Feast of St. James the Apostle
From Solidifying to Hollowing Out
Readings: 2 Corinthians 4:7-15; Psalm 126:1bc-2ab, 2cd-3, 4-5, 6; Matthew 20:20-28
As we celebrate the feast of James the apostle, our readings offer us an itinerary or trajectory for our meditation. At the start we see the mother of the sons of Zebedee asking that her sons may sit on either side of Jesus in His Kingdom. In so doing, she is walking the path of solidification. She is trying to establish her sons in secure positions of authority. And, of course, being their mother, is it not likely that she too hopes to benefit from their good fortune?
Jesus grants her request but takes her sons (and her?) on a very different and unexpected path. His is a very different form of authority: not that which would demand service, but that which seeks to serve – even to the last drop of his precious blood.
In contrast to the path of solidification, Jesus’ is the path of hollowing out. It is not an easy path. Those who walk it will likely find themselves “in difficulties on all sides.” But it is a path that holds much power and the promise of much fruitfulness, because in the process of hollowing out, we find ourselves becoming the bearers of something very precious. In the words of Paul, we become “the earthenware jars that hold this treasure, to make it clear that such an overwhelming power comes from God and not from us.” Although we may be “sowing in tears,” the Lord promises that we “will sing when (we) reap.”
This is the path that James himself walks. He, who first sought to solidify his own position of authority through his mother’s request, dies a martyr’s death when he is beheaded by Herod Agrippa in about AD 42.
As we continue to work towards realizing our various plans and projects, our many ambitions and aspirations, we might do well prayerfully to consider which path we are treading today.
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
Monday in the 16th Week of Ordinary Time (II)
In The Belly of the Monster
Readings: Micah 6:1-4, 6-8; Psalm 50:5-6, 8-9, 16bc-17, 21 and 23; Matthew 12:38-42
“Listen… for the Lord is accusing his people.”
How do I hear this accusation today? How does it apply to me? Surely there are areas of shadow and darkness in my personal life: the insecurities and petty jealousies, the stubborn grudges against my neighbour, the failure sincerely to seek God’s face, and fully to trust in God alone…
But, today, the accusation I hear is more social and structural. We have just spent several days at a school for the children of migrant workers – have visited some of the students’ homes – have seen something of their living conditions. And this evening we had dinner at a fancy restaurant. What a contrast? I’m probably exaggerating, but still, how can fasting and feasting, destitution and decadence, be allowed to coexist so closely together?
Could we, could I, somehow be implicated in the sufferings of the migrants – I who live in such comfortable conditions?
“My people, what have I done to you? Answer me... What is good has been explained to you… to act justly, to love tenderly and to walk humbly with your God”
But even if I do become vaguely conscious of the suffering of the poor, even if I curb my consumeristic appetites and try to engage in charitable works, what difference can I make? Isn’t it highly unlikely that my puny efforts can overcome the inertia of global social, political and economic structures that keep increasing the distance between the haves and the have-nots? Can I really help the poor? On the contrary, the temptation is great simply to allow myself to succumb to apathy rather than to suffer the discomfort of hoping for something that seems to be beyond all hope: a more equitable distribution of this world’s goods.
Thankfully, the gospel provides consolation in the “sign of Jonah.” The discomfort I fear is not unlike that suffered by Jonah in the “belly of the sea-monster.” Here all is damp, dark and foreboding. It’s not a place anyone wishes to be. And yet, ironically, it is a place of salvation.
I remember Jonah’s story. He who tries so desperately to escape God’s call finally abandons himself to the surging waters of God’s wrath and is swallowed by a sea-monster. But what Jonah endures in its belly is merely the deep darkness that precedes the dawn. After three days and three nights, Jonah emerges to carry out his God-given mission with great efficacy.
More importantly, it is not just Jonah who accompanies us in the darkness. There is, above all, the comforting and sustaining presence of the crucified and risen One, the Eternal Sun who has risen and will never set, the same One in whom God shows “God’s salvation to the upright.” Perhaps this is what it means to “walk humbly with my God:” to persevere in acts of justice and tender love while keeping one’s eyes upon Him. Not so much on the results of our efforts, but upon Him…
This is the invitation: to enter the belly of the monster. How shall I respond?
In The Belly of the Monster
Readings: Micah 6:1-4, 6-8; Psalm 50:5-6, 8-9, 16bc-17, 21 and 23; Matthew 12:38-42
“Listen… for the Lord is accusing his people.”
How do I hear this accusation today? How does it apply to me? Surely there are areas of shadow and darkness in my personal life: the insecurities and petty jealousies, the stubborn grudges against my neighbour, the failure sincerely to seek God’s face, and fully to trust in God alone…
But, today, the accusation I hear is more social and structural. We have just spent several days at a school for the children of migrant workers – have visited some of the students’ homes – have seen something of their living conditions. And this evening we had dinner at a fancy restaurant. What a contrast? I’m probably exaggerating, but still, how can fasting and feasting, destitution and decadence, be allowed to coexist so closely together?
