Surrounded & Struggling for Safety

20th Sunday in Ordinary Time (C)

Readings: Jeremiah 38:4-6, 8-10; Psalm 39 (40):2-4,18; Hebrews 12:1-4; Luke 12:49-53

Picture: By Michael Hamments on Unsplash

What does it feel like to be surrounded? That depends on what or whom we are surrounded by, right? By friends or by enemies? By danger or by safety? Yet we know that the word surrounded is often used to refer to danger of some sort. Such as in those old crime dramas I used to watch on TV, as a child. We have you surrounded, the police would say, throw down your weapons, and come out with your hands on your heads! Then those surrounded would have to decide what to do. Typically, they would choose one of only two options. Either to obey and go quietly, or to disobey and engage in a violent shoot-out with the authorities. But is a third option ever possible? Such as to keep resisting, but non-violently?

In our scriptures too, we find people surrounded in various ways, and on different levels. In the first reading, the city of Jerusalem is under siege, surrounded by the fearsome army of the mighty Babylonian empire. And not only the city, but the king himself is surrounded. Not just by the foreign soldiers outside, but also by his own rebellious officials within. Against whom the king pitifully confesses that he is powerless. Which is how Jeremiah ends up both surrounded and sinking in mud, at the bottom of a well that has run dry. From all sides, danger closes in on him. Danger from vicious enemies. Danger from starvation. And danger, presumably, from the temptation to give his persecutors what they want. Which is for him to give up the unpopular message God had called him to proclaim. To stop telling everyone to surrender to the Babylonians. Somehow Jeremiah finds the courage neither to give in nor to fight back (he can’t), but simply to keep resisting. Thankfully, he finds an ally in the Ethiopian eunuch, Ebed-melech, who bravely breaks ranks with the others, and convinces the king to raise Jeremiah from his muddy tomb.

In the gospel, Jesus has been telling his disciples to stay alert. As we may recall, in last week’s reading, the Lord told them to be like men waiting for their master to return… ready to open the door as soon as he comes and knocks… Then, in today’s reading, Jesus goes on to speak about the danger he himself will soon have to face. About that literally crucial moment, when he will both baptise and be baptised – both surround and be surrounded – with the fire of his own Death and Resurrection. Like Jeremiah before him, Jesus will suffer the consequences of his own non-violent resistance to the sinful perspectives and practices of the powers that be. He will be lifted up on the Cross, and buried in a tomb, before being raised by God on the third day. And, like Ebed-melech, his disciples will somehow need to find the courage to break ranks with the others, in order to keep following the Lord. To embrace the reality that the One they follow has come to bring not peace, but rather division.

And not just the disciples in the gospel, but also all Christians down through the ages, including us. We too are called neither to give in cowardly, nor to fight back violently, but to keep bravely and patiently resisting sin in its different forms. How to find the courage and endurance to do this? Doesn’t the second reading help us answer this question, by advising us to do two things? First, to remember that, however much we may feel besieged by danger, we should never forget that we are also surrounded by generations upon generations of witnesses in a great cloud on every side of us. Fathers and mothers, sisters and brothers in the faith. Formidably arrayed like a friendly yet boisterous crowd of supporters at a stadium, enthusiastically cheering on the home team. Second, we are to keep the eyes of our hearts ever focused on Christ. Frequently calling to mind the Mystery we celebrate at this and every Eucharist. How for the sake of the joy which was still in the future, he endured the cross, disregarding the shamefulness of it…

In other words, when we find ourselves besieged by danger, the second reading teaches us how to surround ourselves with a space of spiritual safety. From which we may draw the courage and endurance we need to keep resisting sin. And isn’t this advice especially important today, when the very idea of being surrounded by danger has itself become highly dangerous? For many use it to fan the flames not of love, but of intolerance, xenophobia and unjust discrimination against minorities of all kinds. Faced with such dangers, we need more than just courage and endurance. We also need wisdom and discernment. Not just as individuals, but also as communities and societies. And how to foster wisdom and discernment, except by cultivating more spaces where people may safely engage in meaningful conversations across differences? In our homes and churches, in our schools and work-places, and beyond.

Sisters and brothers, amid the dangers that surround us, how might we cultivate more of such safe spaces today?

