The Itch We Cannot Scratch...

18th Sunday in Ordinary Time (B)

Readings: Exodus 16:2-4,12-15; Psalm 77(78):3-4,23-25,54; Ephesians 4:17,20-24; John 6:24-35

Picture: cc sarahluv

My dear friends, have you ever had an itch that you just can’t seem to scratch? Do you know what it feels like? It can be quite frustrating. No matter how hard or how often I may drag my fingernails across that spot on my body, where I think the itch is located, I get no relief. I may even scratch so hard that my skin gets broken and infected. But the itch remains. And it may be because the sensation I’m feeling is not actually found on my skin, but somewhere else. I don’t know where. In my nerves perhaps. Or even in my mind. The itch may be neurological or psychological. So that it can’t be relieved in a superficial way. But only by going deeper. 

Strange as it may sound, sisters and brothers, I believe we find something similar in our Mass readings today. People experiencing a deep itch, and trying to scratch it in a superficial way. Both in the first reading and the gospel, people are feeling hungry. And, quite naturally, they assume that their hunger can be satisfied by filling their mouths with food, their bellies with bread. In the first reading, the whole community of Israelites complain to Moses and Aaron that they have no food. And, in the gospel, crowds of people follow Jesus across the Lake of Galilee, because he had earlier given them all the bread they wanted to eat. With just five barley loaves and two fish, he had fed five thousand.

Both in the first reading and the gospel, people are anxious to scratch an itch. And yet, all the scratching in the world, all the food on this earth, can bring them no permanent relief. For the sensation they are feeling is not something that can be removed by meat and bread alone. Theirs is not really a hunger for food, but a yearning for meaning. A deep desire for a life that has a definite direction. A life filled with true purpose. Something that has the power to gather up all the broken disconnected pieces of one’s existence, and to unify them into an inspiring story, a beautiful work of art.

How do we know this? We see it in the way in which God responds to the peoples’ complaint. Notice how, in the first reading, although God provides meat and manna to fill the Israelites’ bellies, God does this in a very particular way. God gives detailed instructions for how the food is to be gathered, distributed, and consumed. By doing this, God provides the people not just with nourishment, but also with a precious opportunity to practice obedience. To learn how to live a life that is not just centred on one’s own selfish interests, but that revolves around God’s loving and merciful will instead. I propose to test them in this way, God tells Moses, to see whether they will follow my law or not. Scripture scholars tell us that the sending of manna from heaven actually points to the precious gift of the Law, through which God provides the people with the guidance that they need to live a meaningful and purposeful life in the Promised Land.

Isn’t this also what Jesus is trying to do in the gospel? He encourages the people to work not for food that cannot last, but for food that endures to eternal life. And to do this by believing in him, the one God has sent. For Jesus himself is the true bread… which comes down from heaven. He alone is the living embodiment of the Law. Those who come to him, those who truly believe in him, those who allow their lives to be moulded according to his example, they are the ones who will never be hungry. They are the ones who will never thirst. They are the ones whose itch God will help them to scratch.

All of which may help us connect better with our Mass readings today. We who live in a place like Singapore. Blessed as we are to have such an abundant variety of tasty food to eat. Let’s face it, many of us here are rich enough, such that we have to worry less about getting enough to eat than about choosing which particular delicacies to enjoy at any given meal. And yet, isn’t it true that, both as individuals and as a society, we continue to experience a hunger for meaning and purpose and direction? Don’t many of us try to satisfy this deep yearning in superficial and less than helpful ways? Isn’t this why, for many of us, life is characterised by compulsive consumption? Not just in matters of food and drink, or handbags and watches, or cars and entertainment. But also in the way we relate to work, and even to religion. Could this also be the reason why we have to obsessively check the screens of our mobile devices every few seconds? Not so much because there is an urgent message for us to read. But to scratch an itch that simple refuses to go away.

If this is true, then perhaps it is important for us to heed the message in the second reading. Which reminds us not to go on living the aimless kind of life that pagans live. The kind of life that dissipates itself in so many different directions, because it is focused only on the satisfaction of illusory desires. On superficially scratching an itch which refuses to go away. Instead, we are called to put on a new self, to live a new life in Christ, created in God’s way, in the goodness and holiness of the truth. The truth that life is not about food and drink but righteousness and peace and joy in the Holy Spirit (Rm 14:17). Isn’t this why we take the time to gather here this evening? To allow our loving and merciful Lord to feed us with the bread from heaven. The true nourishment that fills our lives with deeper meaning.

