Disappearing Dishes

7th Sunday of Easter (A)
(60th World Day of Social Communications)

Readings: Acts 1:12-14; Psalm 26 (27):1, 4, 7-8; 1 Peter 4:13-16; John 17:1-11

Picture: By Chell on Unsplash

Does anyone here use the PIE and BKE regularly? Those who do may have noticed a big change at the place where these expressways meet. The two large satellite dishes that once graced that intersection have disappeared. About a month ago, a spokesperson for Singtel was reported as saying that the dishes were dismantled earlier this year, to make way for future infrastructure… (to) support… evolving connectivity needs… So it seems that, while the dishes are gone, the purpose they once served is set to endure, through the new structures that will soon replace them. Even so, their removal evoked passionate reactions online, with many expressing nostalgia for what they described as a distinctive and enduring landmark. Questioning why the dishes were not preserved… A changing place, an enduring purpose, and a call for preservation. Don’t we find something similar in our celebration today?

Although the scriptures don’t quite spell it out, tradition has it that the events described in both the first reading and the gospel occur at the same location. The place that the Acts of the Apostles calls the upper room, is also believed to be where Jesus gathers his disciples to eat the Last Supper, the setting for today’s gospel. And yet, like that junction where the PIE and BKE meet, it’s clear that between the gospel and the first reading, this place sees a big change. What is the change? In the gospel, the spotlight falls on a single face. The air is filled with the sound of one specific voice. None other than the face and the voice of Jesus himself. Like a spiritual satellite dish, Jesus is the one who facilitates true connectivity with God. It is through him, and in him, that authentic communication signals between God and humanity are both received and transmitted. Yet by the time we get to the first reading, Jesus is no longer seen or heard in the upper room, at least not in the same way as before. Instead, the spotlight shines on many other faces. The air is filled with many other voices. People named and unnamed. Both men and women. All disciples, obediently following the instructions of their Crucified, Risen & Ascended Lord.

Even so, despite this noticeable change, something yet endures. Something important. Even essential. It’s likely no coincidence that the disciples in the first reading are engaged in the exact same activity as Jesus in the gospel. They are praying. A sign that the Divine Purpose, which Jesus served while on earth, lives on in and through them. Isn’t this what the Spirit empowers them, and us, to do? To keep serving the same purpose that Jesus served? To be the new receivers and transmitters of God’s glory on the face of this earth. The spiritual infrastructure of connectivity between God and Creation. Not just through the prayers we offer, but also and especially through the lives we lead. Not just as individuals, but also and especially as a consecrated community. The Body of Christ. Extending beyond life in this world, to what awaits us beyond. 

Isn’t this why the second reading encourages us to be grateful to God, whenever we may have to suffer for bearing the name of Christ? For when this happens, we are being given a share in the sufferings of Christ himself. And painful though such experiences may be, they are signs that we have with us the Spirit of glory, the Spirit of God resting on us. That we are continuing to serve the Lord’s purpose. Isn’t this the paradoxical call that is addressed to us? At once to embrace change, and to ensure preservation. To accept the role of being the Lord’s new way of being present in the world. So as to preserve his purpose of receiving and transmitting God’s glory. Not merely out of a sense of nostalgia, but because this is our dignity, our vocation.

A changing place, an enduring purpose, and a call for preservation. Beyond satellite dishes and the sacred scriptures, don’t we find these same things in the wider world? On the one hand, to say that the world is changing, is to state the obvious. The stable global order we once enjoyed is unravelling. And much as the rapid advance of technology, including the advent of artificial intelligence, is bringing us many benefits, there are also new challenges. Such as a worsening climate crisis, growing wealth inequality, job insecurity, and an ever-accelerating, stress-inducing pace of life. With dire consequences for our physical, mental and spiritual well-being. More fundamentally, doesn’t it seem more difficult to remember what it means to be human? To distinguish truth from falsehood? To keep seeking the good, while rejecting evil?

And yet, the gospel reminds us that humanity does indeed have a purpose. That we are made for life in its fullness. The same life that Jesus died and rose again to secure for us. And eternal life is this: to know you, the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom you have sent. Isn’t this why it’s appropriate that the theme chosen for our Pope’s message, on the occasion of the 60th World Day of Social Communications, is Preserving Human Voices and Faces? And what better way to do this than by first seeking and contemplating the face of Christ? By first hearing and heeding the consoling yet challenging sound of his voice?