Through Which Lens?

19th Sunday in Ordinary Time (C)

Readings: Wisdom 18:6-9; Psalm 32(33):1,12,18-20,22; Hebrews 11:1-2, 8-19; Luke 12:32-48

Picture: By Bud Helisson on Unsplash

My dear friends, what do you think? Do we need lenses to see? As you’ve probably guessed, this is actually a trick question. For even if some of us may be blessed with perfect vision — even if we don’t need prescription glasses like mine to see clearly — none of us can see anything at all, if not for the crystalline lenses in our eyes. Typically, we simply take these natural lenses for granted. We don’t think much about them. Not until much later in life, when they may get clouded by cataracts, and we require surgery to replace them. But whether we realise it or not, the fact remains that all of us need lenses to see. Otherwise we remain quite blind. And this is true not just physiologically, but also spiritually. Isn’t this what our scriptures are telling us today?

The first reading invites us to look back into the distant past. Back to a given moment in our history of salvation. To that first Passover night, when God struck down all the first-born of mighty Egypt — including even the animals — but spared poor helpless Israel. Spared all those whose doorways were marked by the blood of a lamb. We know the story well. This was how God forced proud Pharaoh to set an oppressed people free from slavery. The reading teaches us to look back on this momentous evening in a particular way, through a specific lens. So that we may recognise, in its dramatic events, the steadfast and merciful love of God. So that we might be filled with gratitude and awe.

And we Christians believe that this immense love, which God bestowed so graciously upon Israel, has also been bestowed upon us, and the rest of Creation. For we cannot look back on the first Passover without also recalling what we ourselves celebrate at this and at every Eucharist. The great Mystery in which Christ offered himself once and for all, as the final and conclusive Paschal Lamb. Setting us free from the slavery of sin. And if the memory of the first Passover can fill us with gratitude and awe, how much more the Mystery of the Son of God’s loving and merciful sacrifice for us on the Cross?

The second reading takes us even further back into the biblical past. Back to the time of the patriarch Abraham, and his wife Sarah. Reminding us that they too looked at reality through the same lens, which the reading teaches us to call faith. But even though it may speak about these great figures of the past, what the reading highlights for us is how, in faith, they all looked forward to the future. By faith, Abraham set out without knowing where he was going... By faith, already post-menopausal Sarah was made able to conceive... And by faith, Abraham even agreed to offer up Isaac, his long-awaited and much-beloved heir. Why? Isn’t it because, although the future remained unseen and uncertain to their all too human eyes, their faith filled Abraham and Sarah with trust in God. Assuring them that God would somehow fulfil God’s promises. Trust and assurance. These are what the future produces in us when seen through the lens of faith.

Then, in the gospel, Jesus teaches us how to look at the present with courage and alertness. There is no need to be afraid, little flock, for it has pleased your Father to give you the kingdom. How can we know this, except by looking at reality through the lens of faith? Faith not in ourselves and our own achievements, but rather in God’s love for us. Enabling us to stop clinging anxiously and greedily to our earthly possessions, material or otherwise. But to learn to see them instead as gifts entrusted to us for the common good. And even to use them as a mode of transport. A way to convey our hearts from the illusory attractions of this passing world, to the enduring joys of our eternal home. Get yourselves… treasure… in heaven where no thief can reach it and no moth destroy it. For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also. Isn’t this how we make ourselves ready and alert to greet the Master whenever he chooses to come?

To look at the past with gratitude and awe. To look at the future with trust and assurance. And to look at the present with courage and alertness. All this is possible, provided we learn to look in faith. For just as we remain physically blind without the natural lenses in our eyes, so too are we spiritually sightless without faith. And isn’t it timely for us to be reminded of this over the SG60 weekend? When we’re all encouraged to celebrate our national achievements of the past, and to secure an ever more promising future, by rising to the considerable challenges of the present? Isn’t it our responsibility as Christians to help uncover and highlight those realities that can be seen only by faith?

Sisters and brothers, how might we better help one another to keep looking through this precious God-given lens today?

