Beyond Our Immediate Point Of View

16th Sunday in Ordinary Time (A)

Readings: Wisdom 12: 13, 16-19; Psalm 85 (86): 5-6, 9-10, 15-16; Romans 8: 26-27; Matthew 13: 24-43

Picture: By Natalia Marcelewicz on Unsplash

How many of us have ever witnessed a baby being born? What does it feel like? It depends, right? For one thing, it depends on where we happen to be. I remember visiting the old Singapore Science Centre as a child, and being captivated by a video of a human birth. But watching a recording is very different from actually being in the birthing room itself. And even in the room itself, there are different possible points of view. That of the midwife or doctor is different from that of the mother, which is, in turn, different from that of the little one being born. Nor does our point of view vary only with where we happen to be. Doesn’t it also depend on when? At the beginning, just before the contractions start? Or at the end, when the freshly sponged and tightly swaddled newborn is safely placed in its mother’s arms? Or right smack in the messy middle, when all the excitement and action, the pain and confusion, is still going on?

And isn’t this true not just of childbirth, but of other experiences as well? Our point of view depends on our particular location, both in space and in time. It’s helpful for us to keep this in mind today, as our scriptures draw us to ponder another experience. Not exactly the birth of a child, but the coming of the kingdom of heaven. Isn’t this what Jesus is describing, in those three parables? The kingdom of heaven may be compared to… first, weeds (or darnel) among the wheat… second, a mustard seed in a field… and third, yeast mixed with flour… And in each of these comparisons, there are different possible points of view, depending on one’s specific location.

For a start, there are at least three possible locations in time. A calm beginning and a peaceful end, as well as a messy middle. Both at the start and at end of the first parable, the wheat and the weeds are neatly separated. It’s only in the middle, when they are mixed, and easily confused, one for the other. Similarly, although it starts out very small, the mustard seed already enjoys a useful existence. It can spice up our food. Just as the mature plant can offer shelter to birds. It’s only in the middle, when things get messy. When the seed has to struggle to survive and grow, wherever it’s been sown. And can’t the same be said about the yeast and flour? For we know that, the mixing of yeast into dough involves a process of great agitation. Plenty of kneading and pounding, folding and flattening. Which is difficult enough for the one doing the work. But think of what it must feel like for the dough, which has to suffer the agitation… Or what it must feel like for the tiny mustard seed, fighting to grow… Or the fragile wheat, struggling to avoid being strangled by its dangerous parasitic impersonator. Against which it has to carefully guard itself in order to survive…

And yet, as challenging as these experiences are, Jesus’ parables invite us to see them as part of the coming of God’s kingdom. Just as labour pains are part of natural childbirth. To accept the struggles and trials, the dangers and risks of the messy middle, convinced that they will lead to a fuller life in the end. But isn’t this easier said than done? Especially if one has lost one’s family in war, for example, or one’s life-savings to a scam, or one’s childhood innocence to abuse, or one’s mobility to a drunk driver, or one’s reputation to gossip, or one’s freedom to addiction… In such situations, and wherever our lives may otherwise be touched by evil, isn’t it natural to take the point of view of an unsuspecting baby, in the midst of being born? Forced to suffer the rude shock of being expelled from its mother’s body? Without any inkling of the new life that awaits beyond? Feeling as if the process must lead only to death? How then, and from where, do we find the strength to carry on?

The scriptures address this question by offering us a glimpse into yet another point of view. One that transcends space and time. No less than the eternal perspective of God. Calling us to believe that if God permits the presence of evil in our world, it’s not out of malice or negligence or incompetence, but an expression of power mingled with mercy. As the first reading reminds us, God shows strength when (God’s) sovereign power is questioned… And God’s power is what enables the mustard seed to grow into a tree, and the yeast to leaven the dough. Yet God is also mild in judgement. Giving ample opportunity for sinners to repent. Patiently waiting till harvest time, before eradicating the weeds, so as avoid destroying the wheat. Even more, God’s power and mercy is shown especially when God humbly shares our own fragile human point of view. Isn’t this what brought Jesus from heaven to earth, to Cross and grave, and then back from whence he came? And isn’t this also what the Spirit continues to do even now, for us and in us? For when we cannot choose words in order to pray properly, the Spirit…expresses our plea in a way that can never be put into words…

But in order for us to keep clinging to God’s perspective in times of trial, we need the ability to look beyond our own obvious points of view, to what so often remains hidden. We need the three virtues that we prayed for at the start of this Mass, when we asked God to make us fervent in hope and faith and charity, so that we may be ever watchful in keeping (God’s) commands. Fervour in hope, faith and charity. By which we may keep seeking the good and resisting evil. So as to enjoy rebirth, into the fullness of life in God’s kingdom. Sisters and brothers, how is God helping us to receive this precious grace anew today?