Sisters and brothers, if the disappearance of two rusty satellite dishes can evoke such feeling, how might the Lord’s call move us to help preserve what is truly human in our world today?

Shivers & Sweaters, Shelters & Structures

5th Sunday of Easter (A)

Readings: Acts 6:1-7; Psalm 32 (33):1-2,4-5,18-19; 1 Peter 2:4-9; John 14:1-12

Picture: By Tom the Photographer on Unsplash

When is it a good time to put on a sweater? Probably best not to wait till we’re already shivering, right? For the sweater is meant to help us stay warm. So it’s wise to put it on once our surroundings start draining away our body-heat, even before we actually feel cold. Which may help to explain what Jesus is doing in the gospel today. The setting is the Last Supper. Judas has just gone off into the night, on his way to betray his Master. And soon the disciples’ surroundings will turn deathly cold. Causing their hearts to shiver, and their faith to waver. Faced with this imminent threat, Jesus shows his compassion and care for his disciples by offering them something like a sweater. Do not let your hearts be troubled, he advises. Trust in God still, and trust in me… Even before they start to shiver, the Lord reminds his friends to keep warm by clinging tightly to the conviction that, despite all appearances to the contrary, he will never desert them. Rather, he is going now to prepare a place for them. A safe refuge in the very house of God.

More than just a sweater, through his Dying and Rising, the Lord is gaining for his disciples privileged access to a permanent shelter from the cold. And in case we may think this place can be found only in some faraway heaven, after we are dead, the second reading assures us otherwise. Writing some time after the Resurrection, the author identifies God’s house with the community of Jesus’ disciples, which includes us. For the Lord is the living stone, rejected by men but chosen by God… And by setting ourselves close to him–by clinging tightly to him in trust–we his followers become living stones making a spiritual house. A safe shelter from the world’s cold. Not just for ourselves, but for all who long to find life in its fullness.

Even so, the cold doesn’t come only from the outside. It can also emanate from within. In the first reading, the early Christian community in Jerusalem is, in a sense, starting to shiver. Rumblings of complaint are surfacing. Not so much due to the external temperature, but because of certain internal inadequacies. Rapid growth in numbers has led to inequality. Certain people are being overlooked. So, like truly living stones, the apostles respond by introducing a daring change of structure. They show their trust in the Lord’s ongoing presence and action among them by delegating authority to others. Appointing them to see to legitimate needs that the apostles themselves do not have the bandwidth to meet. Through this simple structural change, the community’s interior temperature is adjusted. Making it more life-giving for all.

Which may be something like what sociology professor and bestselling author, Teo You Yenn, is calling for in an insightful new book. Titled Unease, the book highlights the deep disquiet that marks family life in Singapore. Relating this to the structural conditions found locally, which tend to engender a distinctive culture, the book invites readers to dare to imagine how things could be different. How structures might and need to be changed. In order to provide a more conducive space for family life to truly flourish here… Sometimes, beyond slipping into a sweater, the appropriate response to cold is to adjust the settings on the air-conditioner.

Sisters and brothers, as we continue to celebrate the hope and joy of Easter, how is our Crucified and Risen Lord teaching and helping us to shield one another from the cold today?

Beyond Colour-Correction

 3rd Sunday of Easter (A)

Readings: Acts 2: 14, 22-33; Psalm 15 (16): 1-2, 5, 7-11; 1 Peter 1: 17-21; Luke 24: 13-35

Picture: By Diana Polekhina on Unsplash

My dear friends, this may seem like a strange question to ask, but what does the liturgy have in common with toothpaste? Some of us may have seen that commercial for a popular brand of toothpaste, which still plays frequently on YouTube. It features a pretty young K-Pop star, explaining the benefits of using purple-coloured toothpaste. Why purple? Because purple colour-corrects yellow. Yellow teeth… plus purple toothpaste… equals… a whiter more beautiful smile. Or so the theory goes…

Forgive me if it seems disrespectful to say so, but doesn’t this sound strikingly similar to what we are celebrating liturgically over these days? The transition from the penitential purple of Lent to the glorious white of Easter? And we know that, beyond the penitential practices undertaken in Lent, the colour purple points especially to the Passion of Jesus. The humiliation and death he suffered at the hands of his enemies. The soldiers dressed him in royal purple to make fun of him. We believe that by humbly accepting the painful purple of his Passion, Jesus was able to correct the ugly yellow of our selfishness and sin. Changing it into the glorious white of God’s adopted children. All this we know. At least in theory. A theory we happily mark by the changing of liturgical colours.

