The Once-and-for-all Atoning Sacrifice

Thirty Second Sunday in Ordinary Time Year B

The holiest day in the Jewish calendar was marked by a unique ceremony that had to be repeated every year, at least while the Temple was still standing. This is Yom Kippur or the Day of Atonement. Although no living person in this day and age has ever witnessed this elaborate ceremony, we have the benefit of its detailed records in the Bible, in the Book of Leviticus, a book of rites and ceremonies.

The book of Leviticus says that the High Priest on this most holy day was to enter into the Holy of Holies, which is the inner sanctum of the Temple, the place where the tabernacle was kept. By the time of our Lord, the tabernacle was missing which meant that the Holy of Holies was an empty shell. But that was no excuse to stop this ceremony. The High Priest’s primary responsibility was to offer the sacrifice on Yom Kippur for the forgiveness of the sins of all the Israelites. On the Day of Atonement, the priest would be stripped of his clothes, wash his hands and his feet, and then immerse himself in water and dried off and put on white garments, similar to the white alb the priest and altar servers put on before they enter the Sanctuary. Then the High Priest would offer a bullock, a young bull for his own sin offering as our second reading reminds us, and fill the Holy of Holies with incense; thus, he would be considered purified and ready to offer the sacrifice for the people.

The people would then bring to the High Priest two goats, one goat would be offered to the Lord and the other would become the scapegoat. After the first goat was sacrificed to the Lord as a sign of propitiation (communion with God), the High Priest would take the live scapegoat and lay his hands upon the scapegoat and confess all the sins of the Israelites onto it. This goat represented the act of expiation (the purification from sin). Then a Gentile, because no Jew would want to go near the goat that had all their sins, would tie a scarlet red ribbon around its neck, lead the scapegoat out into the desert, and push it over the cliff. So, when the scapegoat would be pushed over the cliff and die, the Israelites knew all their sins were forgiven.

And here is where the scapegoat gets fascinating. The way the Israelites would know their sins were forgiven is because the High Priest would tie another crimson red ribbon on the door of the Sanctuary. According to the rabbis whose teachings are recorded in the Mishnah, the oral tradition, every year whenever the scapegoat was pushed over the cliff that crimson red ribbon tied on the door to the Sanctuary would miraculously turn white, that way all the Israelites would know their sins are forgiven. And what is even more amazing is that according to the same Jewish tradition, the miracle of the red ribbon turning white happened every year until the year 30, the time of Jesus Christ upon the earth. Though this remained a mystery among the Jews, it is clear to us Christians. We all know what happened on Good Friday – the Lamb of God took away the sins of the world on the cross.

The Cross is the final sacrifice for the forgiveness of sins of all people. Jesus Christ replaces the scapegoat that was offered by the high priest at the Holy of Holies in the Temple at Yom Kippur; He is the sacrificial lamb, who gave Himself up for our eternal life. He, who was without sin, took on the sins of world by His Passion. But He is also the other goat who is sacrificed in the Temple to bring about our complete reconciliation with God, something which all the bloody sacrifices of the Temple could never accomplish. His sacrifice both expiates and propitiates – purifies us from sin and unites us with God. Like all the Jewish High Priests, Jesus too was stripped of His clothes before He was crucified, therefore Jesus is the Great High Priest who offered Himself as the final sacrifice for the forgiveness of sins.

Now, all this alignment between the ritual of the old covenant and what took place on the cross at Calvary on Good Friday would certainly help us to understand what is written by the author of Hebrews in the second reading. But what about the story of the two widows in the first reading and the gospel? Both are certainly models of unrivalled generosity as both gave up their last resort of survival, the first for a stranger and the second for God. In a way, both widows epitomise the two-fold great commandment of love owed toward God and neighbour, which we heard last week. Both women are actually typological figures pointing to another who gave up much more - the One who sacrificed His life for us in order to atone for our sins and reconcile us to the Father. The two small coins of the second widow in our gospel story perhaps symbolises the two-fold action of our Lord’s sacrifice - expiation and propitiation.

It is through this lens that we must now consider the story of the widow’s mite. The main point of the story of the widow’s mite is not what most people have assumed. Have you ever noticed our Lord does not praise the widow for her offering? He does not even encourage us to duplicate her behaviour. He simply states what she did as a fact. The widow’s sacrificial offering points us toward the life of sacrifice Jesus modelled for us. Our Lord offered Himself willingly. He spared nothing, and it cost Him everything. Unlike the animals whose lives were taken against their will, our Lord went to His death willingly for our sake. If you think the widow’s actions as astoundingly generous, it still comes nowhere close to what the Lord has done for us. His generosity knows no bounds.

By shining a light on the unnamed widow’s generosity, our Lord reminds us that what is most important to God is not the quantity of the gift, but the generosity of the one doing the giving. The value of a gift depends not on its absolute worth, but in the love with which it is given. This woman of God gave an offering that resounded louder than the heaps of coins dropped into the treasury by others. Nothing showy. No virtue signalling. In fact, her actions may actually earn her ridicule and derision. But her love for her Lord who had given so much to her blinded her to the burning and judging gaze of others.

Many of us would be guilty of looking at what we possess and be conditioned by a mentality of scarcity, believing that it is never enough for us to share with others. In contrast, a heart of abundance, just like the two widows, looks at the One who provides what we have in our hands. As we recognise our God as the one who provides everything— life, possessions, time, energy, love, and all of who we are—we will grow in our trust of Almighty God’s abundance.

At every Mass, we are brought before the One who sacrificed everything for us, who took our sins upon Himself although He had none, who drew the ire and hatred of the world so that we may be freed from shame and guilt. But unlike the sacrifice of Yom Kippur which had to be repeated to no avail, the Holy Mass is the ‘once for all,’ perfect sacrifice of Calvary, which is presented on heaven’s altar for all eternity. It is not a ‘repeat performance.’ There is only one sacrifice; it is perpetual and eternal, and so it needs never be repeated. And it is by this once for all sacrifice that heaven is finally opened, the gates of God’s abundant graces finally poured upon us, and our reconciliation with Him is finally sealed “once and for all.”

Forgiveness and Generosity

Twenty Fourth Sunday in Ordinary Time Year A

One of the hardest things for a priest to do is to ask his congregation for money. You may somewhat understand this if you acknowledge that it is extremely hard to beg and grovel. It is demeaning. It always seems that there are so many strings attached to any act of giving. I have to be prepared to return the favour in some way or another because when people give, they always expect something in return. Even when the favour is not called in immediately, it emerges whenever special requests are declined. Accepting a gift from someone ends up like owing the person a lifetime of favours which can never be satisfactorily repaid.

Why would I raise the issue of generosity when our readings speak of forgiveness? This is because generosity is necessary for forgiveness. “Giving” is the root word of “forgiving.” It’s almost safe to say they come from the same “root.” A popular Arab saying suggests that a forgiving person is “karim”, generous. Generosity and forgiveness come from one source: “compassion.” Forgiveness is a sign of largesse, an act of generosity. Unforgiveness, on the other hand, rises from a calculative attitude that is unable to let go of what is due or what we believe to be due to us. True forgiveness is basically an act of bestowing and receiving generosity from another. Lack of forgiveness is one manifestation of self-absorbed non-Christian living and the reading from Romans reminds us that we should not live for ourselves.

If you can’t see the connexion, our Lord’s parable in today’s Gospel passage perfectly illustrates this point. In the parable, we see two instances where a debt is owed. In the first case, the servant brought before the king owed a huge amount of money. In the second circumstance, the servant wanted to collect a paltry sum from a fellow servant. Looking simply at the amounts owed, one sum is gargantuan and the other is miniscule. If one were to find a suitable analogy, it’s like comparing a national debt with what you owe on a month’s unpaid utility bill.

When we hear this story, we have a reaction equal to the other servants concerning the injustice of the situation. The king acted generously while the wicked servant exacted what was his due even when he could and should have forgiven the small debt owed to him by a fellow servant. A sense of right and wrong cries out against the calculative attitude of the unjust servant. The issue is not so much about the incomparability of the money owed as it is the lack of generosity on the part of the first servant. He was forgiven so much, why did he forgive so little?