My dear sisters and brothers, whether we realise it or not, we all have within us an itch that we cannot scratch. A yearning that we cannot satisfy. At least not on our own. No matter how hard we may try. For it has been placed in us by God. What must we do, you and I, to allow God to scratch our itch today?

Preaching to the Choir

14th Sunday in Ordinary Time (B)

Readings: Ezekiel 2:2-5; Psalm 122(123); 2 Corinthians 12:7-10; Mark 6:1-6

Picture: cc Garrette

My dear friends, do you know what it means when someone says to me, you’re only preaching to the choir? I’m sure you do, right? It means that I am trying to convince people who already agree with me. Or trying to convert the already converted. The implication being that I’m wasting my time. I should try to win over the unconverted instead. Those who hold opinions contrary to mine. Those who are more likely to reject my arguments, and to treat me with hostility. Which, though difficult, makes a lot of sense, don’t you think?

And yet, my dear brothers and sisters, has it ever occured to you that preaching to the choir is what priests like me do all the time? Of course, this being the earliest Mass on a Sunday, we don’t have much of a choir to speak of. But still, in a sense, aren’t all of us members of the choir? Can we not expect most, if not all, of us gathered here this morning to be already converted? Already convinced of the Good News of Christ? Why then do priests like me even bother?

Now please don’t be mistaken, my dear friends. I ask this question not because I’m suffering a vocation crisis. But because of what we find in our Mass readings today. As you may have noticed, in each of our three readings, we find people sent to preach God’s Word to those who are resistant.

I am sending you, God tells Ezekiel in the first reading, to the rebels who have turned against me… And they would not accept him… This is what the gospel says about those to whom Jesus preaches. And, finally, in the second reading, although it’s not clear what exactly St Paul means, when he writes about a thorn in the flesh, some commentators say that this points to hostility against Paul’s ministry. Since the apostle goes on to write about insults, hardships, persecutions, and the agonies that he suffers for Christ’s sake.

So it is clear that the prophets in our readings are sent to preach to those who are stubbornly unreceptive. But where, my dear friends, where are these stubbornly unreceptive people to be found? The answer may surprise us. The rebels to whom Ezekiel is sent in the first reading are none other than the Israelites themselves. God’s own chosen people. Scholars tell us that the hostility Paul writes about in the second reading very likely comes from members of his own communities. And, of course, the lack of faith that Jesus encounters in the gospel comes from his own relatives. The members of his own home town. From people gathered to worship God in the synagogue no less.

In other words, in our readings today, contrary to what we might expect, God’s messengers meet with resistance and even hostility not when they proclaim the Word to strangers, but when they are preaching to the choir! What do you make of all this, my dear friends? How does it make you feel? To some extent, it causes me to tremble interiorly. Especially because I so easily consider myself already a member of the choir. Presumably already converted. And yet these readings invite me to ask myself, what kind of a choir-member am I, really? How truly converted? How receptive and responsive to God’s Word, to God’s call? How do I even find out?

One way to find out is to see how our readings describe those who are truly receptive and responsive to God’s call. The first reading begins with these words: The Spirit came into me and made me stand up… This is one sign of the converted. Such a person is given the strength to stand up. To stand up and to speak out. To stand up, to speak out, and to bear witness to God’s message. Not just in words, but through one’s life. To stand up, to speak out, and to bear witness to God’s love, even in a hostile environment. To stand up, even when it is more convenient, more comfortable, more secure simply to remain sitting or lying down.

And let’s not be naive. To do this is not easy. It’s not easy to stand up when there are many powerful forces keeping us down. Forces both external and internal. Temptations and distractions, fears and anxieties, pressuring us to keep quiet and to simply blend in with the environment, with everyone else. To do otherwise, to go against the flow, may lead us to feel as the psalmist feels, when he says, We are filled with contempt. Indeed all too full is our soul with the scorn of the rich, with the proud man’s disdain. How then does the truly converted person receive the strength to remain standing?