Which is actually a fairly easy thing to do. Especially since we have a conscientious sacristan and her capable assistants to do it for us. But what about the deeper reality that these symbols are meant to signify? The transformation, not just of the colour of our vestments, but of the texture of our hearts. How to change hearts that may have been broken by the painful sadness of the Cross, into hearts renewed and made bold again by the joyful hope of Easter? Isn’t this the question our scriptures invite us to ponder today?

The marvellous transition from the painful purple of the Passion to the joyous white of the Resurrection. Isn’t this what Peter is describing to the crowd, on the Day of Pentecost, in the first reading? How, through the Resurrection of Christ, and the descent of the Holy Spirit, he and his companions have received power to conquer their grief and trauma, their guilt and shame, their fear and anxiety. So as to courageously proclaim the Good News. But, again, how does this actually happen? Is it really as easy as changing one’s vestments, or using a different-coloured toothpaste? Requiring no more than a gritting of the teeth, or a clenching of the fist? Something we can accomplish on our own? If so, why did we pray as we did at the start of this Mass? We asked God to enable us to exult in renewed youthfulness of spirit, so that rejoicing now in the glory of our adoption, we may look forward in confident hope to the rejoicing of the day of resurrection? Doesn’t our need to ask imply that what we seek is a grace, a gift from God? So how to go about receiving it?

Two words from the responsorial psalm––which Peter quotes in the first reading––provide us with valuable insight. You will show me the path of life, the psalmist says, the fullness of joy in your presence… Path and presence. In order to receive the grace of Easter, there is a path we need to traverse. A way marked by the presence of the Crucified and Risen One. Who comes to us not only bearing the gift we seek, but also helping us to receive it. Isn’t this the experience of the two disciples in the gospel? The reading begins by telling us that Cleopas and his companion are on the way. They are walking along a particular path. How might we describe this path? Geographically, it’s the road leading to a town about half a day’s journey from Jerusalem. But isn’t this also a spiritual path? One that we have already encountered before? Isn’t it recognisable as part of that road that Jesus invited us to walk with him all through Lent, and especially in Holy Week? Isn’t the Road to Emmaus simply an extension of the Way of the Cross? Isn’t this why it’s no surprise that this path should be graced by the Lord’s consoling and encouraging presence? Could it be that Jesus comes to walk with his friends, because they are walking in his footsteps?

And it’s helpful for us to pay attention to how the disciples do this. How they engage in certain practices, which help them remain on the Way. First, they feel safe and comfortable enough to surface the confusion that still burdens their hearts, and to share it wth each other. Then they are led to ponder the Scriptures. Allowing God’s Word to help them realise that it was ordained, or necessary, that the Christ should suffer. For it is by doing so that he becomes the spotless lamb that sheds its precious blood to set us free. And, finally, they press the Lord to stay, or to abide, to remain, with them, as they break bread together… The surfacing of burdens, the pondering of scripture, the breaking of bread… Aren’t these also the practices in which we are engaging at this Mass?

Path, presence and practices. This is how we come not only to receive the gift we seek, but also to share it with others. Just as our brave and beloved Pope is doing now on the world stage. For unlike purple toothpaste––which is marketed as no more than a beauty hack, a mere cosmetic, an agent of superficial change––what the Lord offers is something far deeper. No less than the transformation of hearts: from broken to burning to bold. Sisters and brothers, what can we do to help one another better receive and rejoice in this precious gift this Easter?

The Race(s) We Run

 Easter Sunday of the Resurrection of the Lord

Readings: Acts 10:34, 37-43; Psalm 117 (118): 1-2, 16-17, 22-23; 1 Corinthians 5:6-8; Matthew 28:1-10

Picture: By Mathieu Improvisato on Unsplash

My dear friends, what is it like to run a race? I’m not sure, but doesn’t it depend on the type of race? Some races are really strenuous and draining, yet many people still choose to run them. Often just for fun. Even over and over again. Like that highly popular endurance race going on at the National Stadium this weekend. It’s called Hyrox... And then there are also races of a different sort. Races beyond the world of sport. Races that people engage in, not for fun, but because they’ve somehow fallen or found themselves trapped in it. For example, right now, even as those Hyrox enthusiasts sweat it out in Kallang, others in the Middle East are engaged in a desperate race to find the remaining crew member of the US fighter jet that was shot down over Iran on Friday. And we know that these efforts are part of a wider arms race. For one of the reasons given for the war is the need to stop Iran from producing a nuclear weapon.