If the wicked servant had really understood this generosity he would have been willing to forgive the debt of his fellow servant. The Lord presents the two cases as if they were parallel. That is, the issue is not really about money but our willingness to forgive in the same manner in which we have been forgiven. What is our attitude when we have accepted forgiveness from another? Are we willing to do likewise when we need to forgive? One thing that is evident in the parable is that genuine forgiveness entails generosity on the part of the forgiver and the forgiven.

If we are able to understand the connexion between mercy and generosity, giving and forgiving, we will then understand that Peter’s question at the start of today’s passage is actually the wrong question: “Lord, how often must I forgive my brother if he wrongs me?” Peter thought that forgiving seven times was being sufficiently generous. Our Lord counters with His own number, “seventy-seven times”, or in some translations, “seventy times seven.” The number isn’t important. We are not witnessing a back-and-forth haggling between Master and disciple. Our Lord is merely reminding Peter and all of us that mercy is never a matter of accounting. Don’t look at our calculator, rather look at the blessing we’ve received from God and which we are now called to share with others. God’s blessings and mercy outpaces any calculator. Our forgiveness should be given in abundance – it’s one thing that’s truly free. It costs us nothing to give it away. And the supply is endless. In fact, the more you give, the more you receive. Perhaps nothing can better describe the faithfulness and mercy of God, and the depths of His love to send His only Son to sacrifice once and for all for the forgiveness of our sins.

Perhaps it is hard to forgive because we have been expecting in the human that which is found only in the divine. Admittedly, it is hard to forgive when the faults of our enemies are so clear to us and the pain of the injury we have suffered at their hands run deep. The parable tells us to focus elsewhere - not on the failings and limitations of man but on the immense mercy of God - the ocean of God’s mercy. The Lord made this promise through St Faustina “whole ocean of graces upon those souls who approach the Fount of My mercy.” The image of God’s mercy as big as an ocean is actually scriptural.

The prophet Micah cries out to God and implores His mercy on the people: “You will again have compassion on us; you will tread our sins underfoot and hurl all our iniquities into the depths of the sea” (Micah 7:19). On Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, Jews according to their custom would cast breadcrumbs or empty whatever valuables they have in their pockets into a body of water, as a symbol of casting their sins into the ocean of God’s mercy. No matter what rubbish or emotional baggage or hurts or resentment we choose to cast into that sea, we know that we will never be able to plunge its depths or displace its waters. God’s mercy will always be bigger than my sins, than my emotional baggage, than my pains and hurts. If God can show such great incalculable mercy to me, though unworthy, could I not afford some level of mercy to my neighbour whose debt comes nowhere close to what I owe God?

It’s by the grace and providential hand of God our sins are cast into the depths of the sea. A sea of forgetfulness is akin to God’s memory of our wrongs. The world continues to live under the curse of sin. We continue to hurt each other and be hurt by others. We will never fully escape it, nor its effect on our ability to shake sin completely this side of heaven. One step, one confession, one day at a time, we will become more like the person God created us to be. It’s a change God makes in us because long before we breathed our first breath of earthly air, He chose us. In Him will we always find not only an ocean of mercy but an ocean of love.

The Hospitality of God

Thirteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time Year A

What seems to be the most common comparison made between Catholic parishes and Protestant churches is that the former lack the warmth and hospitality which you can readily experience in the latter. This too has often been cited as the main reason why these Protestant churches appear to be more attractive than their Catholic counterparts. So, is offering better hospitality the solution to getting our Catholics to stay put and to attract more new members?

Hospitality in the ancient world was much more than politeness or friendliness. In an age when inns were few and far between, travelers had to rely upon the hospitality of strangers to aid them in their journeys. Hospitality was also a way to survive in a culture where political boundaries were in constant flux.

Before dismissing this as pure superficiality, let us consider what the readings have to say about hospitality? It is clear that hospitality is more than just a five-star personal butler service by your team of wardens, or getting a Louis Vuitton door gift bag when you are identified as a first timer, or you are feted with a standing ovation by the whole congregation or a cheerful welcoming ditty led by the choir. Hospitality means more than welcoming people and making them feel at home. It means more than being friendly and generous, especially toward strangers. The theme of hospitality in the readings is more nuanced.

In the first reading, we have the story of how a pagan, a Shunammite woman, shows remarkable hospitality to the prophet Elisha and is rewarded with “a prophet’s reward,” the gift of life to one who was barren, the epitome of God’s graciousness. Though not part of the biblical account, a Jewish midrash narrates how Elisha performs a second miracle which resurrects this woman’s son at her behest when he died prematurely due to an accident. In another midrashic account, the son of the Shunammite woman comes back to life twice, once when he dies in the field and Elisha revives him, as is related above; and a second time, after the death of Elisha when his corpse comes into contact with the prophet’s bones. So, the story is not just an illustration of the promise of our Lord in the gospel, that “anyone who welcomes a prophet will have a prophet’s reward; and anyone who welcomes a holy man will have a holy man’s reward” but also a prefiguration of the greater “reward” which the Lord promises to all who welcome Him and His disciples, which is the gift of the resurrection.

This is what St Paul wishes to convey to the Romans in the second reading: “When we were baptised in Christ Jesus we were baptised in his death; in other words, when we were baptised we went into the tomb with him and joined him in death, so that as Christ was raised from the dead by the Father’s glory, we too might live a new life.” By our baptism into Christ’s death, His death becomes ours. Christ’s story becomes our story. Christ’s strength becomes our strength. Christ’s body becomes our body. Christ’s risen life becomes our risen life. This is the greatest gift of hospitality - salvation. And for this reason, those who welcome us also welcomes the One who sent us because they will be welcoming Christ. We, by virtue of our baptism, are that other Christ!

And finally, we come to the gospel. Christ is the ultimate paradigmatic model of a virtuous life. Christ is not just one priority among many. He is the priority which supersedes all other priorities - in fact, He is the absolute priority over the closest family ties, over life and finally over possession of one’s own self. But this priority comes with a unique privilege and reward - the servant or envoy is placed on par with the principal. How the servant or delegate is treated is equivalent to how the principal is treated. There are not two different standards, one for the subordinate and one for the superior, but one single standard for both. This is at the heart of the mystery of Incarnation - that God became man - and this too is the very essence of the mystery of redemption - Christ took our place on the cross, and by His resurrection, we who die in Him will also rise with Him. The glory which He reaped on the cross and by His death is for us to enjoy too.

So, one can see that hospitality goes even deeper than good manners and kindness shown to a stranger or a visitor. It is, in effect, what God has done in the person and work of Jesus Christ for the salvation of His bride. In fact, the whole of the bible and salvation history can be understood in terms of divine hospitality. From the moment God placed Adam in a garden which the latter had not planted, to how He showed hospitality and offered protection to Abraham and his family, to how God gave the Israelites the Promised Land to call home, to finally preparing the heavenly city of God that welcomes and provides eternal sanctuary to the righteous, we see scriptures revealing to us the primordial hospitality of God, in contrast to the inhospitality brought about by man’s sin.

We see a similar pattern in the life of Christ. The inhospitality that Jesus encounters from the time of His birth, when there was no room for Him in the inn (Lk 2:7), and when Herod tried to do away with Him (Mt 2:13), He continues to encounter throughout His entire lifetime. He came to His own, and His own people did not accept Him (Jn 1:11). Our Lord counters the inhospitality of the human heart with the hospitality of His heavenly Father. In the light of the crucified and risen Christ, the community of Christian faith proclaims that God, the Host of the world, has given us His Son and Spirit, to transform an inhospitable humankind into His own hospitable image and likeness.

So, in a world of deep and divisive hostility like ours today, we truly believe a recapturing of the understanding and practice of biblical hospitality to be a key component of renewal of our parishes. Hospitality is not optional to the Christian life. Our souls are measured by, among other things, how faithfully we provide hospitality to others. According to Christ, it is one of the conditions for salvation: “I was a stranger and you made me welcome” (Mt. 25:35). We might tend to think of hospitality as the sole realm of the minister of hospitality or front desk parish secretary. But the warmest greeting by a warden can be immediately undone by a parishioner’s harsh word or dirty look. The only way parishes become beacons of hospitality is for all of us to make hospitality our responsibility. When everyone in a parish is welcoming, serving, blessing and being blessed, offering others the greatest gift which is the gift of salvation, then we can be sure that when we meet Jesus, He will show us the greatest hospitality by saying, “Come, O blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world” (Mat 25:34).