We find the answer in the response to the psalm. Our eyes are on the Lord till he shows us his mercy. To keep on standing up, even when sorely tempted to lay down, I must keep my eyes focused on the Lord till he show us his mercy. Isn’t this what sets apart those who are truly converted from those who are still rebellious? And, if I am honest with myself, must I not admit that, much as I may consider myself a member of the choir, there’s actually a bit of both in me? Both the receptive and the resistant. Both the converted and the sinner. Which is why I need to keep on listening to the Lord’s Word. To keep on allowing it to penetrate my heart. Calling me to deeper conversion. Calling me to ever more generous, ever more committed, mission.

My dear sisters and brothers, if today you hear the Lord’s voice preaching to the choir, what will you do to keep from hardening your heart?

Endangered Species

13th Sunday in Ordinary Time (B)

Readings: Wisdom 1:13-15,2:23-24; Psalm 29(30):2,4-6,11-13; 2 Corinthians 8:7,9,13-15; Mark 5:21-43

Picture: cc Franco Pecchio

My dear friends, do you know how many types of giraffes there are in the world today? As you may have heard, until quite recently, it was thought that all giraffes belonged to a single species. So only one kind of giraffe. But then, about two years ago, a new study discovered that there are actually, not one, but four distinct species of giraffe. Why is this discovery important? Well, it means that since, by definition, different species cannot breed with one another in the wild, then giraffes are actually far more endangered than previously thought. It’s not enough to save just one or two or even three of these species. Work must be done to save all four.

In other words, the discovery of different kinds of giraffes helps us to realise that we need to do more to preserve them all. And if this is true of giraffes, might it not be true also of the one thing that our readings invite us to ponder today? Our own life? Could it be that just as there are different kinds of giraffe, there are also different kinds, different aspects of life? And to recognise this is also to realise that we need to do more to preserve our life in all its aspects?

In the gospel, Jesus is quite clearly preserving and restoring life. But haven’t you noticed the different kinds of life the Lord is preserving and restoring? Most obviously, of course, Jesus restores the physical life of the daughter of Jairus. The kind of life indicated by the girl’s renewed ability to get up, and to walk about, and even to eat. But notice how, in the gospel, we also find the story of a bleeding woman. Although this woman is not physically dead, at least not yet, other kinds of life have been taken away from her.

For example, we’re told that she has spent all she had on doctors, without getting any… better. In other words, she is financially ruined. Dead. Worse still, her illness is very likely causing her to be barren. Unable to have children of her own. Unable to bear new life for her own family. Also, her condition renders her ritually unclean. And so, barred from participating in the community’s worship of God. Not only is she financially dead, the woman’s social life has been taken away from her. And her spiritual life suffers as well. So that, by curing her of her ailment, Jesus is not just giving her back her physical health. He is restoring her to life in its different aspects.

By inserting this woman’s story in the middle of the other one, the author of the gospel highlights to us the deeper meaning of the raising of Jairus’ daughter. The woman’s story shows us that the raising of the little girl is significant not just for those of us who may happen to be dying from a terminal illness. Or those about to succumb to old age. What the gospel reminds us is that whether we are young or old, rich or poor, healthy or sick, popular or lonely, Jesus offers all of us the fullness of life. Life rooted ultimately in right relationship with God.

Such that, even if I may lose my financial life, or my social life, or even my physical life, I can still hope in the spiritual life that Jesus preserves for us, for me, by his Dying and Rising. Isn’t this what is meant when the first reading tells us that death was not God’s doing. But that God made us imperishable, in the image of God’s own nature. Not that I will never suffer a physical death. Of course I will. Even Jairus’ daughter, after having been raised, must surely have died at some point after that. But the scriptures assure us that we will always retain our spiritual life, if only we remain in Christ.

One important implication of all this is, of course, that it is possible for me to appear very much alive–physically and financially, socially and even religiously–and yet be actually spiritually quite dead. It is possible for me to be young and fit, rich and popular, tremendously active in parish ministry, perhaps even in priestly ministry, and yet have no real knowledge or experience of God’s love. But how do I know how spiritually alive I am? Just as the ability to get up and move about and eat are indications of physical life, are there similar signs of spiritual life?