Spotting Sinkholes

18th Sunday in Ordinary Time (C)

Readings: Ecclesiastes 1:2, 2:21-23; Psalm 89 (90):3-6, 12-14, 17 or Psalm 94 (95):1-2, 6-9; Colossians 3:1-5, 9-11; Luke 12:13-21

Picture: cc Lee Craven on Flickr

By now, many of us will have seen videos of the moment that unlucky black Mazda toppled into a sinkhole along Tanjong Katong Road. What a shock it must have been for the poor driver! Several people interviewed at the scene expressed surprise that this should happen here in Singapore. And who can blame them? Aren’t we surprised too? Which of us would expect the road we are travelling on to suddenly dissolve into a gaping emptiness? But what if we were to live at a place where sinkholes are a routine occurrence? Where everyone knows they will appear. We just can’t predict exactly when. How would that change, if at all, the way we use our roads?

This is the question our scriptures pose to us today. To see this, it’s helpful to recall that the word that keeps recurring in the first reading, the word vanity, can also be translated as emptiness. Vanity of vanities. All is vanity! … Emptiness of emptinesses. All is emptiness! Why does the preacher say this? Isn’t it because, no matter how wise and intelligent we may be, or how diligent and successful, or rich and famous, or even pious and holy, all of us remain mere mortals. We know that, at some point, this road of life, along which we are now travelling so confidently, will dissolve into the emptiness of death. Forcing us to leave behind everything we may have painstakingly accumulated or accomplished, or spent sleepless nights agonising over. We know this will happen. We just don’t know exactly when.

Which raises for us an important question, provided we are willing to entertain it. How, if at all, might the expectation of death influence the way we live our lives? There are various possible responses to this question. The rich man in Jesus’ parable models one possibility.  Take things easy, he says to himself, eat, drink, have a good time… The way the parable is told, the rich man seems to say this because he has forgotten his own mortality. He assumes, mistakenly, that he will live forever. Which is why God calls him a fool, before shocking him with the news that he will die that very night… But isn’t it reasonable for someone to choose the rich man’s response – to eat, drink, and have a good time – precisely because they expect to die? Since we can’t avoid death anyway, why not make the most of life while it lasts? Even draw up a bucket list of things we wish to enjoy? Is this really such a foolish thing to do? Isn’t this a far better approach than that of the workaholic, forever slaving away anxiously, obsessively, compulsively, without knowing how or when to take a break?

Perhaps. Except that death is not the only emptiness that threatens to swallow us up. Doesn’t Jesus highlight another in the gospel? Watch, and be on your guard against avarice of any kind… And what is avarice, if not a deadly bottomless sinkhole? That impulse to keep grasping and acquiring, accumulating and hoarding, if we do not learn to curb it, can so easily become an all-consuming idol, extracting ever more costly sacrifices from us, including our own health and well-being, as well as that of our children. This form of idolatry, this worship of a false god, can swallow up not just individuals, but also whole communities and societies, nations and even churches too. And isn’t it often the more vulnerable among us, who suffer the consequences most? Could the vaping menace – which has received so much attention in the news lately – be one recent example?

So how might we Christians respond? Isn’t it by first recalling that the Lord Jesus offers himself to us as the foolproof Way to avoid idolatry in all its forms? Not by seeking to escape death, but by learning to embrace it out of love and mercy. For our sake, Jesus took on a mortal life. He came among us poor and humble. Even allowing himself to be swallowed up by the sinkhole of the Cross. Only to be raised up in glory on the third day. And isn’t this the same Path to which the second reading invites us to commit ourselves anew, when it reminds us that, by our baptism, we have all died with Christ? Died to our old life of sin, so as to be raised up to the new life of grace. Relying on the strength we receive from the Lord, especially when we gather for the Eucharist, we are to strive to kill, or mortify, everything in us that belongs only to earthly life. Everything rooted in idolatrous self-indulgence. Not only are we to put on a new self, together we are also to look forward, and to work toward a new world, where Christ is everything and… is in everything. What this looks like in the concrete will depend on our specific situation in life. But something we may consider, if we haven’t already, is to learn to live more simply, so that others may simply live.

Sisters and brothers, whether they take the form of death, or avarice, or the Cross of Christ, could it be that sinkholes are far more common than we may think? If so, how might we let this reality influence the way we live our lives today?