Touch these wounds

Second Sunday of Easter Year A

Our story provides us with a paradoxical contrast - closed doors but open wounds. How we wish it was the other way around? The idea of closed doors suggests that it is a done deal, there is no longer any room for negotiation, that time has run out. In the synoptic gospels, we have the parable of the ten bridesmaids, five wise and the remaining foolish, with the latter being turned out of the party because of their folly and lack of preparation. When they returned from their shopping trip, they were confronted with the painful reality of closed doors - they were too late and judgment has already been delivered.

We can imagine a similar scenario in today’s passage. The disciples of the Lord could only live with regret - the regret of following a man who could have been the Messianic King, the regret of not following Him to the very end, the regret of turning their backs on Him, with one denying Him and the other betraying Him. The closed doors symbolised their predicament. They had closed the doors of their hearts to their master and now they deserved to have God closed His doors of mercy on them, or at least this is what they thought. Despite the doors of the Upper Room and their hearts were shut and locked, the Lord Jesus came in anyway. The stone which blocked the tomb could not keep Him in. Neither could these flimsy wooden doors keep Him out. That is the power of Divine Mercy.

Several things happened on this day. Our Lord breathed the Holy Spirit on to His disciples and offered them the gift of peace which the world cannot give. Our Lord offered them pardon and mercy for their betrayal, courage in place of their fear, peace to their troubled hearts, and the Holy Spirit, the advocate to be their “forever” companion. But there was one more thing He offered them on this day. He offered them the gift of His wounds, the one thing which would have shamed them to their core, because these were the most condemning evidence of their lack of commitment and cowardly betrayal.

Christ came to these disciples with His opened wounds. He could have concealed them under layers of clothing, He could have cauterised and healed them without leaving any trace of a scar. But He left them visible and opened. The Glorified Lord carried the marks of His passion. His resurrection did not obliterate these signs of His great act of self-sacrifice. This is because the wounds of His crucifixion are the means by which we are saved. In the words of the prophet Isaiah, “whereas he was being wounded for our rebellions, crushed because of our guilt; the punishment reconciling us fell on him, and we have been healed by his bruises” (Isaiah 53:5). We cannot know who Jesus is without seeing His wounds. We cannot understand Jesus without understanding the significance of His wounds. His identity is tied to His passion and death. His wounds are the marks by which humanity is reconciled to God. His wounds are a testimony to the mercy of God towards humanity, a mercy beyond our comprehension. You have to see it to believe it.

Those wounds on the Body of the Glorified and Risen Lord teach us several things. First, they show that this Jesus is not a ghost but a real flesh-and-blood Person. Second, they serve as powerful reminders of the great love of God for us, a love so great that in Christ God died, so that our sins might be forgiven. Third, those wounds illustrate the continuity between the earthly life and ministry of Jesus and His eternal high priesthood, by which He lives to make continual intercession for us before His Heavenly Father (cf. Heb 7:25).

It is not by accident that St Thomas comes to faith, not by simply seeing an apparition of Jesus, but only after being instructed to pay heed to those sacred wounds, which are not scars of defeat and ignominy but, as the medieval mystic Julian of Norwich puts it, noble “tokens of victory and love.” This is why medieval art will show Christ at the Last Judgment showing us once again those sacred wounds. What purpose do they serve? When we meet Christ face to face on Judgment Day, He will look just as He did during that first Easter season: We will behold Him in glory, but a glory that still teaches us the price of sin. Seeing His wounds on that day will bring us to the full awareness of what our sins have done and this will either move us to loving gratitude as expressed by all the saints in heaven or to utter shame and unrepentant guilt in the fires of hell. No one can stay neutral in the face of these wounds. We will either experience mercy and forgiveness or be condemned to despair by our shame and guilt.

But our Lord’s wounds are not confined to the visible parts of His body, His hands and feet and His side which would have necessitated the lifting of His tunic. The biggest wound is the wound to His heart. In his account of the crucifixion, St John alone among the evangelists tells us: “One of the soldiers pierced his side with a spear, and at once there came out blood and water.” (Jn. 19:34) This was a pivotal moment of revelation for St John. The wound at His side was not a superficial flesh wound. The spear penetrated deep into the very core of our Lord - His heart.

What we can only imagine with our mind’s eye is now made visible in the iconic image of the Divine Mercy. The image opens a mystical door into the inner core of His being, allowing us a peek into what remains a mystery. It shows the pierced heart of the Lord from which the streams of red and white light flow, representing the blood and water which the evangelist saw. This is the grace of salvation flowing upon humanity. The piercing of the heart was the means by which the floodgates of mercy were opened upon a sinful, broken and suffering humanity. The piercing of our Lord’s heart gave us the two foundational sacraments which made the Church and makes us members of the Church - Baptism and the Eucharist.

Devotion to the holy image of the Divine Mercy as our Lord communicated to St Faustina is not just confined to His handsome and beautiful visage. It is also an invitation to gaze upon His wounds, both visible and hidden. Contemplating the wounds of Jesus can move cold and obstinate hearts. It can bring about conversion. It can open doors that are sealed shut by our obstinacy. It can heal wounds that have been opened by our sins and the sins of others.

As the Lord said to Thomas, He says to us, “Put your hands into the holes that the nails have made.” These holes are the wounds by which we are saved. These holes are the wounds by which we are healed. These holes are the means by which My Divine Mercy will be poured forth upon humanity. Don’t be afraid to touch these wounds and believe. Touch these wounds and be moved. Touch these wounds and hear our Lord’s accompanying words: “Peace be with you”, “your sins are forgiven” and “I am sending you.” Touch these wounds and like Thomas, bow in adoration while professing: “My Lord and my God... I trust in you!"

Coming to our senses

Twenty Fourth Sunday in Ordinary Time Year C

Our lengthy passage provides us with three parables of lost-and-found scenarios. All three paint an unforgettable picture of the overflowing love and forgiveness of God. It opens with the one lost sheep, for which the owner scales hills and valleys, ravines and outcrops, until he reconnects it to the other ninety-nine. The passage continues with one lost coin for which the woman of the house does a thorough cleaning to find it. And our trilogy concludes with the story of the Prodigal Son. Perhaps our familiarity with the Parable of the Prodigal Son dulls our perception of just how radical this father’s love is.

Today, I would like to pay attention to the third and longest of the three parables. Its most common name is the Prodigal Son, but I would prefer to give it a title which follows the pattern of the earlier two stories. If the first two stories speak of a lost sheep and a lost coin, what we have here is a lost son. But the younger son wasn’t the only one lost. The ending of the story shows that his elder brother, who seems to have fulfilled his filial duties to their father, is equally lost, but with a big difference. There is no turning point in the elder son’s story.

I’m going to spare you another paraphrasing of an already lengthy but vividly told story with its many twists and turns. I would just wish to turn to the turning point in the story of the younger son, the wastrel who abandoned his duties at home, cursed his father to an early death, and lived a life of hedonistic excesses and debauchery. St Luke tells us that after having experienced a radical reversal in his fortunes and at the critical point when he had lost everything - his friends, his wealth and his dignity - “he came to his senses.” This is the moment of awareness, the long-awaited regret, the needed sorrow for his mistakes. It is matched by an overwhelming realisation of what he had lost - his father’s immeasurable benevolence shown even to lowly servants. He begins the long track home.

It is this point in the third parable which makes it unique among the set of three. I don’t think that the lost sheep in the first parable nor the inanimate and non-sentient coin in the second, could ever come to their senses. Only man is capable of doing this because only man possesses the freedom of intellect and will need to repent of his ways.

But let’s not be under the impression that “coming to his senses” meant that he had fully acknowledged his culpability and was now truly repentant. His reasoning was still quite self-serving: “How many of my father’s paid servants have more food than they want, and here am I dying of hunger!” Yes, there was an acknowledgment that he had made a miscalculated move. He thought he would be better off on his own without his father but now realises that even his father’s servants have it better than him. But this was short of a contrition for his past faults. Hidden within this selfish and self-centred logic, is also the uneasy acknowledgment of his father’s generosity - that the servants under his father enjoy a lifestyle better than they could ever deserve and would ever need. But such acknowledgment was the first step to his repentance.