Which makes it all the more disturbing, doesn’t it, that here at home, it has become appropriate for us to apply this same language of war to how we approach the formation of our children? To call it an education arms race. Describing how some of us see fit to take what should be a wholesome pursuit of excellence, the fulfilling of a child’s potential, even a quest for life’s deeper meaning, and to deform it. Disfigure it. Reduce it to an anxious contest for securing ever more wealth, status, privilege… An extension of that other contest in which so many adults often feel trapped. The infamous stress-producing, burnout-inducing, soul-sapping, fertility-reducing rat race.

It’s helpful for us, myself included, to keep all this in mind, even if it may feel a bit like a wet blanket, on this joyous Easter Day. For it’s possible to hear Peter’s re-telling of the story of Jesus, in the first reading, as a collision between two opposing itineraries. Two contrasting ways of running a spiritual race. On the one hand, beginning from Galilee, and relying on the power of the Holy Spirit, Jesus goes about doing good and curing all who had fallen into the power of the devil. All who find themselves trapped in a deadly race, from which they’re helpless to extricate themselves. How does the Lord do this? By teaching everyone to trust in the loving mercy of God. Inviting them to come to him. To learn from him. To shoulder his gentle yoke, and to find rest in him (Mt 11:28). On the other hand, the religious authorities of the day, at least as they are portrayed in the gospels, lay unbearable burdens on people’s shoulders, without making any effort to move them (Mt 23:4). Feeling threatened by the Lord, and jealous of him, they see no other alternative than to kill him, by hanging him on a tree. Yet, by raising him to life, God proves him right. Authenticates his race. And by allowing him to be seen, God empowers those witnesses to run the same race as Jesus did...

To be set free from a death-dealing race, in order to run a life-giving one. Isn’t this what is happening to the disciples in the gospel? Isn’t it striking that, at the start, all three of them are dashing about so frantically? Whether or not they realise it, the pain and trauma of the preceding days have led each of them to run a race of some kind. And it’s helpful for us to ponder their experience a little more deeply. What might be going on in Mary’s heart, as she races away in search of Peter and the other disciple? Her love for Jesus has drawn her to the tomb. And it is this same love, that makes her feel alarmed and frightened to find it empty. They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we don’t know where they have put him… In other words, not satisfied with torturing and killing our beloved Master, have they now stooped so low as to desecrate his corpse as well? Still, much as Mary’s actions are motivated by love, it is a love that remains unenlightened by faith. Isn’t this why the reading begins by telling us that it was… still dark? The gospel is telling us that, at this point, Mary is still racing in the darkness of un-faith.

And we might say the same about Peter and the other disciple. Like Mary, it’s likely that they too are both motivated by love, and also clouded by grief and anxiety. But something happens to them inside the tomb. Something in them begins to change. At least in the disciple Jesus loved. For the gospel tells us that, having entered the empty tomb, and seeing how neatly the burial cloths were arranged, he saw and he believed. Although the gospel doesn’t elaborate, we might imagine what he does next. The contrast between his urgent arrival at the tomb, and how he leaves it. No longer frantic, but pensive, reflective, encouraged, even peaceful… No longer blinded by anxiety. But gradually suffused with the light of faith. A faith that brings with it the dawning of Easter hope and joy. As well as the power to run a different race. The race of and in the Lord.

To be set free from a death-dealing race, in order to run a life-giving one. Isn’t this the precious gift of Easter? Isn’t this what the second reading is inviting us to receive and to live? Isn’t this what it means to get rid of the old yeast, and to become a new batch of bread? And isn’t this also what we will commit ourselves to, in a few moments, when together we renew our baptismal promises, and are sprinkled with blessed water?

If a simple sport like Hyrox can inspire such devotion in its followers, how much more does Easter have the power to move us. Sisters and brothers, what race are we really running today?