Threading the Needle of Love & Life

15th Sunday in Ordinary Time (C)

Readings: Deuteronomy 30:10-14; Psalm 68 (69):14, 17, 30-31, 33-34, 36-37 or Psalm 18 (19):8-11; Colossians 1:15-20; Luke 10:25-37

Picture: By Bhupinder Singh on Unsplash

What does it take to thread a needle? In itself, it’s a simple enough task, right? Requiring neither great effort, nor special training. Yet to do it, I need at least two things, clarity of sight and sensitivity of touch. Which means, although simple, it may not be easy. Especially not if I happen to be long-sighted, if my eyes can focus only on things that are far away, and not on those that are near. And also not if my fingers happen to be numb. Both these conditions make threading a needle very difficult, perhaps even impossible. Don’t we find something similar in our readings today?

In the first reading, Moses shares with the people a wonderfully comforting piece of news. The Law of God, which they are supposed to obey, in order to live well in the Promised Land, is actually very simple to practise. It’s neither beyond their strength, nor beyond their reach. Instead, it is in your mouth and in your heart for your observance. And yet, isn’t it precisely the Law’s closeness and simplicity that make it difficult to keep? Isn’t this the experience of that man in the gospel, who interrogates Jesus, in order to disconcert him?

The reading describes this person as a lawyer. Which means he is more than just a regular scribe, who preserves and transcribes holy texts. He is also an expert in their interpretation. And yet, it’s this very expertise that gets in the way. Focused as he is only on the richness of the ancient writings, he fails to recognise the holiness of the One standing in front of him. And when Jesus asks him, What is written in the Law?, the man quickly responds out of the breadth of his expert knowledge. Forgetting that the Law is written not just in the sacred scrolls, but also on the human heart. And doesn't this same long-sightedness –– this focus only on what is distant, at the expense of what is near –– prevent both the priest and the Levite in Jesus’ parable, from helping the stricken stranger? Preoccupied with their own respective journeys, they see him, but not clearly enough to stop. Their hearts are numbed by their own busyness.

In contrast, it is the Samaritan, who proves sensitive to the inner stirrings of his own heart. Allowing himself to be moved with compassion at the sufferings of a fellow traveller. Finding the courage to get involved, even though this is likely a very risky thing to do. So not just clarity of sight, and sensitivity of heart, but also the courage to act. These are the qualities required to perform the simple, but also difficult, task of being a neighbour to someone in need. Qualities the lawyer, the priest and the Levite all seem to lack. Distracted as they are by their many other preoccupations.

But if the lawyer is truly impaired in some way. If he is indeed long-sighted, numb and lacking in courage. Then how is he to obey the Lord’s instruction to go, and do the same yourself? How to be moved with compassion like the Samaritan, when I can’t even see clearly? And without compassion, how to show mercy? Isn’t this the deeper difficulty –– even the impossibility –– that our scriptures are addressing today?

For like that wounded traveller in the parable, none of us can really justify or save ourselves. All of us need help to recover from the assault of sin. And who is our Samaritan, if not Christ Jesus himself? The image of the unseen God and the first-born of all creation. It is by continually gazing upon him, as he hangs upon the Cross, that our long-sightedness is corrected, and our numbness and cowardice are healed. And how to do this? Not just by recollecting ourselves in prayer, and gathering here for Mass, important as these activities are. But also by reaching out to, and speaking up for, those who suffer. Particularly those close by. And to do this not to justify ourselves –– we can’t –– but as a way to seek and find the Crucified and Risen Lord. For isn’t it only by striving to imitate, however imperfectly, the actions of our Good Samaritan, that we gradually let ourselves be healed by him?

Some of us may recall that famous 2014 work, by the British graffiti artist, Banksy, which depicts a couple locked in what at first looks like an intimate embrace. But on closer scrutiny, it becomes clear that the eyes of the couple are focused not on each other, but on their respective mobile phones, quietly held up behind the other’s back. The piece is ambiguously, and no doubt sarcastically, entitled, Mobile Lovers. An insightful comment on the long-sightedness and numbness that afflicts this society of distraction in which we live.