Could we, could I, somehow be implicated in the sufferings of the migrants – I who live in such comfortable conditions?
“My people, what have I done to you? Answer me... What is good has been explained to you… to act justly, to love tenderly and to walk humbly with your God”
But even if I do become vaguely conscious of the suffering of the poor, even if I curb my consumeristic appetites and try to engage in charitable works, what difference can I make? Isn’t it highly unlikely that my puny efforts can overcome the inertia of global social, political and economic structures that keep increasing the distance between the haves and the have-nots? Can I really help the poor? On the contrary, the temptation is great simply to allow myself to succumb to apathy rather than to suffer the discomfort of hoping for something that seems to be beyond all hope: a more equitable distribution of this world’s goods.
Thankfully, the gospel provides consolation in the “sign of Jonah.” The discomfort I fear is not unlike that suffered by Jonah in the “belly of the sea-monster.” Here all is damp, dark and foreboding. It’s not a place anyone wishes to be. And yet, ironically, it is a place of salvation.
I remember Jonah’s story. He who tries so desperately to escape God’s call finally abandons himself to the surging waters of God’s wrath and is swallowed by a sea-monster. But what Jonah endures in its belly is merely the deep darkness that precedes the dawn. After three days and three nights, Jonah emerges to carry out his God-given mission with great efficacy.
More importantly, it is not just Jonah who accompanies us in the darkness. There is, above all, the comforting and sustaining presence of the crucified and risen One, the Eternal Sun who has risen and will never set, the same One in whom God shows “God’s salvation to the upright.” Perhaps this is what it means to “walk humbly with my God:” to persevere in acts of justice and tender love while keeping one’s eyes upon Him. Not so much on the results of our efforts, but upon Him…
This is the invitation: to enter the belly of the monster. How shall I respond?
Sunday, July 09, 2006
14th Sunday in Ordinary Time (B)
From Idol to Icon
Readings: Ezek 2:2-5; 2 Cor 12:7-10; Mark 6:1-6
Dear sisters and brothers, the old catechism contained the following question and answer: “Where is God? God is everywhere.” And that in fact is what we believe: God is everywhere! But if that is indeed true, have you ever wondered why so few seem to experience God?
If God is everywhere, wouldn’t people be quick to recognize and turn to Him, so as to find true meaning in their lives? Instead, we often see many who seem lost: people who live lives – even very affluent lives – of quiet desperation.
If God is everywhere, shouldn’t we be able to find consolation in His presence and direction in His word on a regular basis? And yet, all too often, we instead find ourselves either too busy to care or grasping anxiously in the darkness, at a loss as to where to go and what to do.
Could it be that the problem lies with us? Could it be that, although God is present, we do not have the eyes to see and the ears to hear Him? Could our situation be similar to what we find in the gospel reading of today? Here is Jesus teaching in the synagogue in his home town and the people “would not accept Him.” In Jesus, God is present in their midst, but unrecognized and unaccepted. Why? Because Jesus is simply too familiar to them. “This is the carpenter,” they say, “the son of Mary…” Familiarity hinders recognition.
Is this not the same problem we face? Everything, everyone, in our lives, is too familiar – our families and our friends, our worship and our work – such that we are unable to recognize God in them. And we pay the price for our failure. But how and why does this over-familiarity happen?
It has to do with how we see. When it comes to recognizing God, there are really two ways of seeing, one that hinders and another that helps. The way that hinders is the way that sees things and people as idols.
An idol is opaque – like a brick wall. You cannot see through it or beyond it. And so you find yourself restricted to examining its surface. Isn’t this what happens to the people in the gospel today? When they look at Jesus, they do not see the presence of God, but only the Jesus with whom they are familiar. They only see what is on the surface: “the carpenter… the son of Mary, the brother of James and Joset and Jude and Simon.” And even though they acknowledge the wisdom of Jesus’ words they cannot bring themselves to accept Him. To accept Him would mean letting go of their familiarity, changing their ideas about Jesus. And this they are unwilling to do
But why, we might ask, are they so attached to their preconceived notions about Jesus? The reason lies in another characteristic of an idol. Not only is an idol opaque, it also often functions as a mirror. When one looks at something as an idol, one is really looking only at oneself. Isn’t this why we have celebrities? Isn’t this why the “American Idol” franchise is so popular? Don’t many people project their own unfulfilled dreams and anxieties onto their idols? And is this not why the people in the gospel refuse to accept Jesus? To accept Him would mean they have to change their view of Him, which also means they have to change their view of themselves – something they are unwilling to do.
In order to recognize the presence of God in our midst, we need instead to see things and people as icons. In contrast to the idol – which is like a brick wall – an icon is more like glass. It’s translucent. When one looks at an icon, one doesn’t stop at the icon itself. Instead, one’s gaze is somehow drawn to what lies beyond.
Isn’t this what Paul is describing in the second reading today. He speaks of “a thorn in the flesh,” a specific area of suffering and trial that he continues to experience despite having asked God to remove it. But his gaze does not stop at the trial itself. Somehow he is able to see beyond the trial, to its deeper meaning. He is able to see how his suffering helps him to experience the strength that comes from God alone. “I shall be very happy,” he says “to make my weaknesses my special boast… For it is when I am weak that I am strong.”