Of Sandwiches & Earthquakes

 Palm Sunday of the Passion of the Lord (A)

Readings: Matthew 21:1-11; Isaiah 50:4-7; Psalm 21 (22):8-9, 17-20, 23-24; Philippians 2:6-11; Matthew 26:14-27:66

Picture: By Crunch on Unsplash 

(At the Entrance:) My dear friends, in the gospel passage we just heard, we’re told that when Jesus entered Jerusalem, all the city was stirred… Later, near the end of the Lord’s Passion, we will hear that, after Jesus dies on the Cross, the earth quaked… Actually, these two English words, stir and quake, translate the same Greek word, which means to shake violently. So today our scriptures begin and end with two instances of violent shaking. The first is felt in the hearts of all the people of Jerusalem, as they watch Jesus enter their beloved city. The second is suffered by the whole earth, after the Lord dies on the Cross. A stirred city and a quaking earth. Like the slices of bread in a healthy sandwich, these events hold between them a filling that nourishes us unto eternal life. So let us pay close attention, and feed on this rich spiritual food, as we follow Jesus on his Way.

(At the Ambo:) What’s it like to be caught in an earthquake? Even if we’ve never experienced one first-hand, we can imagine what it feels like… When the earth suddenly starts shaking. Walls shuddering… Roads cracking… Buildings crumbling. And ourselves powerless to stop it. How terrifying it must be! But even before it fills our hearts with terror, doesn’t the violent motion have the power first to grab our attention? Like how the recent earth-shaking events in the Middle East have grabbed the attention of the whole world?

The terrifying, attention-grabbing power of an earthquake. Isn’t this the experience of the Roman soldiers guarding Jesus? Shaken out of the boredom and complacency of their daily routine, they receive the grace to see and acknowledge who Jesus really is. This apparently deranged prisoner, whom they had stripped and scourged, made fun of and spat at, before fixing to a cross, and watching him die. Incredibly, in the person of this condemned criminal, they are able now to recognise the presence and action of God. The Divine King, who comes among us so humbly, riding on an ass. The Suffering Servant, who shows compassion, not just by speaking words of comfort to the wearied. But also by courageously standing up to, and speak out against, those who oppress them. Lovingly submitting to the trials that come as a result. Even to the point of accepting a shameful death. What a grace to be able to recognise God, in a lifeless body hanging on a cruel cross.

But there are also those who react in the opposite way. Instead of recognising and acknowledging God’s surprising presence, both the religious authorities, who plotted to have Jesus killed, and the Roman governor, who pronounced the unjust sentence, work actively to deny and suppress the Truth. They resist grace, and choose to cling instead to their own disordered attachments. Nor is overt denial the only possible form of resistance to grace. Despair and apathy serve just as well. Could this be the deeper reason why Jesus keeps encouraging his disciples to keep awake with him, and to pray not to be put to the test? In order not to miss the subtle presence and action of God, even as the very earth begins to shake.

And isn’t all this a useful reminder for us, who live in such tumultuous times? When both denial and despair remain tempting options. Sisters and brothers, even as the very foundations of our world continue to shake, how might we help one another to keep awake with the Lord and to pray?

Prioritising The Periphery

4th Sunday of Lent (A)

(Laetare Sunday)

Readings: 1 Samuel 16:1, 6-7, 10-13; Psalm 22 (23); Ephesians 5:8-14; John 9:1-41

Picture: By mohammed dawleh on Unsplash

What is the opposite of glaucoma? According to the Singhealth website, glaucoma is a group of diseases… resulting in irreversible loss of vision. It’s a scary one-way process leading to blindness. Usually this is caused by the build-up of pressure in the eyeball. Fluid accumulates in the eye faster than it is able to drain away. And the resulting pressure damages the optic nerve irreparably. But because vision is initially lost around the edges, or the periphery, sufferers don’t realise they’re going blind, until it’s too late… A process leading to blindness… involving the build-up of pressure… where vision is lost beginning at the periphery. Process, pressure and periphery. It’s helpful to keep these three characteristics in mind, as we ponder the scriptures on this Fourth Sunday in Lent. For what we find here is not just something like glaucoma, but also its opposite. Not just the tragic loss of sight, but also its joyful restoration.