Sisters and brothers, what can we do to help one another allow the Lord to heal us of our impairment, so that together we may keep threading the needle of love and life today?

Changing Face & Constant Mission

14th Sunday in Ordinary Time (C)

Readings: Isaiah 66:10-14; Psalm 65 (66):1-7,16, 20; Galatians 6:14-18; Luke 10:1-12, 17-20

Picture: By Museums of History New South Wales on Unsplash

What does a hospital look like? It depends on the time, right? A hospital in a time of calm looks different from one in a time of crisis, such as a pandemic. Then there are also different types of hospitals. In a public hospital there are rooms without air-conditioning, holding up to eight beds to a room. While in private hospitals, luxurious suites are more common. But even though hospitals may look different, depending on the time and their type, isn’t it reasonable to expect them all to share a common primary mission? To provide healthcare, and to preserve and promote the well-being of society? So that if a hospital focuses too much on turning a profit, it runs the risk of losing its own identity, of failing to stay true to its proper mission. Time, type, and truth. Three factors that determine what a hospital looks like.

But I have to confess that I really know nothing about hospitals. I mention all this only because, in our scriptures today, we find something like a hospital. A place offering healing and peace. (As we’ve probably already noticed, the word peace appears in all three of our readings.) And yet, the images used to describe this place vary according to different times and types. To a people broken by defeat and exile, and burdened by their own sin and guilt, the first reading proclaims a time of national restoration and revival. A time to receive the fullness of grace. And the images used are those of abundance and comfort. Peace like an overflowing stream. Prosperity like a mother, lovingly feeding her babies at her breasts. Tenderly fondling them on her lap. Bringing them joy and delight. All that people have to do, to experience this great blessing, is to go to the restored city of Jerusalem.

In the gospel too, healing and peace is what Jesus commissions the seventy-two disciples to dispense. But in contrast to the first reading, the Lord uses a far scarier image to describe their ministry. Neither a life-giving stream, nor a tender nursing mother, but lambs among wolves… For even though, with the coming of Jesus, the kingdom of God is already very near, it has still not yet been established in its fullness. The disciples remain in a time of danger, a time of crisis. Which may explain why they are taught to exercise caution, and to salute no one on the road. Not only is the time different, the type of hospital they operate is also different from the one in the first reading. Instead of waiting for people to come to them, they are sent out to bring the hospital to those who need it. And since they’re frequently on the road, meeting all manner of potential patients, they have to learn to carefully adapt their conduct according to the reception they receive. To know when to stay, and when to leave. When to accept hospitality, and when to shake the dust of hostility from their feet. And, upon their return, the Lord also teaches them where to focus their attention, in what to rejoice. Not in the success of their own efforts, but in their true identity as adopted children of God, whose names are written in heaven.

This precious God-given identity is also what is at stake in the second reading. Here St Paul too is operating something like a hospital. He too is offering healing and peace. And, like the disciples in the gospel, he too is working in a time of danger and crisis. Except that the danger is not just external. It’s also internal. It comes in the form of people spreading erroneous teaching. Those who insist that all Christians need to be circumcised to be saved. In response, Paul’s ministry takes the form of challenge and correction. He reminds his readers that our true Christian identity comes to us not through our own performance, but as a gracious gift. Not as an achievement of ours, but as the result of Christ’s loving sacrifice. So that the only thing we Christians can and should boast about is the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ. The Lord’s Cross is the only reliable mark of authenticity, which we are called to bear on our bodies. In this alone do we truly rejoice.

All of which may prompt us to recall that the late Pope Francis was fond of comparing the Church to a field hospital. A mobile place of healing and peace, operating in a time of crisis and war. A place where we Christians are called not just to be compliant patients, but also front-line personnel. Not just a place at which to stay and receive care, but also a place from which to be sent, to share with others what we have all received. And to learn to do this according to the particular times in which we may find ourselves, and the respective types of ministry we may be called to perform. Ministry that may look as simple as whispering a heartfelt prayer for the well-being of someone in need. Or patiently accepting our own personal trials, including the inevitable frailty that comes with age. Uniting our sufferings with those of Christ, and offering them up for the salvation of the world.

Sisters and brothers, how might we better help one another to remain true to our identity and mission in Christ today?