Isn’t this also the experience of the prophet Ezekiel in the first reading? Ezekiel proclaims the word of God to the people even in the face of opposition, because he is able to see beyond the people’s rejection of his message to the reality of his own personal calling as a prophet. It is God Himself who has called him to prophesy, so that “whether they listen or not, this set of rebels shall know there is a prophet among them.”
The lesson for us then is clear. If we find it difficult to recognize God in our lives, perhaps we need to examine and change the way we see. Perhaps we need to look for icons instead of idols. But how are we to do this? Only by having an experience of what lies beyond. And how are we to obtain this experience?
Again, our readings help us. Notice how the first reading begins. Notice how Ezekiel comes to hear God’s call. “The spirit came into me,” Ezekiel says “and made me stand up, and I heard the Lord speaking to me.” The ability to see beyond the surface, to look at things as icons instead of idols, to recognize the presence of God in our midst, comes not so much through our own effort, but as a gracious gift from God. And it is for this grace that we need to pray. As we declared in the response to the psalm today, we need to keep “our eyes on the Lord till he show us his mercy.”
Isn’t this also the experience of Paul? In his affliction he cries out to God. And God helps him to see how his trial is actually bringing and keeping him close to God. “My grace is enough for you: my power is at its best in weakness.”
From Paul’s experience we learn that while everything depends on God’s grace, there are things we can do to become more open to receiving the Spirit. For example, we can try to set aside time each day for personal prayer and for reading God’s word in the Bible. We can also enroll in such worthwhile programmes as the “Life in the Spirit Seminars” or the “Week of Guided Prayer” – both of which are being offered in our parish.
My sisters and brothers, God is everywhere! How well do we see and recognize Him for ourselves and point Him out to others?
From Idol to Icon
Readings: Ezek 2:2-5; 2 Cor 12:7-10; Mark 6:1-6
Dear sisters and brothers, the old catechism contained the following question and answer: “Where is God? God is everywhere.” And that in fact is what we believe: God is everywhere! But if that is indeed true, have you ever wondered why so few seem to experience God?
If God is everywhere, wouldn’t people be quick to recognize and turn to Him, so as to find true meaning in their lives? Instead, we often see many who seem lost: people who live lives – even very affluent lives – of quiet desperation.
If God is everywhere, shouldn’t we be able to find consolation in His presence and direction in His word on a regular basis? And yet, all too often, we instead find ourselves either too busy to care or grasping anxiously in the darkness, at a loss as to where to go and what to do.
Could it be that the problem lies with us? Could it be that, although God is present, we do not have the eyes to see and the ears to hear Him? Could our situation be similar to what we find in the gospel reading of today? Here is Jesus teaching in the synagogue in his home town and the people “would not accept Him.” In Jesus, God is present in their midst, but unrecognized and unaccepted. Why? Because Jesus is simply too familiar to them. “This is the carpenter,” they say, “the son of Mary…” Familiarity hinders recognition.
Is this not the same problem we face? Everything, everyone, in our lives, is too familiar – our families and our friends, our worship and our work – such that we are unable to recognize God in them. And we pay the price for our failure. But how and why does this over-familiarity happen?
It has to do with how we see. When it comes to recognizing God, there are really two ways of seeing, one that hinders and another that helps. The way that hinders is the way that sees things and people as idols.
An idol is opaque – like a brick wall. You cannot see through it or beyond it. And so you find yourself restricted to examining its surface. Isn’t this what happens to the people in the gospel today? When they look at Jesus, they do not see the presence of God, but only the Jesus with whom they are familiar. They only see what is on the surface: “the carpenter… the son of Mary, the brother of James and Joset and Jude and Simon.” And even though they acknowledge the wisdom of Jesus’ words they cannot bring themselves to accept Him. To accept Him would mean letting go of their familiarity, changing their ideas about Jesus. And this they are unwilling to do
But why, we might ask, are they so attached to their preconceived notions about Jesus? The reason lies in another characteristic of an idol. Not only is an idol opaque, it also often functions as a mirror. When one looks at something as an idol, one is really looking only at oneself. Isn’t this why we have celebrities? Isn’t this why the “American Idol” franchise is so popular? Don’t many people project their own unfulfilled dreams and anxieties onto their idols? And is this not why the people in the gospel refuse to accept Jesus? To accept Him would mean they have to change their view of Him, which also means they have to change their view of themselves – something they are unwilling to do.
In order to recognize the presence of God in our midst, we need instead to see things and people as icons. In contrast to the idol – which is like a brick wall – an icon is more like glass. It’s translucent. When one looks at an icon, one doesn’t stop at the icon itself. Instead, one’s gaze is somehow drawn to what lies beyond.