In the first reading, the prophet Samuel is obviously undergoing a process, by which he is gradually being taught how to see as God sees. How to look beyond appearances to the very heart of reality. Samuel is being given the ability to do what the second reading encourages all of us to do: to discover (or to discern) what the Lord wants, and so to walk in the light of God. Actually, more than just Samuel, the whole people of Israel is being offered new sight. For, as we may recall, back when Samuel was still a boy, he lived with the old priest Eli, who was then going blind, in more ways than one. Not only had Eli’s eyesight… begun to grow dim so that he could not see (3:2, NRSV), he had also turned a blind eye to the sins of his two sons (2:22). They were stealing the sacrifices offered to God, and abusing the women who served at the tent of meeting. Nor was Eli the only one losing his sight. The scripture also says that the word of the Lord was rare in those days; visions were not widespread (3:1). In other words, the whole nation was growing spiritually blind. Likely due to the pressures exerted by its own idolatry, its worship of false gods. So by teaching Samuel to see, God is reversing this spiritual glaucoma, restoring the people’s sight.

And isn’t it remarkable how, even though one after another of Jesse’s sons are rejected by God, including Samuel’s own preferred candidate, the prophet doesn’t seem to feel any pressure? Rather than clinging stubbornly to his own preference, Samuel is quite happy to listen to the Lord, to follow God’s direction. And isn’t it striking how peripheral a figure the boy David is at this point in the story? So peripheral is he, that his father Jesse might well have forgotten all about him, had Samuel not asked, perhaps with more than a touch of irritation, Are these all the sons you have? And yet, it is precisely this peripheral character whom God sees fit to anoint as king. To be God’s chosen instrument to help restore the people’s sight.

 

Process, pressure and periphery. Don’t we find these in the gospel too? Like Samuel, the man born blind is undergoing a process, in which he is gradually receiving his sight. Not just his physical sight, but more importantly, his spiritual vision. The reading marks the progress of this healing process by the titles the man uses to address Jesus. First, he refers to him simply as the man called Jesus. Then, he calls him a prophet. And, finally, he recognises and worships him as Lord. In contrast, even as the man’s vision gradually sharpens and deepens, the people around him are going blind. From his neighbours, who should know him well, and yet now have trouble recognising him. To his parents, who seem unable to acknowledge their son’s healing, let alone to share his joy. To the religious authorities, who have clearly already made up their minds about Jesus.

And isn’t this blindness caused by pressure? Pressure experienced by the authorities, who wish to paint Jesus as nothing more than a breaker of the Law, but can’t explain how a sinner is able to give sight to the blind. And pressure that these same authorities then place on others to suppress the truth. In contrast, after experiencing Jesus’ healing touch, the once-blind man seems remarkably immune to pressure. Such that he is able even to talk back to those who have power to cast him out of the community. And who is this man, really, if not a peripheral figure? One whose name isn’t even recorded in the gospel. Yet it is this same peripheral figure in whom God chooses to show God’s power. As Jesus tells his disciples. he was born blind so that the works of God might be displayed in him. 

Even if glaucoma currently remains irreversible, God still has power to restore lost spiritual sight. This is the good news proclaimed in our readings today. This is the gift we are joyfully preparing to celebrate, when we renew our baptismal vows at Easter. But the scriptures also tell us that the sharpness of our spiritual sight depends on how well we attend to the little things and little ones that are too often pushed to the peripheries of consciousness by the pressures of modern life. Little things, like being kind, showing respect, and even getting enough rest and exercise, not just physically, but also spiritually. And little ones, like innocent civilians displaced by war, and children burdened by the so-called education arms-race, as well as migrant workers still relegated to riding precariously at the back of lorries.

Sisters and brothers, how shall we help one another to keep walking in the light of the Lord today?

Most Important Word

6th Sunday of Ordinary Time (A)

Readings: Ecclesiasticus 15:16-21; Psalm 118 (119):1-2, 4-5, 17-18, 33-34; 1 Corinthians 2:6-10; Matthew 5:17-37

Picture: By Glen Carrie on Unsplash

What is the most important word in the English language? Is it a verb or a noun? An article or a preposition? What do you think? To be honest, I don’t know. I wonder, though, whether a possible candidate might be found in the name of a popular local podcast. Has anyone here heard of Yah Lah But? I suspect a good number of us have. Anyway, in an interview given last year, this podcast’s two hosts explained the reason for its interesting name. Our goal, they said, is to encourage people to empathise with other perspectives, so we called our podcast “Yah Lah But”… To illustrate, in a recent episode, one of the hosts spoke light-heartedly about the frustration he experienced, while talking to foreigners he had met on an overseas trip. Upon hearing that he hailed from Singapore, they would typically gush with praise for our little island nation. Isn’t this the world’s best place to live? Don’t locals here enjoy 80% home ownership? In response, our host felt a burning need to offer some qualifications. To say, yah lah, but… Unfortunately, he wasn’t given a chance to do so. To use that important word but. To let this tiny 3-lettered conjunction lead his conversation partners to consider other, deeper, more nuanced perspectives.