Beyond A Fresh Coat of Paint

14th Sunday in Ordinary Time (A)

Readings: Zechariah 9: 9-10; Psalm 144 (145): 1-2, 8-11, 13b-14; Romans 8: 9, 11-13; Matthew 11: 25-30

Picture: By Wolfgang Hasselmann on Unsplash

My dear friends, what are we likely to think, if we were to walk along the corridor of a block of flats, and come across a unit where both the main door and front gate have been rudely splashed with bright red paint? Will we conclude that those who live there must have an appreciation for abstract art? Probably not. More likely we’ll recognise the paint-spattered entrance as a sign that the occupants are labouring under a heavy burden. The burden of debt. And not just any debt, but debt owed to a loan-shark. And what if, after making discreet inquiries, our suspicions are confirmed, and we feel moved to help them? Will it be enough to give the entrance a fresh coat of paint? Or even to pay off the debt? Doing so will surely go a long way. And yet, to truly help, isn’t it necessary also to explore the circumstances that led to the loan in the first place? To uncover other, less obvious, burdens? Even tracing these to their roots?…

Recognising the signs, and tracing the roots, the better to truly set the burdened free. Isn’t this what we find in our Mass texts today? As we’ve probably already noticed, both the Collect––the prayer we offered at the start––and the responsorial psalm, present us with a moving image of God as One who humbly bends low, in order to mercifully raise up all who are bowed down by heavy loads. And the other readings help us ponder more deeply just how God does this…

The first reading is addressed to a people oppressed by foreign armies, bowed down by the horrors of war. To them, God proclaims a consoling message, promising to send a king to set them free. But, when examined closely, this message is also puzzling. For although this king is described as victorious and triumphant, the enemy he vanquishes isn’t just any foreign army, but war itself. And the peace he brings is not just for Israel alone, but for all the nations. Since his empire shall stretch… to the ends of the earth. And how does he bring this about? Not by the usual instruments of war. But through his own lowliness and humility. Instead of chariots and horses, he comes riding on a baby donkey… Some of us may recall that old war movie, Crimson Tide, in which a nuclear submarine’s second-in-command, played by Denzel Washington, speaks these memorable lines: Yes, the purpose of war is to serve a political end, but the true nature of war is to serve itself…. In the nuclear world, the true enemy is war itself… The true nature of war is to serve itself… In other words, war isn’t just an obedient servant, but a self-serving tyrant. Isn’t this something our world is now having to face, again and again, with every passing day?

Recognising the signs, and tracing the roots, the better to set the burdened free… Isn’t this also what Jesus is doing in the gospel? As in the first reading, the people he addresses are oppressed by foreign armies. They live under the yoke of Roman occupation. And yet, it is not on this heavy load that Jesus chooses to focus. Instead, scholars tell us that, when the Lord speaks of people who labour and are overburdened, he is referring first to those bowed down by the arbitrary rituals and practices imposed by the religious authorities of his day. The scribes and Pharisees, who tie up heavy burdens, hard to bear, and lay them on the shoulders of others; but they themselves are unwilling to lift a finger to move them (Mt 23:4). In their place, Jesus invites the people to come to him. To enter into an intimate relationship with him. To take upon themselves the gentle yoke of his merciful love. A yoke that he chooses to bear with them. A yoke that will lead him to Calvary and beyond.

But why? Why focus on something so apparently trivial, in the face of something as urgent and terrible as military occupation? Could it be that, like the red paint on a debtor’s door, Jesus sees the conquest of the land by a foreign political power as a sign pointing to the occupation of the heart by alien spiritual powers. And rather than simply re-painting the door, Jesus chooses to enter through it. To trace the sign to its roots. The better to truly set the burdened free. Which explains what St Paul is telling us in the second reading, when he says that there is no necessity for us to obey our unspiritual selves. Or, in another, more literal, translation (RSV), we are debtors, not to the flesh… By our acceptance of the Lord’s gentle yoke, we are freed from the crushing burden of our debt to sin. Our hearts are no longer occupied by alien powers, but possessed by the Lord’s Spirit. And we can now share in the fullness of life in him.

Recognising the signs, and tracing the roots, the better to set the burdened free. Isn’t this something we Christians need to remember whenever we encounter those labouring under a heavy burden of some kind? Including our own fragile selves? Burdened people, such as migrant workers owed months of unpaid wages. Or victims of bullying and other forms of abuse. Or silent sufferers of loneliness and depression. As well as those who fall prey to various addictive behaviours, while struggling to cope with the overwhelming stresses and strains of daily life….

Sisters and brothers, could it be that, whether or not it’s splashed with paint, behind the door of our burdens, the lowly Crucified and Risen Lord patiently awaits, and gently beckons? If so, how might we help each other to hear and answer his call?