We are then presented with another amazing fact that the father in this story, whom every reader now understands, refers to God the Heavenly Father. “Nowhere else,” remarked the theologian Hans von Balthasar, “does Jesus portray the Father in heaven more vitally, more plainly.” This father, or God whom he represents, has never given up hope on his wayward and ungrateful son. The son may have turned his back on his father, he may have wished his father dead, he may have squandered his inheritance which the father had given him, but now returns to a father who has never given up or written off or turned his back on his son.

In Rublev’s icon of the Hospitality of Abraham, or more commonly known as the Icon of the Most Holy Trinity, the symbol in the backdrop which identifies one of the three nondescript angelic figures as a representation of God the Father (most often identified as the figure on the left), is a house with a tower and a large window. From this tower, it is said, the father of the Lost Son would keep vigil, look out throughout the day and survey the horizon so as to catch the first sign of his son’s return. As much as we are reminded to keep vigilant and stay awake for the Lord’s return, know this to be true: God never lets His guard down, God is always watching for our return.

And so, we have this poignantly beautiful description of how the reconciliation of the father and the son takes place: “While he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was moved with pity. He ran to the boy, clasped him in his arms and kissed him tenderly.” The father meets the son more than halfway, embraces him in love, even before the son was given an opportunity to utter his first words of apology. God’s “I love you” always precedes our pitiful and often half-hearted “I’m sorry.” “When you are still far away, he sees you and runs to you,” wrote St. Ambrose, “He sees in your heart. He runs, perhaps someone may hinder, and He embraces you. His foreknowledge is in the running, His mercy in the embrace and the disposition of fatherly love.” God offers life and love to every wayward soul; He runs to embrace the returning sinner.

How is the reconciliation sealed? One would imagine that the son is expected to pay back what he owed his father (with interests thrown in) or, work to pay off the debt and to prove his trustworthiness after this massive loss in confidence. But the father’s love goes beyond what we could ever imagine. Instead of demanding for recompense, the father lavishly pours out more gifts on this son: “Bring out the best robe and put it on him; put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet. Bring the calf we have been fattening, and kill it; we are going to have a feast, a celebration…”

What do we see in these 5 gifts? All these point to the Son. Who is this son? Definitely not the lost son who had sinned against the father and now returns in shame. Neither do these belong to the older son, who at the end of the parable has yet to “come to his senses,” which makes his younger brother better than him. You can’t earn these gifts. No, these gifts are the birthright of neither of these two sons but they belong to the One who is telling this story. It is Jesus Christ, whose garments are stripped from His body, who now confer the garment of righteousness upon those who have been baptised in His name and who now share in His death and resurrection. It is Jesus Christ, the Bridegroom, who now places the ring upon the finger of His Bride, the Church, whom He has washed clean with His blood shed on the cross. It is Jesus Christ, the Way, the Truth and the Life, who now invites us to walk in His shoes, His sandals. And it is Jesus Christ, the unblemished Paschal Lamb, the fatted calf, who offers His life as a sacrifice on the cross and now feeds us with His Body and Blood in the endless feast of the Eucharist.

Yes, we all need to come to our senses. We all need to recognise that life can never be good apart from God. We all need to acknowledge that God owes us nothing, whether by virtue of our birthright, as in the case of the younger son, or by earning it like the older son. God’s riches and our inheritance of Eternal Life can never be earned nor is it something we are entitled to. Because He loves us, God has lavishly poured out upon us His most precious treasure of all. As St John so beautifully puts it: “For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.” (John 3:16)

Memory and Healing

Third Sunday of Easter Year C

It’s strange but also true, that the most painful memories are usually the ones that stick, no matter how much you try to forget them. It's so hard to forget pain, but it's even harder to remember sweetness. We have no scars to show for happiness.

In today’s Gospel passage, we see both the memory of St Peter and the memory of the reader being invoked. But it is not just mere sentimentality that is being stirred here. Such memory is needed to understand the progression in Peter’s spiritual journey. On the eve of his Master’s death, Peter descends a path that almost leads to his destruction, a cause of great shame and guilt, a memory that he would rather choose to forget. And yet, our Lord does not wish for him to forget. This is so because our Lord does not wish to give up on him. Through the use of memory, our Lord begins the slow process of rehabilitation and restoration.

Chapter twenty-one of the Fourth Gospel seems like a strange addendum since the evangelist appears to have signed off at the end of Chapter twenty. This chapter begins with Peter going out to fish with some of the other apostles. His motivation is uncertain. By going back to his pre-disciple profession and way of life, is he trying to erase the memory of the years he had followed the Lord? Whatever may be the reason for this decision, it ends in futility. They fish all night and catch nothing, and then our Lord appears in the early morning on the shore and tells them to cast the net on the other side, and they take in a miraculous catch. The entire scene could only be described as déjà vu, at least it should for Peter. The same scenario had happened before. All this hearkens back to Peter’s original call to follow Jesus in the Gospel of St Luke, when at first he had said “depart from me for I am a sinful man” (Luke 5:8). But there is a difference on this second occasion. At the beginning of his vocation, Peter wanted to flee from the Lord out of fear, but now, he longs to be united with Christ out of love.

If the first part of the story is an invitation to recall his initial vocation, the second part of the story recalls and recapitulates Peter’s greatest failure and disillusionment. Right at the very centre of today’s lengthy gospel story is the poignant scene of Jesus sitting on the shore cooking and warming Himself beside a charcoal fire. Even if you are not a student of Biblical Greek, you may be interested to note that the word used for that charcoal fire, anthrakia, only appears here and in another place in John’s Gospel; John 18:18. This other scene takes place in the courtyard of the High Priest, precisely at the point where Peter denied Jesus.

The fire evokes once again the scene of denial, the scene where Peter once stood by the fire and said, “I am not his disciple.” The past comes rushing back. Perhaps we can even imagine hearing the cock crowing. On the one hand, we see a Peter who is courageous and bold - he wants to be near his Lord in His hour of need. But Peter is terrified, also. He is in danger and knows it. And as he sits near the fire, Peter's courage gives way to fear. Now, our Lord provides Peter with another opportunity. Three times Peter had denied Christ from fear near a charcoal fire; three times he must profess Him in love near a charcoal fire, and three times will our Lord confer a new pastoral ministry on Peter. All of this is untying the knots by which Peter had bound his own soul. Wounded memories are dug up in order to be healed.

So, this dramatic scene turns out to be a story of memory and restoration. Confronting the Risen Jesus is not easy, especially for those who have betrayed Him. Standing in the light of the charcoal fire, Peter must first remember his failure and then own it. For Peter to move forward, his past must be assimilated with the present, to prepare him for the future. Peter had to recall both life-defining joyful moments as well as painful ones of failure and defeat, to be reborn in the light and new fire of the resurrection faith. He had to recall, to be recalled for duty. There is no other way.

Our faith, our Sacramental celebrations, the call to holiness and perfection are built on the foundation of our ability to remember. That is why the greatest affront to our faith, is the assault on our ability to remember. Modernists, who only believe in the efficacy of modern ideas and innovation, will claim that our history and traditions are antiquated and that these need to be abandoned, if we are to make any progress. They wish to erase the past in order to rewrite the future. Today, the liturgy, the Church’s sacred doctrines and even Sacred Tradition itself, are under assault. If the Church and her members lose the ability to remember, we will lose sight of the fundamental essence of our faith and mission.