Before we go any further, perhaps I should state that I’m not connected in any way to this podcast. Nor have I received any incentive––monetary or otherwise––to mention it at the pulpit. So why do it? The reason is simple. In our ongoing reading of Matthew’s gospel, we have reached that portion of Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount in which one word keeps recurring. Have you noticed what it is? Actually, it’s not just a word, but a distinctive pattern of speech or argument. Again and again, we hear the Lord say, You have learnt how it was said… But I say to you… Or, roughly translated into Singlish, yah lah… but… By repeatedly using the word but, the Lord invites his listeners––including all of us––to consider other, deeper, more nuanced perspectives on the Law. Not to abolish or to weaken it, but to complete it. To better achieve its purpose. So, according to Jesus, it’s not enough, simply to refrain from engaging in acts of murder and adultery. We also need to continually struggle against the violent tendencies, and the lustful appetites that so often stir deep within our all too human hearts. 

By using the word but, the Lord calls us to go beyond the superficial legalistic approach of the religious leaders of his day. Reminding us that if your virtue goes no deeper than that of the scribes and Pharisees, you will never get into the kingdom of heaven. Why? Isn’t it because, for the sake of certainty and control, the scribes and Pharisees transform what is meant to be a living word into a dead letter? They distort the Law. Changing it from a life-giving expression of God’s merciful and steadfast love, into an oppressive burden. And isn’t it possible for us, whether we realise it or not, to adopt this same legalistic approach even when applying the Lord’s teaching?

Such as when victims of domestic abuse are encouraged, or subtly pressured, to reconcile with their abuser prematurely, while the abuse is still ongoing. Or when, for the sake of avoiding scandal, or to safeguard the reputation of the institution, credible reports of abuse in a church setting are simply ignored or covered up. After all, doesn’t Jesus say that reconciliation should take priority over even the bringing of offerings to God?… Sure, reconciliation is indeed important. But… is this truly the reconciliation intended by God, when it comes at the expense of the safety and wellbeing of those more vulnerable?

Of course, we cannot deny that a yah lah but approach likely means less certainty and control. Which may make it even more demanding. Difficult enough to struggle with the sinful tendencies in our own hearts. Now we also have to figure out what exactly the Law requires in concrete situations too? Are we even capable of doing this? From where do we obtain the wisdom it requires? These questions lead us to consider yet another instance of yah lah but. For the first reading tells us in no uncertain terms that we are all blessed with the freedom to do what is right. If you wish, you can keep the commandments… And yet, doesn’t our lived experience prompt us to add a but? Yes, we may have the freedom to keep the Law, but we struggle in vain to exercise that freedom without the help of God. Isn’t this why the psalmist prays so fervently that God will not only teach me the demands of your statutes, but also train me to observe your law, to keep it with my heart? And doesn’t this prayer find its full and definitive answer in Jesus himself? For it is in his Life, Death and Resurrection that we find what the second reading calls the hidden wisdom of God. And isn’t this what we are celebrating at this and at every Mass?

Truly, we cannot say for sure whether or not but is indeed the most important word in the English language. What we Christians can say, with a conviction born of faith, is that we believe in a Living Word, an Eternal Word, a Word-Made-Flesh, a Word who was Crucified, Died and was Raised for us, a Word that even now begs to be inscribed most tenderly upon our inmost heart. Sisters and brothers, what do we need to do to allow the power and wisdom of this Word to continue animating our lives, as individuals, as families, and as Church today?