We find one such sign in the second reading, where St Paul encourages the Christians in Corinth to donate their surplus money to their needy brethren in Jerusalem. Paul reminds the Corinthians first of how much God has blessed them. Not just with material wealth, but also with spiritual gifts. And how these gifts should make them more generous. Just as Christ was generous, in laying down his life for us all. For Paul, one good indication of the spiritual health of a person, or a community, is the capacity to show mercy. To reach out and to share one’s riches, financial or otherwise, with those in need.

But what if I begin to realise that, despite being alive in other areas, I am actually spiritually sick? Perhaps even dying? How can I renew my spiritual life? The answer is very clearly shown in the gospel. The bleeding woman finds life when she reaches out to touch the Lord. But notice that, just as there are different kinds of life, there are also different kinds of touch. Many people touch Jesus in the gospel. But only the woman finds life. Even though she manages to touch only his cloak. What sets her touch apart from all the others? Jesus gives us the answer when he tells the woman, Your faith has restored you to health… 

This is the kind of touch that heals and saves. The kind in which I place all my hope, and all my trust in the One whom I am touching. The touch of faith, along with the touch of mercy. These are the precious channels through which true life flows. From God to us. From us to those in need. The touch of faith, and the touch of mercy. Are these not also the kinds of touch that we are gathered here to experience and to share?

I’m reminded of these words from an old hymn we used to sing:

Lord, we touch you today. Lord, we touch you today.

You gave us your life. You gave us your love.

Lord, we touch you today.

To live is to die, and to laugh is to cry.

To live is to love with all our heart.

To live is to walk and to talk in your Word.

And to live is to sing in your Love…

My dear friends, just as there are different kinds of giraffe, so too are there different kinds of life, and different kinds of touch. What kind of life are you living and nurturing? What kind of touch are you receiving and sharing today?

Meant for YOU!

Solemnity of the Nativity of St John the Baptist

Readings: Isaiah 49:1-6; Psalm 138(139):1-3,13-15; Acts 13:22-26; Luke 1:57-66,80

Picture: cc hectore

My dear friends, have you ever found yourself at a party feeling bored out of your mind? Perhaps it’s an acquaintance’s birthday celebration, or the wedding banquet of a distant relative. And you just don’t see what all the fuss is about. You’ve managed to drag yourself to the place, but you just can’t bring yourself to celebrate. To truly share the joy. Instead, you feel like you couldn’t care less. You wish you were somewhere else. Or, worse still, you may even find yourself openly criticising the food or the service, the bride’s dress or her make-up… Ever feel like that?

I’m not sure why this happens. Why, at times, I just don’t seem able to do what appears to come so naturally to those neighbours and relations of Elizabeth in the gospel. To share someone else’s joy as if it were my own. Perhaps it’s a flaw in my personality, or in my society or culture. This tendency to self-absorption. This inability to care deeply about anything or anyone unless it has something to do with ME. Whatever may be the cause, the result is that I often need help. Help to enter the joy of a celebration like the one we have here today: the Solemnity of the Nativity of St John the Baptist. I need help to see what relevance this celebration has for us. For ME.

This, I believe, is precisely what our Mass readings provide for us today: Help to appreciate the deeper relevance of this celebration for me. And I receive this help by embarking on a path of reflection. Which I may begin by asking myself the question what? or whom? What or whom are we celebrating today? The answer may seem painfully obvious. We are celebrating a birth! The birth of John the Baptist! Which is true. And this alone should be enough to make us excited and joyful. Especially since we believe that John played a key role in preparing the way for Christ, our Lord and  Saviour.

But why then am I still not impressed? Not even interested? Perhaps I need to go on to see that our readings do not speak to us only about the day when John was born. Instead the gospel goes on to speak also about the events surrounding his circumcision, and even about what happened to him when he grew much older. Indeed, the first reading doesn’t even mention John the Baptist at all. How could it, since it was written a long time before John was born? Instead, the reading speaks about how a prophet receives or renews his vocation. And, more than that, how this vocation, this call of the prophet, is also a means of salvation. Salvation not just for the prophet himself. And not just for his own people. But for the whole world. I will make you the light of the nations so that my salvation may reach to the ends of the earth.