What many modern people fail to acknowledge is that our humanity is defined and enhanced by our capacity to form and then transmit personal memories. I've learned over the years that guilt is one of the hardest things to bear. That may be the reason why we deliberately choose to suppress memories. By forgetting, we attempt to banish the guilt that comes with that memory to the dark recesses of the mind. But guilt itself cannot help us conquer sin. Guilt is the burglar alarm of our conscience, and while it can ring incessantly, it cannot heal. We cannot be healed, if we are unable to remember. Notice, how mistakes are often repeated when we do not learn from our history. Only the love of Jesus for us and our love for Jesus, can heal us. And He can only heal us when we are prepared to remember. This is what St John meant when he said, “There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear …” (1 John 4:18)

And so, we are invited to gaze deeply into the flames – we see in the flames not only a reflexion of our worst failures but also, the future path of our redemption. Though tempted to look away, we must return our gaze to the fire that burns brightly before us. The fire may reveal the dross hidden in our hearts, but the fire also dispels the darkness of the night. In the burning flames of God’s love, we recognise both the wounds caused by our sinfulness, and the healing offered by Christ. As we look into the flames, we see our Lord looking back at us. In the flames, in the memories of our past faults and failures, we see Him forgiving our offenses, taking our penalty, healing our wounded souls, and restoring us to communion with God. In the flames, we will discover our healing, at the hands of Jesus.

Peace be with you

Second Sunday of Easter Year C (Divine Mercy Sunday)

Last week’s Gospel began with Mary Magdalene heading towards the tomb of Christ early in the morning on the first day of the week, “while it was still dark.” Nothing much has changed in a week. In fact, our Gospel for today seems to have been caught in a time loop. We are still on that “same day, the first day of the week.” Our liturgical perception of time during the season of Easter may have something to do with this. Eastertide may be made up of 50 days from Easter Sunday to Pentecost Sunday, but we have traditionally called this whole season “the great Sunday" as if it was a single event and a single day.

But it is not just the day which counts. It is now evening and darkness has descended on the whole city of Jerusalem and its surroundings. The imagery of darkness serves as a theological inclusion and conclusion for the events on Easter Sunday. The day begins in darkness and ends in darkness. The Light of the World has emerged in an everlasting dawn, but the world remains clueless and in the dark. The darkness signifies the absence of Christ and their own hopelessness. Despite news of the empty tomb and rumours of possible sightings of the Risen Lord, the disciples remained terrified of the authorities and the mob, and made sure the doors were closed, locked and secured.

Our Lord had already assured His disciples of His return: “I will come back to you” (John 14:28) and “you will see me” (John 16:16). But His seemingly tragic death seems to have erase any memory of these promises. Our Lord now fulfils these promises as He “came and stood among them.” The locked doors didn’t stop Jesus. Nothing could. Not the gates of Hades, nor the stone which enclosed the tomb and certainly not the four walls and shuttered windows and doors of the upper room.

Our Lord came and stood with them. He greeted them with a peace that only He alone could give and then, He gave them their mission: “As the Father sent me,” He said to them, “so am I sending you.” What did that mean? Our Lord is drawing His disciples into His own mission. Our Lord has spoken of Himself as the envoy of the Father, who has been sent to reveal the mystery of the Father and accomplish His saving work. Now, our Lord draws them into the circle - the Church’s mission is an extension of the work of the Father and the Son in the world. It is a mission of expiation of sin and reconciliation. They are not to remain trapped in that room. This is what happens when the Lord breathes His Spirit upon them while saying: “Receive the Holy Spirit.” This is John’s presentation of the Pentecost. By incorporating the disciples into His own mission, our Lord also gives them the authority to take away people’s sins, just as He is the “Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world.”

But the story does not end there. There is a missing link - Thomas. The next week, the disciples were in the same room, locked-in once more. Thomas hadn’t been there the first time. He alone had the courage to step outside that room. But his sense of great loss had impacted his faith which remained trapped in self-doubt and confusion. He had spent the week telling the others he’d never believe it until the Lord showed up and proved it was really Him. And so, at the end of the week, our Lord came again, and invited Thomas to touch and see the wounds in His hands and His side: the scars which proved His identity, the wounds that revealed His love.

If this story seems to be exclusively about the Eleven till this point, there is no doubt that what the Lord says next, is meant for all of us: “Happy are those who have not seen and yet believe.” This beatitude moves our attention to later generations of Christians, including us who are reading this story. We may not have encountered the Lord in the same way as the Eleven Apostles, we may not have seen Him first-hand but that does not make our faith in the Risen Lord any less genuine or valuable. Some come to believe in the Lord by seeing Him and by being able to touch Him. Others come to faith by listening to the Gospel. This is what St John intended as he wrote these closing words: “These are recorded so that you may believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, and that believing this you may have life through his name.”

Two thousand years have passed since that first Easter, but we are still united with the characters who were present at the tomb and in the upper room. This is because Easter is a promise and foretaste of eternity, of fullness of life that never ends. Ironically, we also seem to struggle with feelings of befuddlement and confusion, grappling with the experience of the seeming absence of God, especially during the long dark spiritual winter of this pandemic, just as the early Christians attempted to make sense of the empty tomb. Many of us are like the disciples in today’s Gospel, locked behind closed doors, initially because we were forced to do so by the authorities and their public health mandates but subsequently, it became a matter of personal choice, crippled by the fear of the dreaded enemy that could kill us or our loved ones. Although the lockdowns have now ended, many have continued to observe self-imposed quarantines.

During the height of this pandemic when our Churches were shuttered, Catholics could only hope to be sustained through spiritual communion and by tuning in on one among a vast array of online Masses. But virtual Mass is not an adequate substitute, given the incarnate nature of our faith: the real matter of the sacraments we receive, the sacramentality of our church buildings, and the faces of the people of God. We are an embodied people with an embodied faith, and God desires to feed us with the Eucharist, the physical Bread of Life. That reality can’t be replicated through a screen. Both Thomas and our Lord understood this and that explains the reason for Thomas’ demand to touch, and our Lord’s offer to be touched. For Thomas, seeing and touching the Lord in the flesh beats hearing about it virtually.

Today, our Lord declares once again to all: “Peace be with you.” With these words, our Lord is reminding us that there is no room for fear, distress, or self-pity for a community of believers in the Resurrection. Our Churches are reopened and our doors unlocked. It is now time for you to reopen the doors of your heart and believe once again, in the power of the Risen Lord. The dangers and risks of this virus has not magically disappeared, although with vaccinations and therapeutics, things have become more manageable. But again, life is fraught with dangers and risks. Faith is not throwing caution to the wind but helps us resist throwing in the towel to our fears. If you are willing to take this challenge, you would soon discover the wonders which the Resurrection can reveal to you. The Resurrection unmasks evil, heals broken hearts, vanquishes fear, and ignites a contagious hope that fills human hearts in the midst of adversities, sufferings, natural disasters, and pandemics. It bestows a strength that is far beyond the contingencies and consequences of any war, pestilence, tsunami, or any other natural or biological threat to the human family. Believe in His promise: “Happy are those who have not seen and yet believe.”

Engraved in Love and Mercy

Fifth Sunday of Lent Year C

Familiarity with this story has made most of us inattentive to gaping holes in the narrative.

First, this famous incident took place within the precinct of the Temple, and this is no insignificant detail. Why would this woman be brought into the precinct of the Temple, even if this took place in the outer Court of Women? Shouldn’t the scribes and Pharisees who were most careful about matters concerning ritual purity know that to have a public sinner dragged into the compound of the House of God would be a great affront to God Himself?

Second, who was this unnamed woman? Is she the same woman in Luke 7:47-49 who entered the house of Simon the Pharisee and bathed the Lord’s feet with her tears? And to think that this woman was forgiven once and now caught in another compromising situation? Shouldn’t she deserve a more severe punishment for this repeat offence?

Thirdly, and this may seem oddest of all - the Lord’s parting words to this woman are, “go away, and do not sin anymore.” Curiously, Saint John does not report any penitential resolve on the part of the woman. Although the Lord also does not condemn her, neither does He absolve her of her sin.

But the fourth mystery of this story is one which has puzzled most scholars and commentators, and given rise to many speculations - what was our Lord writing on the ground? One common answer was that He was writing the names of the men, many of whom were standing in the crowd accusing this woman, guilty of having committed the act of adultery or fornication with this woman. This is a plausible answer as no one can commit adultery or fornication alone by himself or herself - it takes two to tango. This may be reminiscent of the prophet Jeremiah’s scribbling the sins of the Israelites.