Before the Bubble Bursts

4th Sunday of Ordinary Time (A)

Readings: Zephaniah 2:3, 3:12-13; Psalm 145 (146):6-10; 1 Corinthians 1:26-31; Matthew 5:1-12a

Picture: By on Mayer Tawfik Unsplash

Uh-oh, we’re in trouble, something’s come along and it’s burst our bubble… Does anyone recall these words from a song released in the 1990s? Performed by a group named Shampoo, the song is about some teenagers, who’ve been out partying all night, and are now making their way home. Dreading the music they will have to face from their parents… The party was great, yeah, we were really thrilled. And when we get in, we’re gonna get killed… That’s the thing about bubbles. They can be great fun, while they last. But they don’t last. They’re insubstantial, fragile. Eventually the party ends, and we all have to go home.

Also, don’t some bubbles have a dark side? Financial bubbles, for example, are built on an illusion. Something that isn’t real. And when the bubble bursts, chaos ensues. Such as when a property bubble went bust in the US in the late 2000s, and contributed to the global financial crisis of 2008. And not just financial bubbles. Isn’t there something illusory about social bubbles too? As some experts have pointed out, in apparently meritocratic societies like ours, elites tend to think that they fully deserve their own success. While those who fail, deserve their failure. They just haven’t worked hard enough. But this is an illusion. What elites tend too easily to forget are all the fortuitous circumstances and structural advantages that have facilitated their success. And, in their forgetfulness, they end up living in a bubble that’s not just illusory, but also insular. They lose touch with, and compassion for, those less successful.

Nor are bubbles only financial or social. They can also be spiritual as well. Isn’t this what we find in our scriptures today? In the first reading, the prophet Zephaniah speaks about the approach of an event of global significance. Something he calls the day of the anger of the Lord. It’s not clear exactly what he’s referring to. What is clear is that, on this day, God’s power will be made manifest, to the detriment of all who trust only in worldly things. All who rely only on their own efforts. All who operate under the illusion that they alone are the masters of their own destiny. God is going to burst their bubble. Sweep them away. Leaving behind the humble and lowly. Those who place their trust in God. Those who keep the Law of the Lord. Those who do good, and speak what is true. To prepare for this terrible day, Zephaniah calls not just the people of Israel, but all… the humble of the earth to seek the Lord. To obey his commands. To seek integrity and humility…

Similarly, we may recall that, in the gospel we heard last Sunday, Jesus began his public ministry by calling people to prepare for an event of global significance. Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is close at hand. The Reign of God is making itself felt in the world. And what will it be like when the kingdom arrives in its fullness? Isn’t this what Jesus is setting out today? The poor in spirit––those who recognise their utter need for God––will possess the kingdom. The gentle of heart––those who recoil from violence of every kind––will inherit the earth. The mournful––those who weep over the injustice they see around them––will be consoled. And so on… And it’s important for us to allow ourselves to be surprised and unsettled by just how incredible all this sounds. How contrary to the way our world is usually structured, and how our lives are typically organised. For like Zephaniah in the first reading, Jesus is proclaiming the bursting of a bubble. The eventual sweeping away of everything that’s built on the insubstantial, the illusory, and the insular.

But what to do if I myself am living in a bubble? If I happen to be more rich than poor in spirit, more violent than gentle of heart, more apathetic or, worse still, more arrogant and entitled than mournful? How to repent? Perhaps I might find what St Paul says in the second reading helpful. That it was to shame the wise that God chose what is foolish by human reckoning… to shame what is strong that he chose what is weak by human reckoning… And doesn’t God do this especially through the Cross of Christ? For if this is true, then perhaps what I can do, as an aid to repentance, is to keep gazing intently upon the Cross, and allow myself to be shamed by what I see. Not just the Cross I encounter here at Mass. But also the crosses that await me out in the world, in those who suffer. Those who have no bubble to insulate them from the harsh realities of life.

Which brings to mind Oxfam’s recently released annual report on global inequality. According to which, the world’s 12 richest billionaires (just the top 12) (now) have more wealth than the poorest half of humanity, or more than four billion people. Also, in a recent interview, former diplomat and law professor, Tommy Koh, saw fit to highlight the fact that, here in affluent Singapore, more than a hundred thousand seniors currently live alone in poverty. Unable to afford even a single hot meal a day. How can we accept this situation? He asks. Or, if we may rephrase the professor’s question, shouldn’t this make us feel ashamed?

Uh-oh, we’re in trouble, something’s come along and it’s burst our bubble… Sisters and brothers, from a spiritual point of view, it may actually be a blessing when certain bubbles burst. What can we do to help one another prepare for that event today?