My dear friends, pondering our readings more deeply, we find that what we are celebrating today is not just the birth of a baby who lived thousands of years ago, but the beginnings of a vocation. A call, addressed not just to a single person in the past, but to every person down through the ages. Addressed directly even to us. To you and to me. A call that, once accepted, gains for us, for me, the gift of salvation, of fullness of life. What we celebrate today is the birth not just of a baby, but of a vocation. And not just of a vocation, but of salvation. Not just for him, or for them, but also for us, for me.

Even so, walking this path of reflection may still not be enough to awaken my interest. To cure my boredom. To help me appreciate the deeper significance of this celebration for me. For that to happen, perhaps what I need is to see possible points of contact between the readings and my own life. I need to ask myself the question where? Where do I find myself in this story of baby, vocation and salvation?

The readings provide us with at least three possible points of contact. The first is the place of preparation. A place that the readings call the womb. The Lord called me before I was born, from my mother’s womb… This is a place of silence and secrecy. Even of apparent barrenness and waiting. Contrary to what we may expect, this may not be such a comfortable place to be. Indeed, it may even be, for some of us, a place of self-doubt and discouragement. Where, after years of effort and hard work, like the prophet, I am led to think that I have toiled in vain, I have exhausted myself for nothing. Ever felt like that? For this place is not just a womb, but also a wilderness. A place where I am gradually, even painfully, fashioned in secret and moulded in the depths of the earth.

Thankfully, this is not a destination, but only a transition. When the time is right, the place of preparation gives way to the place of recognition. The place where the prophet finally realises his true calling. Where she finally receives her true name. Not just the name that is printed on a birth certificate or passport. But the one engraved on one’s heart. His name is John. A name celebrating not the achievements of humanity, but the graciousness of God (Yehohanan = The Lord is gracious). Graciousness not just in giving someone an assignment to complete, but an identity to assume. A relationship to embrace. So that, like Zechariah, I may be prompted to raise my voice in praise of God. And, with the prophet and psalmist, I may exclaim: all the while my cause was with the Lord, my reward with my God… I thank you for the wonder of my being, for the wonders of all your creation. Have you perhaps experienced what it’s like to finally recognise God’s call?

Then, eventually, if we are patient and generous enough, the places of preparation and recognition finally lead us to the place of action. Where the baby in the womb, and the youth in the wilderness, finally become the prophet in the world. Courageously and diligently proclaiming the tremendous good news of the coming king. I am not the one you imagine me to be; that one is coming after me and I am not fit to undo his sandal.

The birth of baby and vocation and salvation. The places of preparation and recognition and action. Processes and positions that produce the prophet of God. One ready to shine out with the light of the Lord’s coming, in a world still so often engulfed in the darkness of self-absorption. This is why we celebrate today. This is the cause of our joy. And, in the words of the second reading, this message of salvation is meant not just for others. It is meant for you! For us! For ME!

My dear friends, all you who fear God, what must we do to experience and enter more fully into this joyful mystery today?

Friend or Foe?

Tuesday of the 11th Week of Ordinary Time

Closing Mass @ MAS Retreat 2018

Readings: 1 Kings 21:17-29; Psalm 50(51):3-6,11,16; Matthew 5:43-48

Picture: cc Lauras Eye

My dear brothers, you’ve probably heard about the social media storm that was triggered about a week or so ago by little Prince George, the four-year-old son of William and Kate. Pictures had surfaced of the young prince playing with a toy gun. Photos of him happily pointing the gun at another boy, and at his sister, and even at his mother. Very quickly, people criticised Kate for letting this happen. Others, however, defended her. Saying that there was nothing wrong with it.

I’m not sure how you feel about all this, brothers. But when I first heard about it, I couldn’t help but find it highly ridiculous. So much fuss over a boy playing with a toy gun?! But, on further reflection, I began to see a bit better how those photos could be so offensive to some. Especially given the painful reality of gun violence in the United States and elsewhere. Even so, a part of me still wishes that life could be simpler. That a boy could play with a toy gun without drawing criticism. Pointing it at whomever he wishes, without having to consider who the target might be.

If only life were that simple. If only love was that simple. If only I could love everyone in exactly the same way. Without having to first figure out whether that person was a friend or an enemy. Just point and shoot. Which, I have to confess, is how I tend to understand what Jesus is saying in the gospel today. Love your enemies… for your Father in heaven… causes his sun to rise on bad men as well as good, and his rain to fall on honest and dishonest men alike. Doesn’t this imply that God loves both God’s friends and enemies in the same way? But what does it really mean to be a friend or an enemy of God? And does God really love both exactly the same?