Isn’t this what Paul is describing in the second reading today. He speaks of “a thorn in the flesh,” a specific area of suffering and trial that he continues to experience despite having asked God to remove it. But his gaze does not stop at the trial itself. Somehow he is able to see beyond the trial, to its deeper meaning. He is able to see how his suffering helps him to experience the strength that comes from God alone. “I shall be very happy,” he says “to make my weaknesses my special boast… For it is when I am weak that I am strong.”
Isn’t this also the experience of the prophet Ezekiel in the first reading? Ezekiel proclaims the word of God to the people even in the face of opposition, because he is able to see beyond the people’s rejection of his message to the reality of his own personal calling as a prophet. It is God Himself who has called him to prophesy, so that “whether they listen or not, this set of rebels shall know there is a prophet among them.”
The lesson for us then is clear. If we find it difficult to recognize God in our lives, perhaps we need to examine and change the way we see. Perhaps we need to look for icons instead of idols. But how are we to do this? Only by having an experience of what lies beyond. And how are we to obtain this experience?
Again, our readings help us. Notice how the first reading begins. Notice how Ezekiel comes to hear God’s call. “The spirit came into me,” Ezekiel says “and made me stand up, and I heard the Lord speaking to me.” The ability to see beyond the surface, to look at things as icons instead of idols, to recognize the presence of God in our midst, comes not so much through our own effort, but as a gracious gift from God. And it is for this grace that we need to pray. As we declared in the response to the psalm today, we need to keep “our eyes on the Lord till he show us his mercy.”
Isn’t this also the experience of Paul? In his affliction he cries out to God. And God helps him to see how his trial is actually bringing and keeping him close to God. “My grace is enough for you: my power is at its best in weakness.”
From Paul’s experience we learn that while everything depends on God’s grace, there are things we can do to become more open to receiving the Spirit. For example, we can try to set aside time each day for personal prayer and for reading God’s word in the Bible. We can also enroll in such worthwhile programmes as the “Life in the Spirit Seminars” or the “Week of Guided Prayer” – both of which are being offered in our parish.
My sisters and brothers, God is everywhere! How well do we see and recognize Him for ourselves and point Him out to others?
Monday, July 03, 2006
13th Sunday in Ordinary Time (B)
Hug Your Relatives!
Readings: Wisdom 1:13-15,2:23-24; 2 Cor 8:7,9,13-15; Mark 5:21-43
Dear Sisters and Brothers, at a house-blessing yesterday, a cousin was observed reminding her children to “give auntie,” or “give uncle a hug.” She explained that she was trying to teach them to hug their relatives. So, when her youngest boy – who’s in primary school – had to leave early for a school activity, and wanted to shake my hand to say “goodbye,” I managed to wrangle another hug out of him by telling him that it was his mom’s wish. J
But it wasn’t only because of its obvious benefits for me and the other aunties and uncles that I was struck by my cousin’s “hug your relatives” campaign. It was also an invitation to reflect upon the importance of touch in human life and relationships.
We live in a society where touch has become ever more ambivalent and problematic. The clergy paedophilia scandal in the United States some years back provides a striking example of how touch can be abused and with what horrible consequences. Even here in squeaky clean Singapore reports of molest cases are a regular feature in the newspapers. Not to mention the recent buzz over the mushrooming of “massage parlours” in the heartland.
At the other extreme, we probably know of those who, for one reason or another, are averse to all forms of touch, and others who tend to interpret any touch as being inappropriately sexual in nature.
Yet, whether we care to admit it or not, we all need the human touch. The doctors among us will know better, but I remember reading somewhere that the healthy growth and development of an infant will be adversely affected if it doesn’t get enough physical human contact.
Indeed, touch is crucial for life. And if we are to attend carefully to our readings today, we will notice how certain kinds of touch are crucial even for eternal life.
To set the scene we are first reminded that we are created for light and life. In the first reading, we heard that God made us “imperishable… in the image of his own nature,” but that it was “the devil’s envy that brought death in the world.” And in the opening prayer, we declared that the light of Jesus has scattered the darkness of hatred and sin,” thus reclaiming our birthright for us: the brilliant radiance of eternal life. In the words of the responsorial psalm (30:6): “at night there are tears but joy comes with dawn.”
Much as this is true, however, isn’t it also true that there are still many areas both in our lives – yours and mine – and in our world which have yet to be penetrated by the life-giving light of Christ? It’s sort of like working in an air-conditioned office or cubicle without any windows. Even if the sun’s shining brightly outside, if not for the artificial light, we’d still be in darkness inside.
How then might these areas be illuminated by God’s light and life? Here’s where we see the significance of touch. In particular, our readings highlight the importance of two kinds of touch.
The first is the touch of faith. This is the touch of the woman with the haemorrhage, the touch of the one in need, the one suffering the effects of darkness and death, and, having nowhere else to turn, places total trust in the power of Christ. Notice how the gospel emphasizes the extraordinary nature of this touch. “You see how the crowd is pressing around you and yet you say, ‘Who touched me!’” exclaim the amazed disciples, even as Jesus looks around for the one responsible. Why does he look around? Because, we are told, as soon as Jesus feels the touch of faith, he is “immediately aware that power had gone out from him.” Even before Jesus knows who touched him, his healing power works its wonders in the woman. Never mind that it is only his cloak that she touches. She, who had lived in the painful darkness of an incurable illness for twelve long years, is healed instantly. And Jesus himself acknowledges the cause of the cure. “Your faith has restored you to health,” he declares, “go in peace and be free from your complaint.”