But there is also another possibility offered by St Thomas Aquinas. He sees in this woman a symbol and representative of sinful humanity, and like fallen humanity, she is in need of mercy, even though her accusers demand justice. There seems no way out. According to St John Paul II, her accusers “intend to show that (Christ’s) teaching on God’s merciful love contradicts the Law, which punished the sin of adultery with stoning.” How can God be just and yet merciful toward our fallen human race? But then something wonderful happens. Jesus bends down and begins to write in the earth. And this is all done in silence. What does this mean?

St Thomas Aquinas, with the keenness of his mystical insight, says that this action signifies that God in His mercy is stooping down to assist sinful humanity. In fact, he says, that whenever Jesus stoops down, this signifies an act of God’s mercy, and that whenever He stands up straight, this signifies an act of God’s justice. For the Greek word for justice literally means, “uprightness.” It is the same word in the Greek for what Jesus is doing by standing upright. But what does the writing in the earth signify? The Greek word there is katagraphein. It is a hapax legomenon, which is to say that it is a unique word which appears only once in the New Testament, and that is here. It doesn’t exactly mean “write”—that would be graphein—but katagraphein means “to engrave.”

What was our Lord “engraving”? We return to the Old Testament to see how God engraves the commandments with His finger in the tablets of stone. So the Fathers of the Church say that the Lord is here writing the commandments into the earth. But according to St Thomas, this act also signifies the mystery of the Incarnation—when by the finger of God, the Holy Spirit, the eternal Word was written into our human nature, as Isaiah the prophet once wrote: “Let the heavens rain down the Just One and the earth bring forth a Saviour” (Isa 45:8). The earth is a fit symbol for human nature since God had shaped the first man from the earth. And all this is done in silence to signify the ineffability of this mystery. It is as if Jesus is saying to the scribes and Pharisees: “Yes, according to Moses she ought to be condemned and stoned to death, but now through the Incarnation, mercy has been made available to her. Therefore, there is now hope for sinners.” Jesus is the perfect sin offering, the Lamb of God, who truly takes away the sins of the world.

But the scribes and Pharisees do not understand the mystery, and they break the reverent silence with a cacophony of cries: they want justice, they want blood. And as they continued to ask Him, our Lord stood up and said to them, “Let him who is without sin among you be the first to throw a stone at her.” By straightening up, our Lord is now signifying that He is dispensing justice by passing judgment. They have asked for justice and justice they will receive, but now it is they who also stand accused. Our Lord does not pass judgment on this woman but on her accusers. But let us be clear that the Lord does not make excuses for the sins of this woman. He does not deny that she deserves death, but He adds to this that so do these scribes and Pharisees. Mercy is never given to the deserving. It is always offered to the undeserving, if it is to be mercy.

But what happens next? Our Lord stoops down again, as if to offer mercy to the newly accused. And this time He begins to write again, but the word now is graphein. He is not engraving but simply writing lightly in the earth, and as you all know, that whatever is written in sand, is malleable and can be easily erased. And the Fathers of the Church tell us that now He is writing their sins, but lightly as if to indicate that these can be easily wiped away, if only they will accept that they too need God’s mercy. How often do we fail to grasp this? How often have we etched and engraved the sins of others in our hearts as we refuse to forgive them but we forget that our sins are so quickly and easily absolved by God, as would writings in the sand be simply erased with a sweep of the hand?

Then what happens last of all? Our Lord stands up again to render His judgment, a judgment both just and merciful: Our Lord looked up and said to her, “Woman, where are they? Has no one condemned you?” She said, “No one, sir.” And she is right - all her accusers have fled the scene in shame - they who deserve God’s judgment had been reminded by the Lord that they too have been recipients of His mercy. How could they demand a different standard for this woman? The woman now stands upright because she has been justified by the mercy of Christ, not because she was justified by her own merits. Hence, she hears the sentence: And Jesus said, “Neither do I condemn you … go away, and do not sin anymore.”

St John Paul II provides us a perfect conclusion to this story: “This Gospel passage clearly teaches that Christian forgiveness is not synonymous with mere tolerance, but implies something more demanding. It does not mean overlooking evil, or even worse, denying it. God does not forgive evil but the individual, and He teaches us to distinguish the evil act, which as such must be condemned, from the person who has committed it, to whom He offers the possibility of changing. While man tends to identify the sinner with his sin, closing every escape, the heavenly Father instead has sent His Son into the world to offer everyone a way to salvation… On Calvary, by the supreme sacrifice of his life, the Messiah will seal for every man and woman the infinite gift of God's pardon and mercy.”

Face of the Father's Mercy

Fourth Sunday of Lent Year C

The parable of the Prodigal Son needs no introduction. It is perhaps the most moving of the Lord’s parables. Its length helps with character development which you don’t see much in the other parables, and this is why the story is able to endear us to each of its three main characters. Although the common title of the parable seems to focus on the wayward younger son, who squanders his inheritance and finally makes his way back to his father when he has lost everything, hoping to get a second chance, the characters and sub-stories of both sons serve solely to reveal the heart of the father, the true protagonist of this parable.

If Christ often inserts Himself into most of His parables which involve people instead of objects, this is one of those rare parables where none of its characters seem to point to Him. The spotlight is on the father, a clear reference to the Heavenly Father. Nowhere else does the Lord portray the Father in heaven more vitally, more plainly.

The impressiveness of this parable is that the story begins with the fact that the father grants the son’s request and hands over to him, his portion of the inheritance without any question - no argument, no lecturing, no threat of cutting-off this son although the son’s action tantamount to him wishing his father dead. That’s when you get your inheritance - when your parents are dead. But this son can’t wait for his father’s natural death and demands that which does not belong to him while his father is still alive. We may find the younger son’s behaviour odious and disgusting but little do we realise that many of us suffer from a similar issue. Many of us have an enormous sense of entitlement, feeling that we deserve special treatment, or that we have the right to something. We fail to recognise that everything we possess, all the imaginable and unimaginable goods which we possess are actually unmerited gifts from God. We have no claim or right to them but yet God, in His loving mercy and generosity, grants it to us even though we are undeserving.

The older son is no better. He too thinks that he is entitled to something because of his hard work and loyalty. He forgets that true love is unmerited – love does not have a price tag to be bought nor can you earn it. Instead of recognising his father’s love and generosity and that everything the father possesses is already his, the elder son only has resentment in his heart, resentment born once again from a skewed sense of entitlement. Once again, the father shows mercy to the older boy as he did to the younger one. Both are undeserving of his love, and yet not a harsh word from the father for the both of them.

As I had pointed out earlier, the remarkable thing about this parable is that it says nothing about the role of Jesus. He is definitely not to be identified with either the elder son nor the younger boy. All of us can identify with either one of them or perhaps even both, at some time or another. The emphasis of the whole story is the father, who gives us a glimpse of how much our Heavenly Father loves us and seeks to reconcile sinners to Himself. But our Lord is present in a special way – He is present in the telling of the story - He is the Word that reports this reconciliation. He is the judgment which the father passes - the son who is lost is now found, the one who died is now alive again. Jesus is the Word through which God establishes His eternal reconciliation with the world.

This is what St Paul attempts to tell us in the second reading: “It was God who reconciled us to himself through Christ and gave us the work of handing on this reconciliation. In other words, God in Christ was reconciling the world to himself, not holding men’s faults against them, and he has entrusted to us the news that they are reconciled.” The work of reconciliation is accomplished through Christ, and never apart from Him. Not by bypassing Him, but “through Christ” and “in Christ” does the Father reconcile us to Himself. For it is Christ who came to seek the lost until they are found, and it is Christ who died for us so that we may live. As St Paul beautifully explains: “For our sake God made the sinless one into sin, so that in him we might become the goodness of God.”

We’ve heard the parable of the Prodigal Son, and we have witnessed the astounding love of the father. But how do we make sense of this? There is one verse in the Sermon on the Plain that gives clarity to this parable: “Be compassionate as your Father is compassionate” (Luke 6:36). In commenting on this verse, Pope Francis asserts that “Mercy is the very heart of God!” This is the heart of the father in the parable. He accepted both of his sons, though he did not agree with what they did. He loved them completely, showing understanding, acceptance, and most of all, a divine forgiveness. His heart was completely open.