Pondering these questions, I’m reminded of how Father Ignatius begins his Rules for the Discernment of Spirits. As you know, he begins (SpEx 314 & 315) not with a description of consolation and desolation–that comes later–but rather by first drawing a sharp but crucial distinction between two kinds of people, moving in opposite directions. One going from good to better, and the other from bad to worse. Isn’t this how a friend of God is distinguished from an enemy? By the direction in which one’s life is moving. And isn’t it striking how Ignatius says that the good spirit acts on each of these kinds of people in opposite ways? Encouraging and consoling the friend. But discouraging and even depressing the enemy. Indeed, don’t we find something similar in the first reading?

As much as we may consider Elijah a friend of God, Ahab is quite clearly God’s enemy. The king himself confirms it, when he says to Elijah, So you have found me out, O my enemy! And it’s quite clear why Ahab considers himself God’s enemy. It’s because, when Elijah meets him at Naboth’s vineyard, the king is moving in a direction contrary to that of God. He is on a path of death and destruction. After having allowed his wife to commit murder on his behalf, the king is in the process of swallowing up the victim’s property. And there’s a reason why he is doing this. Ahab consumes another’s land, because he himself is being consumed by the flames of greed. What is God’s response to all this? How does God love this enemy?

God makes the sun of God’s mercy to shine, and the rain of God’s compassion to fall, upon the wicked king. God sends Elijah to do two things. First to disrupt the king’s chosen destructive path. By uncovering his hidden sin, and the terrible consequences they will have for him and his household. Then to douse, to extinguish, the flames of the king’s idolatry. And to ignite, in their place, the pangs of conscience. To disrupt and to douse. These are the actions that God’s friend is sent to perform for God’s enemy. As a result, the king repents. But he could just as easily have refused to do so. And persecuted Elijah instead. The prophet would then have had to do something more. The same thing that Jesus does for us. Elijah would have to suffer and perhaps even to die… To disrupt, to douse, and to die. This is how God loves God’s enemies through God’s friends. This is how Jesus loves us, when he comes not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance (Lk 5:32).

Again, I’m not sure how you feel about all this, my dear brothers. But I must confess that these readings make me rather uncomfortable. Especially coming as they do at the end of our retreat. After 8 days praying together as friends in and of the Lord, why should we be drawn now to ponder how God treats enemies? What possible relevance might these reflections have for us? Perhaps their significance becomes clearer when we ask ourselves the question where? Where are God’s enemies to be found? Isn’t one likely place precisely where we will soon find ourselves returning ad dispersionem? In the world to which we are sent as servants of Christ’s saving mission. The same world that, in so many ways, remains stubbornly set on a course leading to destruction. Consumed by the flames of idolatry of various kinds, especially the worship of money. Like Elijah before us, are we not sent to proclaim a word that somehow disrupts this path? That douses this flame? And that may lead us to have to suffer and, in some way, to die? Doesn’t our ministry of consolation require us not just to comfort the afflicted, but also to afflict the comfortable?

But that’s not all. If we are truly honest with ourselves, shouldn’t we also acknowledge that God’s enemies are to be found not just ad extra, in our mission, but also ad intra, within our very lives as well? Both in our communal and personal lives. In those places where, like Ahab at Naboth’s vineyard, we may still be set on paths of self-destruction. So that even as we leave this retreat, do we not need to remain watchful for the ways in which God is inviting us to love one another, and to allow ourselves to be loved, not just as friends, but also as enemies? Needing to have our paths disrupted, our flames doused, else we cause suffering and death? 

My dear brothers, much as I wish that love were as simple as an innocent little boy shooting people with a harmless toy, the reality is far more complex. For isn’t it true that, all too often, before one can be loved as a friend, one must first be loved as an enemy? Before I can be loved as a saint, I must first learn to be loved as a sinner.

My brothers, if all this is indeed true, then what must we do–as individuals and communities, as apostolates and as a whole Region–what must we do, you and I, to keep growing, not just in the courage to love as friends in the Lord, but also, when necessary, in the humility to be loved as his enemies as well?