Of course, this is not to question the faith of those who are sick but who, in spite of fervent prayers, have not been cured. The life and light that the touch of faith brings is first and foremost that of renewed relationship with God and neighbour. And even if physically healing does not result, the one in darkness is somehow enabled to see the light of the dawn. He or she is somehow given the strength to bear the suffering in peace.
Neither are we to think of the touch of faith only in physical terms. Do not the victims of sinful habits and broken relationships, of religious persecution and economic injustice also called to reach out to the Lord in faith, so as to claim his healing power? And do we not also reach out with the touch of faith on behalf of others when we pray for them each day, and at each Mass?
Here we come close to yet another form of touch spoken of in our readings today. We find it in the second reading, where Paul is engaged in a mighty fund-raising effort for the church in Jerusalem. He invites the Corinthians to “put the most into this work of mercy.” In so doing he is calling them to reach out to their needy brothers and sisters in Jerusalem with the touch of generosity.
Apart from giving them advice about how they can strike a balance between meeting their own needs and generously helping to meet the needs of others, Paul also reminds the Corinthians why they should be generous in the first place.
“Remember,” he says, “how generous the Lord Jesus was: he was rich, but he became poor for your sake, to make you rich out of his poverty.” The Corinthians are to reach out to others with the touch of generosity because they themselves have experienced the touch of Christ.
This is the same touch of generosity by which Jesus heals Jairus’ daughter in the gospel. We are told that Jesus took the hand of the dead girl and called her from death to life, from darkness to light. And this is not an isolated incident. Do we not believe that this was how Jesus lived his whole life – continually reaching out to others with the touch of generosity? And is his death on the cross not the ultimate touch of generosity – by which our loving God, gathers his wayward children into the warmth of his Fatherly embrace? By his life, death and resurrection, Christ made us all sons and daughters of the Father, and brothers and sisters to one another. Is this not the wealth of which Paul speaks when he says that Christ “became poor for (our) sake, to make (us) rich out of his poverty?” By Christ’s touch of generosity, we have all been made relatives, relatives of God and of one another.
Sisters and brothers, my cousin intended her “hug your relatives” campaign only for her children. But in light of our reflection today, we might also find in it a summons to us; a summons to reach out with the touch of faith and the touch of generosity, so that the floodlights of God’s divine life might shine more brightly upon the areas of darkness in our hearts and in our world.
Sisters and brothers, how and to whom are we being called to reach out today? How are we being summoned to “hug our relatives?”
Hug Your Relatives!
Readings: Wisdom 1:13-15,2:23-24; 2 Cor 8:7,9,13-15; Mark 5:21-43
Dear Sisters and Brothers, at a house-blessing yesterday, a cousin was observed reminding her children to “give auntie,” or “give uncle a hug.” She explained that she was trying to teach them to hug their relatives. So, when her youngest boy – who’s in primary school – had to leave early for a school activity, and wanted to shake my hand to say “goodbye,” I managed to wrangle another hug out of him by telling him that it was his mom’s wish. J
But it wasn’t only because of its obvious benefits for me and the other aunties and uncles that I was struck by my cousin’s “hug your relatives” campaign. It was also an invitation to reflect upon the importance of touch in human life and relationships.
We live in a society where touch has become ever more ambivalent and problematic. The clergy paedophilia scandal in the United States some years back provides a striking example of how touch can be abused and with what horrible consequences. Even here in squeaky clean Singapore reports of molest cases are a regular feature in the newspapers. Not to mention the recent buzz over the mushrooming of “massage parlours” in the heartland.
At the other extreme, we probably know of those who, for one reason or another, are averse to all forms of touch, and others who tend to interpret any touch as being inappropriately sexual in nature.
Yet, whether we care to admit it or not, we all need the human touch. The doctors among us will know better, but I remember reading somewhere that the healthy growth and development of an infant will be adversely affected if it doesn’t get enough physical human contact.
Indeed, touch is crucial for life. And if we are to attend carefully to our readings today, we will notice how certain kinds of touch are crucial even for eternal life.
To set the scene we are first reminded that we are created for light and life. In the first reading, we heard that God made us “imperishable… in the image of his own nature,” but that it was “the devil’s envy that brought death in the world.” And in the opening prayer, we declared that the light of Jesus has scattered the darkness of hatred and sin,” thus reclaiming our birthright for us: the brilliant radiance of eternal life. In the words of the responsorial psalm (30:6): “at night there are tears but joy comes with dawn.”
Much as this is true, however, isn’t it also true that there are still many areas both in our lives – yours and mine – and in our world which have yet to be penetrated by the life-giving light of Christ? It’s sort of like working in an air-conditioned office or cubicle without any windows. Even if the sun’s shining brightly outside, if not for the artificial light, we’d still be in darkness inside.
