Water for the Thirsty

4th Sunday of Advent (C)

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

Picture: By Johnny McClung on Unsplash

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

From Syria To Sentosa

3rd Sunday of Advent (C)

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

Picture: By Arum Visuals on Unsplash

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Between Routine & Emergency

1st Sunday of Advent (C)

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

Picture: By Tuan Anh Nguyen on Unsplash

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Between Power & Parking

Solemnity of Our Lord Jesus Christ,

King of the Universe (B)

Readings: Daniel 7:13-14; Psalm 92 (93):1-2, 5; Apocalypse 1:5-8; John 18:33-37

Picture: By m on Unsplash

My dear friends, what is the first thing that comes to mind when we hear the word, ruler? Given the feast we’re celebrating today, it’s natural to think of a king or queen, or a boss. Someone who calls the shots, who wields power, and exercises control. But back when I was still in primary school, the word ruler brought to mind something quite different: a slim rectangular piece of wood, or plastic, used to measure distances, and to draw straight lines… A wielder of power, and a measure of straightness. The word ruler actually means both these things. Which reminds me of an experience I sometimes have, after stepping out of a car I’ve just parked. I look down at the lines painted on the road, and realise that my car is very crooked. As the driver of the vehicle, I’m the ruler, the one in control. And yet, my parking skills have just been ruled by those lines, and found to be seriously lacking. Don’t we find something similar in our scriptures today?

In the gospel, it seems quite clear who is calling the shots, who are the ones in control. As governor, Pilate has the power to decide, either to condemn Jesus, or to set him free. And we know that the chief priests are also pulling the strings behind the scenes. Pressuring and manipulating the governor to do what they want. This is how power works in the world. This is what earthly rule looks like. In contrast, Jesus seems utterly power-less. His fate lies in the hands of others.

But isn’t the Lord also ruling in a different sense? By humbly accepting the consequences of preaching the gospel, refusing either to back down or to run away, doesn’t Jesus uncover the injustice of his persecutors? Just as the lines on the road quietly show up the inadequacies of my parking skills, so too does the Lord’s Passion and Death reveal the crookedness of the world around him. Not just of Pilate and the chief priests, but also the crowds they mobilise, as well as the respective institutions and cultures they each represent. Isn’t this why the Lord says, my kingdom is not of this kind? The rule that Jesus exercises before Pilate, is not that of worldly power and control, but of God’s righteousness and truth. By the Lord’s brave witness to the truth, the values of this world are clearly shown to be seriously lacking.

And for those who have the courage to see it, isn’t this lack still very much on display today? When so many continue to suffer the effects of injustice in various forms. Civilians targetted in violent conflicts. Migrants exploited by ruthless human-traffickers. Refugees displaced by ever more intense natural disasters. Ecosystems destroyed by corporate greed. Frail senior citizens still struggling to eke out a living. Promising young people beset with mounting mental health challenges… Faced with these and many other examples of the crookedness of our world, isn’t it easy for us either to cover our eyes in apathy, or to throw up our hands in despair? Yet our scriptures offer us an alternative response.

Both the first and second readings invite us to dare to hope for the dawning of a new day. The coming of a different time. A moment when the two meanings of rule will coincide in a single person. When Jesus, our Crucified and Risen Lord, the faithful witness, and Ruler of the kings of the earth, will finally come in power and glory. And then, like it or not, everyone will see him, and face the final consequences of one’s acceptance or rejection of his kingship.

But that’s not all. While we wait and prepare for the day that’s yet to come, the second reading also reminds us of what Christ has already done for us. What we celebrate at this and at every Mass. Not only has he washed away our sins with his blood, he has also made us a line of kings, priests to serve… God… In other words, like the One whom we profess to follow, we too are called to be rulers. Not in the worldly sense of power and control. But in the Christian sense of bearing witness to righteousness and truth. Through the lives we live, and the values we embody, we are called to keep standing and speaking on the side of the Lord, on the side of truth, on the side of the poor, the vulnerable and voiceless. So that together, and each in our own way, we may all contribute to uncovering and even counteracting the crookedness that still remains within, among, and around us.

Sisters and brothers, in a world where many are often anxiously jostling to occupy the driver’s seat, how is the Lord calling us to become more like lines on the ground, ruling less by power and control, than by righteousness and truth today?

