although it may not be so obvious, the first reading is actually addressed to a people burning with thirst of a particular kind. A people besieged by their enemies, and feeling abandoned by their God. A people suffering the dire consequences of their own wilful refusal to drink from the life-giving stream of God’s presence in their lives. To this spiritually dehydrated and despairing people, God promises to send a saviour. A mysterious new ruler, who will feed and shepherd them. Leading and guiding them into the peace of God’s kingdom. And we believe that this promise finds its ultimate fulfilment, and the people’s thirst its final satisfaction, in Jesus.

But, in our scriptures today, we find more than just a thirsty people. Incredibly, in the second reading, we also discover the image of a thirsty God. Except that God’s thirst is not for what we may expect. Not for what the Law lays down as the things to be offered. Not for ritual sacrifices for sin, but for humanity to become holy. For God’s thirst is born not of a desire for domination, but of love. God wishes everyone to turn back to God, so that God can satisfy our burning thirst. And again, as in the first reading, this comes about through Jesus. God’s will is for us to be made holy by the offering of his body made once and for all by Jesus Christ.

All of which helps us to better appreciate the deeper significance of that delightful encounter in the gospel. More than just a conversation between two expectant first-time mothers, what we find here is the meeting of two mutually satisfying thirsts. On the one hand, the older woman and her unborn child represent the thirsty people. In Abraham, they were chosen to be a blessing for all the nations. But owing to their disobedience, for so many generations, they have remained barren. Then now, with the miraculous conception of John the Baptist, a new hope has dawned. The promise of a renewed willingness to return and to drink deeply of God.

On the other hand, the younger woman and her unborn child represent the efforts of our thirsty God, who lovingly and mercifully reaches into the dryness of our hearts and of our world, to bring forth a refreshing stream of life-giving water.  And it’s striking how all this is made possible through humble obedience. First of all, the obedience of God’s only begotten Son, the Eternal Word, who humbles himself to take on human flesh, eventually dying on a cross, before being raised up again on the Third Day. And, second, the obedience also of Mary his Mother, whose precious consent to God’s will makes such a great blessing accessible to us all. 

Humble obedience to God’s will. This is what mediates the meeting and mutual satisfaction of the respective thirsts of humanity and of God. This is what the second reading labels holiness, and what the gospel calls blessedness. The same holiness and blessedness that both John and Elizabeth somehow recognise, in Mary’s greeting. Prompting the child to leap for joy, and his mother to cry out in wonder: Of all women you are the most blessed, and blessed is the fruit of your womb… Yes, blessed is she who believed that the promise made her by the Lord would be fulfilled.

What a great relief it is, when long-dehydrated lives finally receive the water they need! And how important it is for us to keep pondering this blessedness. For as rich and modern as our society may be, don’t we still see painfully obvious signs of thirst? Not just in the recent news reports of alleged vice activities uncovered in the heartlands, or the record $12.2 billion in bets placed with Singapore Pools in the last financial year, or the puzzling Labubu craze. But also in the various bad habits and addictions, as well as the mental health issues, which cause such suffering to so many.

Sisters and brothers, what can we do to help one another better allow God to satisfy our burning thirst this Christmas?

From Syria To Sentosa

3rd Sunday of Advent (C)

Readings: Zephaniah 3:14-18; Isaiah 12; Philippians 4:4-7; Luke 3:10-18

Picture: By Arum Visuals on Unsplash

My dear friends, what does Syria have in common with Sentosa? As we’ve seen or heard in the news, this past week, both these places have witnessed scenes of joyful celebration. At Sentosa, on Thursday, 18-year-old Indian national, Gukesh Dommaraju, became the youngest ever world chess champion. And what was particularly striking about Gukesh’s historic win, was the delight of the many fans who showed up to congratulate and celebrate with him. A helpful reminder to us that it is possible to rejoice not just in our own achievements, but also in those of someone else.

Then, in Syria, people have been celebrating the toppling of a brutal regime that has oppressed them for 50 long years. And while there is understandably much excitement and jubilation, there is also deep pain and anguish. Particularly for the many who have lost homes and loved ones. Pain poignantly expressed by Dr Raghad Attar, a forensic dentist, who has been helping broken families identify and claim their beloved dead, at a hospital in Damascus: I came here yesterday, she was quoted as saying, two days ago. It was very difficult for me. We hope the future will be better but this is very hard. I am really sorry for these families. I am very sorry for them…

Not only can joy be experienced in the achievements of someone else, it can also arise amid great pain and anguish. But in order to experience this, our hearts need to be spacious enough to share the joys and pains of others. Just as our vision needs to be broad and brave enough to look for the light that shines even in the darkness. And this view of joy stands in direct contrast to another, perhaps more common approach, which involves not a broadening, but a narrowing of vision. Where joy is equated with something like mere optimism. Where to rejoice is to focus only on the bright side of life, while ignoring all the shadows. As the saying goes, ignorance is bliss. But how then are we to cultivate the spaciousness of heart that allows us to share the joys and pains of another, as well as the broadness of vision that gives us the capacity to rejoice even in the dark? This is the key question our scriptures help us to ponder today.

In the first reading, a long-suffering people is called to rejoice. A people traumatised by war and oppression, and burdened by guilt and shame at their own idolatry. For the Lord has repealed their sentence. The Lord is with them to rescue them from their enemies. And to help them heed this call to rejoice, the people are invited to broaden their vision beyond their own sufferings, to imagine how God is rejoicing over them. Incredibly, God even goes to the extent of dancing for them with shouts of joy… as on a day of festival. Like the eager fans of a chess champion, the people are invited to let their hearts be made spacious enough to share in the immense joy and great achievements of the Lord their God.