How then might these areas be illuminated by God’s light and life? Here’s where we see the significance of touch. In particular, our readings highlight the importance of two kinds of touch.
The first is the touch of faith. This is the touch of the woman with the haemorrhage, the touch of the one in need, the one suffering the effects of darkness and death, and, having nowhere else to turn, places total trust in the power of Christ. Notice how the gospel emphasizes the extraordinary nature of this touch. “You see how the crowd is pressing around you and yet you say, ‘Who touched me!’” exclaim the amazed disciples, even as Jesus looks around for the one responsible. Why does he look around? Because, we are told, as soon as Jesus feels the touch of faith, he is “immediately aware that power had gone out from him.” Even before Jesus knows who touched him, his healing power works its wonders in the woman. Never mind that it is only his cloak that she touches. She, who had lived in the painful darkness of an incurable illness for twelve long years, is healed instantly. And Jesus himself acknowledges the cause of the cure. “Your faith has restored you to health,” he declares, “go in peace and be free from your complaint.”
Of course, this is not to question the faith of those who are sick but who, in spite of fervent prayers, have not been cured. The life and light that the touch of faith brings is first and foremost that of renewed relationship with God and neighbour. And even if physically healing does not result, the one in darkness is somehow enabled to see the light of the dawn. He or she is somehow given the strength to bear the suffering in peace.
Neither are we to think of the touch of faith only in physical terms. Do not the victims of sinful habits and broken relationships, of religious persecution and economic injustice also called to reach out to the Lord in faith, so as to claim his healing power? And do we not also reach out with the touch of faith on behalf of others when we pray for them each day, and at each Mass?
Here we come close to yet another form of touch spoken of in our readings today. We find it in the second reading, where Paul is engaged in a mighty fund-raising effort for the church in Jerusalem. He invites the Corinthians to “put the most into this work of mercy.” In so doing he is calling them to reach out to their needy brothers and sisters in Jerusalem with the touch of generosity.
Apart from giving them advice about how they can strike a balance between meeting their own needs and generously helping to meet the needs of others, Paul also reminds the Corinthians why they should be generous in the first place.
“Remember,” he says, “how generous the Lord Jesus was: he was rich, but he became poor for your sake, to make you rich out of his poverty.” The Corinthians are to reach out to others with the touch of generosity because they themselves have experienced the touch of Christ.
This is the same touch of generosity by which Jesus heals Jairus’ daughter in the gospel. We are told that Jesus took the hand of the dead girl and called her from death to life, from darkness to light. And this is not an isolated incident. Do we not believe that this was how Jesus lived his whole life – continually reaching out to others with the touch of generosity? And is his death on the cross not the ultimate touch of generosity – by which our loving God, gathers his wayward children into the warmth of his Fatherly embrace? By his life, death and resurrection, Christ made us all sons and daughters of the Father, and brothers and sisters to one another. Is this not the wealth of which Paul speaks when he says that Christ “became poor for (our) sake, to make (us) rich out of his poverty?” By Christ’s touch of generosity, we have all been made relatives, relatives of God and of one another.
Sisters and brothers, my cousin intended her “hug your relatives” campaign only for her children. But in light of our reflection today, we might also find in it a summons to us; a summons to reach out with the touch of faith and the touch of generosity, so that the floodlights of God’s divine life might shine more brightly upon the areas of darkness in our hearts and in our world.
Sisters and brothers, how and to whom are we being called to reach out today? How are we being summoned to “hug our relatives?”
Sunday, June 25, 2006
12th Sunday in Ordinary Time (B)
Besting the Storms that Beset Us
Readings: Job 38:1,8-11; 2 Cor 5:14-17; Mark 4:35-41
Dear sisters and brothers, in this age of jet engines and budget airlines, unless we’re sailors or fishermen, not many of us will have first-hand experience of a storm at sea. No, even if we do live on an island, most of the storms we encounter are of a different sort. They may come in different ways: a sudden serious illness, a job retrenchment, a stock-market crash, a problematic spouse, or a difficult child... In whatever form they take, these storms have the effect of unsettling us, of upsetting the peaceful routine of our daily lives. They may even make us question the very meaning of our own existence or doubt God’s love and care for us. If we think of life as a voyage towards happiness, then these storms are frightening disruptions that seem to sabotage all our hopes and dreams.
How do we react when storms beset us? Responses may vary.
Sometimes we may choose the route of despair. We may give up trying to get to our intended destination and instead allow ourselves to be swallowed up by the surging waters. “There is no such thing as true happiness,” we tell ourselves, “so stop dreaming.”
At other times we may practice the way, or the spirituality of escape. When our plans are disrupted by storms, we spend our time dreaming about being in another boat, or even on another sea. “Things would be better,” we tell ourselves, “the voyage would be calmer, if only I had a different car, or a different neighbor, a different job, or a different spouse.” And so, we try our best to change our situation, or to change the people around us. To achieve this, we may even resort to prayer. But often it’s a prayer of manipulation. We try to twist the divine arm to get whatever we think we need.