Beyond the Hoarding & Through the Veil

33rd Sunday in Ordinary Time (B)

Readings: Daniel 12:1-3; Psalm 15 (16):5, 8-11; Hebrews 10:11-14, 18; Mark 13:24-32

Picture: cc Matt Brown on Flickr

My dear friends, when was the last time you looked at an artist’s impression of something? How did it make you feel? We often rely on artists to help us see things that are hidden in some way. For example, it was reported on Friday that a new waterfront development has just broken ground on Sentosa. It’s scheduled for completion in 2030. Which means, right now, we can’t see what the finished product will look like, since it doesn’t exist yet. Like the hoarding around a construction site, time hides it from our eyes. Thankfully, the news report provides two artist’s impressions, which help us imagine what is to come… And it’s not just time that causes things to be hidden from us. Certain life experiences can have a similar effect. Do any examples come to mind? How about trauma? Isn’t it true that traumatic experiences can shock our hearts to such a degree that we become blind to the possibilities of hope, and need help to see again? Isn’t this what our scriptures do for us today?

In both the first reading and the gospel, we find a form of literature called apocalyptic. A kind of writing that aims to reveal or un-veil hidden things. It’s likely that each of these passages was written at least partly in response to the desecration of the Temple in Jerusalem. First by the Greeks, in the 2nd century BC, and then by the Romans in the 1st century AD. The Jews believed that the Temple was where God had chosen to make a home among them. It was a tangible reminder that God is both with us and for us. So how traumatic it must have been for them when it was desecrated. Perhaps at least as traumatic as watching one’s parish priest being assaulted at Mass, or losing a beloved child to suicide. And just as the hoarding of time prevents us from seeing what an unfinished building project will eventually look like, the experience of trauma acts like a veil, covering up any reasons we may have for hope. After all, what possible future might there be for us, if even our loving God has forsaken us?

In response, both the first reading and the gospel provide something like an artist’s impression, helping the people to imagine a hope-filled future. Three aspects in this image are worth highlighting: a turning point, a heavenly figure, and an assurance of eternity. Even though they are suffering now, even though they may still be blinded by shock and grief, the people are invited to look ahead to a different time. To a moment when the tables will be turned. When the powers of this world will be shaken, and those presently in distress will be rescued and gathered into safety. And this turning point will be brought about by a heavenly figure. In the first reading, it is the angel Michael, the great prince who mounts guard over (the) people. In the gospel, it is the Son of Man (Jesus himself) coming in the clouds with great power and glory. Both these figures will gather up all God’s chosen people, assuring them of an eternity of peace and joy…

But that’s not all. While both the first reading and the gospel paint for us a landscape of what is to come in the future, the second reading presents us with a portrait of Jesus, as he is, already now, in the present. And again we may highlight three aspects in this image. First, the reading reminds us that it wasn’t just the Temple in Jerusalem that suffered desecration, our Lord’s precious Body was desecrated too. For by his Dying and Rising Jesus offered one single sacrifice for sins for our sake. Second, we’re told that, by virtue of that one single offering, Jesus has achieved the eternal perfection of all he is sanctifying… Meaning that, unlike an unfinished project, our hope is not in something yet to come. Rather, in a mysterious but real way, what we hope for has already been accomplished. It is with us and among us. It is why we gather to celebrate the Eucharist. Third, more than just inviting us to gaze upon Jesus, the reading also prompts us to imagine how Jesus gazes upon us, as he patiently waits for more people to submit to his gentle embrace. Including those who may now be counted among his enemies. Those still resisting his call. For it is from the Lord’s merciful gaze, that we draw the strength we need to live as he lived, to truly become members of his Body here on earth.

So more than just consoling the traumatised, our scriptures also present a challenge to those who may contribute to their trauma. Including those mentioned in that verse we quoted at the start of Mass. Those whose hearts are weighed down with dissipation and drunkenness and the worries of this life (Lk 21:34). Like the psalmist, both the traumatised and those who traumatise others are called to keep the Lord ever in (their) sight. Not just here in the Eucharist, but also out there in the lives and bodies of the poor.

Sisters and brothers, unlike that building project on Sentosa, we don’t have a scheduled completion date for all this. What must we do to remain vigilant, so as to be ready to welcome the Lord whenever he comes?