Similarly, in the second reading, St Paul asks the Philippians to rejoice in a very specific way. Not in themselves, but in the Lord. In the great victory Christ has already won for us on the Cross. Yet it’s also clear that this joy is experienced amid challenging situations. Why else would Paul mention the need for tolerance? A word that can also be translated as gentleness. The willingness to bear patiently with less than ideal circumstances and people. Allowing God’s peace to guard our hearts from worry, by humbly bringing our needs to God in prayer and thanksgiving. As we do every time we gather for the Eucharist.

Joy and gentleness, patience and peace. We may recall that, in another of Paul’s letters (Ga 5:22-23), these are among the things that he labels the fruit of the Spirit. The same Holy Spirit with whom John the Baptist says Jesus will baptise his followers. So the rejoicing in which we are asked to engage actually flows not from us, but from the Spirit at work within and among us. Our part is to do what we can to allow our hearts to become spacious enough to welcome and cooperate with the Spirit’s work. Isn’t this the deeper practical significance of John’s advice to those who ask him what must we do? By taking care to share what we have with those who have not. By faithfully discharging our duty for the benefit of others. And by refraining from abusing whatever authority has been entrusted to us, but using it instead for the common good. By doing all these things, more than just benefitting others, don’t we also make more room in our own hearts and lives to receive whatever the Spirit brings?

At a time when attention spans often seem to be growing shorter, and vision ever more narrow, the Lord continues to call us to move in the opposite direction. Sisters and brothers, whether it’s from Syria or Sentosa, or the Sacred Scriptures, how is the Lord teaching us to rejoice by making more room for him and for others this Christmas?

Between Routine & Emergency

1st Sunday of Advent (C)

Readings: Jeremiah 33:14-16; Psalm 24 (25):4-5, 8-9, 10, 14; 1 Thessalonians 3:12-4:2; Luke 21:25-28, 34-36

Picture: By Tuan Anh Nguyen on Unsplash

My dear friends, is there any difference between waiting for a bus, and waiting for an ambulance?… Those of us who take the bus regularly will have noticed that something is changing in how we wait for it. In the past, commuters had to take care to look out for the bus, and to flag it down once it arrived. Otherwise the bus wouldn’t stop. But now, the tables are being turned. These days, most of the people at a bus-stop often have their eyes fixed on their phones. And it’s up to the bus captain to sound his horn to catch their attention.

How different it is when the vehicle we’re waiting for is an ambulance… Some years ago, a fellow Jesuit was found unconscious in his bedroom. He had suffered a stroke. As we waited for the ambulance to arrive, several of us had to take turns to perform chest compressions on him, even as others watched for the arrival of the paramedics. The contrast couldn’t be sharper, between the carefree routine of the bus-stop, and the purposeful attention of the emergency. A contrast not just in the external circumstances, but also in the interior dispositions of those who wait. A contrast expressed in the respective bodily postures they adopt.

It’s helpful for us to keep this contrast in mind, as we begin the beautiful season of Advent. A time when we Christians are reminded that we are a people-in-waiting. For we live in between the first and final comings of Christ. And we need to watch for the One who is coming. But what does this waiting and watching look and feel like? What are the bodily postures and interior dispositions that characterise it? These are among the questions our scriptures help us to ponder today.

In the first reading, a consoling hope-filled promise is made by the Lord God to the people of Judah, through the prophet Jeremiah. But before we consider the words of the promise, it’s important to recall the situation of the prophet. As these words are being spoken, Jeremiah is locked up in a Jerusalem jail, while the city itself is besieged by an invading Babylonian army. It’s a time of tragedy, caused by the idolatry of the people and their leaders. And it is during this emergency that God promises to send a rescue vehicle. A new leader, who will transport the people to safety, by teaching them to live just and righteous lives before God.

In the gospel too, Jesus describes the final coming of the Son of Man as more of an emergency than a routine. People will be dying of fear, and even the powers of heaven will be shaken. Which is not to say that the Lord doesn’t come in routine situations. The point is to take care how we wait. Amid the panic-inducing events of his final coming, the Lord’s disciples–which include all of us–are to stay alert. To adopt a  particular bodily posture, and a specific interior disposition. We are to stand erect, and hold our heads high. We are also to watch ourselves. To guard our hearts from being weighed down by debauchery and drunkenness and the cares of life.

The psalm and second reading deepen our understanding of this posture and disposition, mentioned by Jesus in the gospel. For it’s not just her head that the psalmist lifts to the Lord, but her very soul as well. Just as St Paul prays that the Lord will confirm the hearts of his readers in holiness. Also, both the second reading and the psalm mention another bodily posture. That of walking. Paul urges his listeners to make more and more progress… in the life that God wants. In another translation, he tells them to walk and to please God. Which is also the grace that the psalmist begs for herself: Make me walk in your truth, and teach me.

To stand and to walk justly before the Lord, and to watch ourselves, so as to be ready to lift our heads, our hearts, and our souls to him, whenever he chooses to come. And to do this in an atmosphere more of emergency than of routine. This is the kind of waiting our scriptures describe. But that’s not all. For we believe that the Lord we are awaiting, has also already come. He is already present, in mystery, both in his Body, the Church, as well as in all who suffer. Which implies that we, who profess to be his disciples, are not just meant to wait for the ambulance to rescue us. We are also called to be something like paramedics reaching out to help others. As Pope Francis reminded us, not long after he became Pope: The thing the church needs most today is the ability to heal wounds and to warm the hearts of the faithful… I see the church as a field hospital after battle. It is useless to ask a seriously injured person if he has high cholesterol and about the level of his blood sugars! You have to heal his wounds…

Sisters and brothers, at a time when even those who need an ambulance may often be too distracted or traumatised to watch for its coming, how are we being called both to stay alert, as well as to reach out to assist others today?