Then there are times when we may practice the way of the gritted teeth. We try not to think too much about the storm, and act as if it’s business as usual. Outwardly, we may doggedly continue on our voyage, looking as if everything is fine, even as the wind howls and the waves crash. But inside, we nurse broken hearts, or worse still, we harden our hearts to protect them from further disappointment. These efforts of ours may indeed get us somewhere. But every now and then we cannot help wondering if we have actually found true happiness and fullness of life. However comfortable we may be, we can’t help feeling as though something’s missing, because we cannot completely numb the pain of our broken or hardened hearts.
In contrast to these reactions, our readings today invite us to reflect upon what might be another way of responding to storms. They offer us at least three lessons or insights. I’ll call them “the three ‘buts.’” You’ll see why in a moment.
The first lesson has to do with God and storms.
On the one hand, we are told in no uncertain terms that God is more powerful than the storm, that God is in fact the Lord of the storm. We see this in the rhetorical question that God asks Job: “Who pent up the sea behind closed doors?” Indeed, God is the One who created the wind and the waves. And, as the responsorial psalm (107:29) tells us, God has the power to still “the storm to a whisper.” This is the same power wielded by Jesus. “Quiet now! Be calm!” he commands. And it is so.
Yes, God is indeed the Lord of the storm – and here comes the first “but” – BUT powerful as God is, not only does God allow us to encounter storms but God also sometimes seems to keep very quiet just when we need Him most. In the book of Job, Job’s suffering is somehow permitted by God. And in spite of Job’s many protests, God only gives Job an answer towards the end of the book. Notice also how, in the gospel, the disciples encounter the storm only because they obeyed Jesus’ instruction to “cross over to the other side.” And when the storm hits, when it seems like they’re about to capsize, Jesus is actually fast asleep at the back of the boat.
What then are we to do?
On the one hand, it seems clear that God wants us to not be afraid, but to have faith, to trust in Him. So Jesus seems to rebuke his disciples when they wake him: “Why are you so frightened?” he says, “How is it that you have no faith?” Yes, we should have faith. We should not be afraid BUT – and this is the second “but” – neither should we pretend that we are not afraid – or angry, or disappointed, or confused – when we actually are.
Notice how, in spite of Jesus’ apparent rebuke of the disciples when the wake him, it is only in response to their cry of distress that he calms the storm. Similarly, despite the delay, God’s words to Job are a response to his repeated protests that he doesn’t deserve the misfortunes that have befallen him. In fact, in the book of Job, Job’s friends try to convince him to stop protesting. They try to persuade him simply to accept the commonly held theory that people only suffer because of their sins. So if Job is suffering he must have sinned. But in the end, God chides these friends for giving bad advice. Not only does God answer Job to his satisfaction, but God also rewards him for his persistence in bringing his problems to God even when, for a long time, God had seemed to be silent.
The third “but” has to do God’s response to our cries.
As we heard in the gospel, Jesus rebukes the raging wind and calms the surging sea. BUT does this mean then that God will always take away whatever is troubling us? When we pray, does God always heal our illness, or find us a new job, or cause our unfaithful spouse to have a change of heart? Sometimes these things happen, but sometimes not. Isn’t this also the experience of Jesus when He prayed that His cup of suffering be taken away?
How then does God calm our storms? When we humbly bring our deepest feelings – our disappointment and fear, our anger and confusion – before God, God responds to us first by accompanying us in our suffering. Notice how, even though he is fast asleep, Jesus is in the boat with the disciples when the storm hits. God responds to our pain first by sharing it with us – even to the extent of giving His life for us. As Paul reminds us in the second reading “one man (Christ) has died for all.” To realize this, is to allow ourselves to be overwhelmed by the love of God in Christ. And when that happens, the storms that beset our troubled hearts are miraculously calmed. The external problems may persist, but the heart is stilled.
And in this stillness, we find ourselves gradually being led to the other shore. Or, in Paul’s words, “there is a new creation.” We find ourselves beginning, however imperceptibly, to “live no longer for (ourselves), but for him who died and was raised to life for (us).” We find our lives being re-focused. No longer are we only concerned with our own selfish wants, but we begin to consider the will of God and the well-being of others, and in so doing, to find true happiness.
Sisters and brothers, what are the storms in your life? How do you respond to them? And how are you being invited today to become a new creation?
Besting the Storms that Beset Us
Readings: Job 38:1,8-11; 2 Cor 5:14-17; Mark 4:35-41
Dear sisters and brothers, in this age of jet engines and budget airlines, unless we’re sailors or fishermen, not many of us will have first-hand experience of a storm at sea. No, even if we do live on an island, most of the storms we encounter are of a different sort. They may come in different ways: a sudden serious illness, a job retrenchment, a stock-market crash, a problematic spouse, or a difficult child... In whatever form they take, these storms have the effect of unsettling us, of upsetting the peaceful routine of our daily lives. They may even make us question the very meaning of our own existence or doubt God’s love and care for us. If we think of life as a voyage towards happiness, then these storms are frightening disruptions that seem to sabotage all our hopes and dreams.