God’s mercy always gives us a second chance to encounter His Son Jesus Christ and to believe in Him. No matter how skeptical or doubtful we may be; no matter how far we have strayed from the experience of communion with Christ, in and through His Church; and no matter how seriously we have sinned, Jesus always reaches out to us with open arms. He embraces us and invites us to experience His friendship and His forgiveness. Nothing we have ever done could keep us out of the heart of our loving and all-forgiving God. Just as how the father welcomes back the prodigal son, we see the action of our Lord Jesus mysteriously hidden within the action of the father. Our Lord Jesus is the embrace of the Heavenly Father for fallen humanity as He stretched out His hands on the cross; He is the Bridegroom who weds His bride by placing a gold ring upon her finger; He is the sandal on our feet that makes our journey light; He is the fatted calf, the Lamb of God, sacrificed for our redemption. Yes, our Lord Jesus Christ is present in this tale of forgiveness, mercy and love. He is, as Pope Francis tells us, the face of the Father’s mercy.

Love them anyway

Seventh Sunday in Ordinary Time Year C

One of the most life-changing quotes that I have carried with me in my arsenal of pithy sayings, something I’ve treasured all these years as a priest is this personal piece of advice I received from the late Fr Phillips Muthu: “Mike, there are no troublemakers in this world. Only people needing to be loved.” What a refreshing new lens? Such an important reminder especially when I’m confronted with someone annoying, insolent, rude and incorrigible. Just at the very moment I’m tempted to blow my top and lash out, this quote brings me back from falling off the precipice of cool-headed sanity: “Mike, there are no troublemakers in this world. Only people needing to be loved.”

Today, our Lord provides us with the new benchmark of how we should treat others, even to those who seem to be undeserving of civility because they have shown none, even to those who appear to have mistreated us. “Be compassionate as your Father is compassionate.”

The formulation of this statement shows us that compassion is not dependent on reciprocity. It has nothing to do with a kind of quid pro quo - be nice to people who are nice to you. Rather, we are held to a higher standard, which is that of God’s. This is why the acid test of being a Christian is not found in how well we treat our friends or how well we repay those who have been good to us, but is to be found in this simple and yet tremendously challenging act which our Lord sets out at the start of today’s teaching: “Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who treat you badly.”

But this still begs the question - what does it mean to be compassionate? Most people think that being compassionate means being kind and showing sympathy, but there is something deeper, something even more profoundly powerful, in its meaning. The origin of the word helps us grasp the true breadth and significance of compassion. In Latin, ‘compati’ means “suffer with.” Compassion means someone else’s heartbreak becomes your heartbreak. Another’s suffering becomes your suffering. It was the German theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer who wrote: “We must learn to regard people less in the light of what they do or omit to do, and more in the light of what they suffer.” True compassion changes the way we live.

But it is not just any compassion which we must exhibit. Our Lord pegs the standard at a divine level - our compassion must be in imitation of the Heavenly Father. Our scriptures are filled with references to a God who is loving and compassionate. In fact, compassion seems to be another synonym for God. The Psalmist sings of God’s compassion: “The Lord is gracious and righteous; our God is full of compassion” (Psalm 116:5).

But most of you would protest that expecting us to behave like God is asking the impossible from us - an impossibly high and unreasonable standard, which no one can ever hope to achieve. Once someone complained to me that it is so hard to forgive those who have wronged her, and I immediately pointed out that Jesus forgave His enemies whilst hanging from the cross. She retorted: “But Jesus is God! I’m not!” She has a point there.

And so, our Lord, after having laid down the divine standard of compassion, continues to list out several practical examples of the Golden Rule. The Golden Rule is a simple principle of reciprocity that is found in almost all world religions, philosophies and cultures - “do unto others what you want others to do unto you” or its inverse, “do not do unto others what you do not want others to do unto you.” The connexion between our Lord’s saying on compassion and that of the Golden Rule is easy to understand because compassion asks us to look into our own hearts, discover what gives us pain, and then refuse, under any circumstances whatsoever, to inflict that pain on anybody else.

But notice that the few instances of the Golden Rule which our Lord cites is different from that general principle: “Do not judge, and you will not be judged yourselves; do not condemn, and you will not be condemned yourselves; grant pardon, and you will be pardoned. Give, and there will be gifts for you.” It is obvious that the Lord is not promising nor asking us to expect that our actions will be reciprocated by others. We have no guarantee of this. The reward which our Lord promises will come from God rather than from man. This frees us to show compassion, love, kindness, mercy and generosity to others without expecting any payment in return from those who are our beneficiaries because we are confident that God is holding the credit note which He will honour one day. And therefore, St Peter’s advice should be the normative way we should behave as Christians: “finally, all of you, be like-minded, be sympathetic, love one another, be compassionate and humble” (1 Peter 3:8).

It is good to revisit the words inscribed on the wall of one of the homes established by the saint of the slums, Mother Teresa:

“People are often unreasonable, illogical and self centred;
Forgive them anyway.

If you are kind, people may accuse you of selfish, ulterior motives;
Be kind anyway,

If you are successful, you will win some false friends and some true enemies;
Succeed anyway.

If you are honest and frank, people may cheat you;
Be honest and frank anyway.

What you spend years building, someone could destroy overnight;
Build anyway.

If you find serenity and happiness, they may be jealous;
Be happy anyway.

The good you do today, people will often forget tomorrow;
Do good anyway.

Give the world the best you have, and it may never be enough;
Give the world the best you've got anyway.

You see, in the final analysis, it is between you and your God;
It was never between you and them anyway.”

So, the next time you encounter a difficult, rude and cantankerous person, "love them anyway." 

Let us cross over to the other side

Twelfth Sunday in Ordinary Time Year B

Our story begins with an invitation from the Lord: “Let us cross over to the other side!” This shouldn’t be a problem at all if you are convinced that the grass is greener on the other side, or you possess an exploratory spirit and every adventure is a moment of serendipity. But I guess most of us are not wired this way. We would rather stick with the tried and tested. We are not sure if the other side would be rife with danger or the crossing may prove to be perilous too. The familiar, on the other hand, offers no surprises. This may be why change is often resisted, risks avoided and why we would often wait for others to take the initiative.

Today, our Lord is inviting His disciples to cross this barrier of water. The sea itself shouldn’t have been that formidable since a number of His Apostles were themselves seasoned fishermen. They should have been in their element. But there is more to this. The sea or lake of Galilee served as a natural boundary between its Western and Eastern shores. To its East, we have pagan territory, the land of unclean livestock and violent demoniacs. To the West, we have the predominantly, albeit nominally, Jewish territory. Strangely, this so-called Jewish territory was not immune to demonic activity. Demons do not discriminate between Jews and Gentiles, both are fair game for the diabolical. Although both populations shared much in common in terms of language and culture, the Jewish rules of ritual separation ensured that the religious boundaries were meticulously guarded to prevent any casual crossing.

But then our Lord issues this command to His disciples, “Let us cross over to the other side!” The comfortable status quo is challenged. The Church will not be limited by these human barriers nor will she be defined by any sectarian divisions. In response to Rudyard Kipling’s claim in his poem, “Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,” we Christians sing a very different tune as we proclaim that, “in Christ, there is no East or West.”

But the crossing would not be easy as demonstrated by the squall that overtook the party as they crossed the lake in their boat. The powerful storm at sea could be a symbol for the disciples’ resistance to cross over. It is so much easier to remain safely on the shore, on the familiar and comfortable side, rather than risk capsizing and drowning in the midst of crossing. We cling tenaciously to the known, and choose familiarity over risk. Just like the disciples, we cry out to God in fear and desperation: “Master, do you not care? We are going down!”

Perhaps, what is needed is a reality check from the Lord. Our Lord speaks these words with authority: “Quiet now! Be calm!” I’ve often wondered whether He was addressing the winds and the waves, which was unnecessary since He is Lord of the winds and the waves. But these words could easily have been addressed to His disciples in response to their childish and cowardly whining. Likewise, when we complain to God to save us, our Lord may be telling us, “Quiet now! Be calm!”, which is not only a rebuke but a consoling assurance that He is in charge. Our Lord is asking us: “Why are you so frightened? How is it that you have no faith?”

So, what could the turbulent waters in our lives look like? Here are some possibilities.