How do we react when storms beset us? Responses may vary.
Sometimes we may choose the route of despair. We may give up trying to get to our intended destination and instead allow ourselves to be swallowed up by the surging waters. “There is no such thing as true happiness,” we tell ourselves, “so stop dreaming.”
At other times we may practice the way, or the spirituality of escape. When our plans are disrupted by storms, we spend our time dreaming about being in another boat, or even on another sea. “Things would be better,” we tell ourselves, “the voyage would be calmer, if only I had a different car, or a different neighbor, a different job, or a different spouse.” And so, we try our best to change our situation, or to change the people around us. To achieve this, we may even resort to prayer. But often it’s a prayer of manipulation. We try to twist the divine arm to get whatever we think we need.
Then there are times when we may practice the way of the gritted teeth. We try not to think too much about the storm, and act as if it’s business as usual. Outwardly, we may doggedly continue on our voyage, looking as if everything is fine, even as the wind howls and the waves crash. But inside, we nurse broken hearts, or worse still, we harden our hearts to protect them from further disappointment. These efforts of ours may indeed get us somewhere. But every now and then we cannot help wondering if we have actually found true happiness and fullness of life. However comfortable we may be, we can’t help feeling as though something’s missing, because we cannot completely numb the pain of our broken or hardened hearts.
In contrast to these reactions, our readings today invite us to reflect upon what might be another way of responding to storms. They offer us at least three lessons or insights. I’ll call them “the three ‘buts.’” You’ll see why in a moment.
The first lesson has to do with God and storms.
On the one hand, we are told in no uncertain terms that God is more powerful than the storm, that God is in fact the Lord of the storm. We see this in the rhetorical question that God asks Job: “Who pent up the sea behind closed doors?” Indeed, God is the One who created the wind and the waves. And, as the responsorial psalm (107:29) tells us, God has the power to still “the storm to a whisper.” This is the same power wielded by Jesus. “Quiet now! Be calm!” he commands. And it is so.
Yes, God is indeed the Lord of the storm – and here comes the first “but” – BUT powerful as God is, not only does God allow us to encounter storms but God also sometimes seems to keep very quiet just when we need Him most. In the book of Job, Job’s suffering is somehow permitted by God. And in spite of Job’s many protests, God only gives Job an answer towards the end of the book. Notice also how, in the gospel, the disciples encounter the storm only because they obeyed Jesus’ instruction to “cross over to the other side.” And when the storm hits, when it seems like they’re about to capsize, Jesus is actually fast asleep at the back of the boat.
What then are we to do?
On the one hand, it seems clear that God wants us to not be afraid, but to have faith, to trust in Him. So Jesus seems to rebuke his disciples when they wake him: “Why are you so frightened?” he says, “How is it that you have no faith?” Yes, we should have faith. We should not be afraid BUT – and this is the second “but” – neither should we pretend that we are not afraid – or angry, or disappointed, or confused – when we actually are.
Notice how, in spite of Jesus’ apparent rebuke of the disciples when the wake him, it is only in response to their cry of distress that he calms the storm. Similarly, despite the delay, God’s words to Job are a response to his repeated protests that he doesn’t deserve the misfortunes that have befallen him. In fact, in the book of Job, Job’s friends try to convince him to stop protesting. They try to persuade him simply to accept the commonly held theory that people only suffer because of their sins. So if Job is suffering he must have sinned. But in the end, God chides these friends for giving bad advice. Not only does God answer Job to his satisfaction, but God also rewards him for his persistence in bringing his problems to God even when, for a long time, God had seemed to be silent.
The third “but” has to do God’s response to our cries.
As we heard in the gospel, Jesus rebukes the raging wind and calms the surging sea. BUT does this mean then that God will always take away whatever is troubling us? When we pray, does God always heal our illness, or find us a new job, or cause our unfaithful spouse to have a change of heart? Sometimes these things happen, but sometimes not. Isn’t this also the experience of Jesus when He prayed that His cup of suffering be taken away?
How then does God calm our storms? When we humbly bring our deepest feelings – our disappointment and fear, our anger and confusion – before God, God responds to us first by accompanying us in our suffering. Notice how, even though he is fast asleep, Jesus is in the boat with the disciples when the storm hits. God responds to our pain first by sharing it with us – even to the extent of giving His life for us. As Paul reminds us in the second reading “one man (Christ) has died for all.” To realize this, is to allow ourselves to be overwhelmed by the love of God in Christ. And when that happens, the storms that beset our troubled hearts are miraculously calmed. The external problems may persist, but the heart is stilled.
And in this stillness, we find ourselves gradually being led to the other shore. Or, in Paul’s words, “there is a new creation.” We find ourselves beginning, however imperceptibly, to “live no longer for (ourselves), but for him who died and was raised to life for (us).” We find our lives being re-focused. No longer are we only concerned with our own selfish wants, but we begin to consider the will of God and the well-being of others, and in so doing, to find true happiness.
Sisters and brothers, what are the storms in your life? How do you respond to them? And how are you being invited today to become a new creation?
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