Change, and the fear of change and commitment may be a frequent storm for many. Clinging to our comfort zones, to what makes us feel cosy and secure may be the greatest obstacle to discipleship and following of Christ. When we fear stepping out or stepping up to a mission entrusted to us, we are practically telling the Lord, “It is too difficult! I’d rather remain on this side of the shore.” Many would choose safe anonymity over being in the blazing spotlight of leadership. When our Lord called on the first disciples, He was asking them to leave everything behind, to deny themselves and to take up their cross in imitation of Him. The gospel story would have turned out differently if the disciples had hesitated and chosen to hold on to their current security. There will be no Church. We will not be here.

Many fear the crossing because they fear failure, which is actually a fear of negative public opinion. When we are so conditioned by what others think of us, we do not have the courage to take risks. We will always choose the safe path, the path of least resistance and minimal difficulty. But our Lord routinely crossed barriers that made Him unpopular. Our Lord ate with the wrong people, talked to the wrong people, and often did the wrong things. He routinely upset the religious establishment by loving people that were off-limits. He did all these because He was guided by the Father’s will and His love for the people.

Finally, in an environment which is deeply polarised, it is almost impossible for persons on either side of the aisle to cross the divide. Enmity raises barriers which prevent crossing. It is so much easier for us to keep our enemies at a distance. But our Lord invites us, “Let us cross over to the other side!” He is inviting us to go beyond our pride – to reach across the aisle and offer forgiveness and seek reconciliation. Saint Augustine gave a similar interpretation of our gospel passage. He wrote: “when you are insulted, that is the wind. When you are angry, that is the waves. So, when the wind blows and the waves surge, the boat is in danger, your heart in jeopardy, your heart is tossed to and fro. On being insulted, you long to retaliate. But revenge brings another kind of misfortune - shipwreck. Why? Because Christ is asleep in you. What do I mean? I mean you have forgotten Christ. Rouse Him, then remember Christ, let Christ awake within you, give heed to Him.” So, if you wish to overcome the barriers of hostility, you need to awaken Christ within you.

As much as it seems safe to remain in our secure comfort zone and do nothing, this will not lead to salvation. If we wish to follow the Lord, we must be willing to “cross over to the other side.” The true antidote to enmity and the fear of earthly dangers, inconveniences and public humiliation is the fear of the Lord, the reverent awe of a God who is master of the winds and the waves, and every storm in our lives. “He who fears the Lord is never alarmed, never afraid” (Sirach 34:14). The crossing from this side to the other side may seem impossible. But with Christ in the boat, we know that the journey will be possible. The “others” from the other shore are waiting for you to cross over. The “other” could be a stranger or an enemy or your worst fear. And though we may be wary of the reception we will get or the risks that we would have to face, our Lord persists with His invitation: “Let us cross over to the other side!” Let us trust Him. Let us follow Him. Let us take the first step in faith in heeding His call.

God’s mercy is stronger than our misery

Second Sunday of Easter

This Sunday is uniquely confusing because it’s known by many names. It’s always much easier to deal with someone or something when you only have to contend with one name. Today is the Second Sunday of Easter. It is also known as the Sunday within the Octave of Easter. In the extraordinary form and in the pre-1969 calendar, it was also called Low Sunday (in relation to last Sunday, Easter). And since the pontificate of St John Paul II, who had a strong devotion to the Divine Mercy, it has received this eponymous title - Divine Mercy Sunday.

But my favourite name for this Sunday is derived from the opening words of the introit, the entrance antiphon for this Sunday. Quasimodo Sunday. It is taken from 1 Peter 2:2 and in Latin, it begins with these words: “quasi modo geniti infantes” or in English, “like newborn infants.” This is the full text of the antiphon: “As newborn babes, desire the rational milk without guile, that thereby you may grow unto salvation: If so be you have tasted that the Lord is sweet.”

The name Quasimodo Sunday may not be familiar to most of you but the name is not unfamiliar. Sounds like an oxymoron, right? Well, if you recall Victor Hugo’s novel, “The Hunchback of Notre Dame,” you will remember that the main protagonist’s name is Quasimodo. For those not familiar with the storyline, this tale of love, chivalry and strange beauty is about this unlikely hero, the severely deformed hunchback, with a pristinely beautiful and innocent heart and soul, who lived in the rafters of Paris’ Cathedral.

In Hugo’s novel, Quasimodo, rejected by his parents for his deformities, is abandoned inside Notre Dame Cathedral, at a place where orphans and unwanted children were dropped off. Monseigneur Claude Frollo, the Archdeacon, finds the child on “Quasimodo Sunday” and “called him Quasimodo; whether it was that he chose thereby to commemorate the day when he had found him, or that he meant to mark by that name how incomplete and imperfectly moulded the poor little creature was,” Hugo wrote.

In a strange way, the character Quasimodo, who risked his own life to save another whom he loves, is a type of Christ. And like Quasimodo, Christ also appears before His disciples today, arrayed not in gold and resplendent garments, but carrying the trophies of His victory on the cross - His wounds. But unlike Quasimodo, our Lord was not born with these deformities, for He is the unblemished Paschal Lamb. These are the scars of the torture He endured for our sake. Instead of an unscarred and unblemished appearance, He chooses to retain His ugly wounds as a sign, not of His failure, but of His victory over sin and death. His wounds are supremely beautiful because they are visible marks of His love for us, the receipt for the price He had paid for us, the booty of a cosmic battle which He had fought and won for us.

On this Sunday, Catholics are called to remember the newest members of the Church, those who were baptised, received into the fold of the Catholic Church, confirmed as adults and who received their First Holy Communion as full members of the Church. So, the words of the antiphon have special significance for these. The website, the New Liturgical Movement, writes:

“It counsels the first communicant or the convert, likened to a newborn child, to desire the milk of the mother, to receive that nourishment and grow. Properly disposed, the new communicant doesn't need to be told this. But the rest of us sing about this as a reminder that there are children among us who need to be cared for, and that we all should preserve the spirit of the children of God and remain humble and submissive to the Divine Will.”

Yes, in a way, all of us are incomplete and imperfectly moulded. We desire and hunger for the sacramental milk which only our Mother, the Church, can give. We have been deformed by sin, poor orphans abandoned and languishing in this Valley of Tears, waiting to be picked up by our Heavenly Father and to be adopted by Him. In His mercy, He has given us His only begotten Son, the Divine Mercy, not only to be our companion but to exchange places with us. Our Lord Jesus, the sinless and perfect Son of God, Beauty ever ancient ever new, chose to take our ugliness upon Himself in order to confer upon us the beauty of sanctifying grace. He took our sentence of death, in order to grant us the repeal of life. He has done this through the Sacraments of Baptism and the Eucharist, symbolised by the water and blood which flowed out through His wounded side, the source being His Most Sacred Heart beating in love for us.

But St Faustina also saw in that gushing spring of water and blood something else -  grace and mercy. This is what she wrote: “All grace flows from mercy, and the last hour abounds with mercy for us.  Let no one doubt concerning the goodness of God; even if a person’s sins were as dark as night, God’s mercy is stronger than our misery.” (Diary of St. Faustina, number 1507) Even the ugliest Quasimodo's in this world can be potentially the most beautiful beings seen through the lenses of grace and mercy because “God’s mercy is stronger than misery!”

In Victor Hugo’s novel, as a group of old women hunkered over to examine the little monstrosity that had been left near the vestibule of the Cathedral, one of them remarked, “I'm not learned in the matter of children ...but it must be a sin to look at this one." Could this remark be referring to us too? This is who we were, inheritors of Original Sin, prisoners and victims of our own sinful misdeeds, deformed by our iniquities, that it would be a sin for anyone to look at us. But then, God looked upon us, not with vile disgust or hatred but with love and mercy, and His “mercy is stronger than misery.” God offered us atonement and pardon for our sins. God offered us His incalculable mercy by offering us His son to take our place on the cross. As Saint Paul assures us, “God made Him who had no sin to be sin for us, so that in Him we might become the righteousness of God” (2 Cor 5:21). We have seen this God, we have tasted Him, we have been redeemed and saved through His grace and mercy and we can proudly acclaim that we have tasted the Lord, and can testify that He is sweet!