The Best Wine for the last

Second Sunday in Ordinary Time Year C

Every drinker would appreciate the wisdom found in this Bible verse taken from the Book of Ecclesiastes (9:7), “Go, eat your food with gladness, and drink your wine with a joyful heart, for it is now that God favours what you do.” Wine or alcohol can be a bringer of joy, albeit temporary. But when the initial momentary elation wears off, the mood can descend into tears, anger, and even violence... and don’t forget the massive hangover that is certain to follow. After the string of drinking parties stretching from Christmas to the New Year, it’s time to sober up. The celebration is literally over when “we have run out of wine”, money and leave!

The Bible treats intoxicating drinks ambivalently, considering them both a blessing from God that brings joy and merriment, and potentially dangerous beverages that can be sinfully abused. The wine in today’s gospel story bears the first sense. Thank God for that! The symbol of wine used with the theme of the wedding feast expresses the exhilarating joy of ‘the Hour,’ not just the hour of nuptial bliss for the couple, but the ‘Hour’ marking the decisive intervention of God and manifestation of His glory in Christ. This is the hour of Israel’s liberation. Her Saviour has come! But just when the celebrations were gaining momentum, it risked being turned into a disaster. The festivities encountered an untimely snag: “they ran out of wine.” The mother of Jesus announces the sobering news, “They have no wine.” For all those present, this would have sounded like a death sentence.

This incident is a very fitting illustration of the failure of all this world’s joys. As much as we hope for an inexhaustible supply of resources, as much as we pray that the party and the honeymoon will never end, we always end up with an empty casket after everything has been drained. We know what it means for the wine to run out. Sooner or later in every situation, in every lucky streak, in every relationship, in every type of human pleasure, the wine runs out. Our family members, one by one, leave the nest. Divorce or separation may come even after years of a happy married life. Our friends, with whom we've shared so many enjoyable times, slowly move away. Our motivation to work and to produce is soon replaced with fatigue and burn out. In the parish, the exodus of the young, and the gradual decline of the BECs seem to signal the death of a once vibrant community. In every human achievement, pleasure, and joy — the "wine" is bound to run out.

What do all these experiences tell us? Have we truly run out of wine? Has the party ended? Or are these scenarios merely pointing to the fact that we are often dictated by our subjective experiences, especially our emotions? It is interesting to note that our assessment of any situation is often dictated by our subjective experience. “How do I feel?” This is quite natural. The problem is that we often assume that our subjective assessment is conclusive and infallible. But our feelings say more about ourselves than objective realities. We confuse our emotional urges for the voice of conscience. In any event, emotions are always beyond our control and they never last. This kind of wine is inevitably doomed to run out.

Thousands of years ago, the people of Israel also thought that the destruction of their country meant the end of everything. They were mocked by their neighbours as the “Forsaken” and “Abandoned” People. Israel had only herself to blame for this due to her infidelity. But Isaiah in the first reading gives an entirely different ending to the story, an objective one as far as it is the vision of God. It is a message of hope. All is not lost because God will return to redeem them. They will be called by a new name; they will be called “My Delight” and “The Wedded” for God has taken delight in them again. God has renewed His covenant with them – He has wedded them again. What brought about this change? They finally realised that glory and blessings come from God alone. No human power, riches or glory will last. Eventually all these things will run out except that which is given by God.

Our most common folly is that we often realise this important point only too late, after our own resources have been depleted or exhausted. In our drunken merriment, self-absorbed in our own human achievements, we often fail to recognise that Christ is the true source of joy, an inexhaustible and irrevocable joy, unless we choose to ignore Him. He is not only the provider of the wine that will never run out. He is the Best Wine often mistakenly kept for the last.

Thus, we must guard against the deception of subjective assessment and be misled into thinking that this is the end, merely on the basis that we feel it is so. When we allow our subjective impressions to dictate our lives, it would only lead to chaos and confusion. Here, our Catholic understanding of the Sacraments is important. Sacramental theology speaks of an objective reality, which is the grace we receive in the Sacraments, that is not dependent on our subjective experience or our emotions. Christ is present, truly, really, substantially at every Mass and in the tabernacle whether you “feel” it or not. The truth that Christ is present here is a fact. Your feelings do not matter. “Facts have no feelings!”

Likewise, even when the parties to the marriage no longer feel anything for the other, this does not spell the end of the marriage. The subjective experience of the parties does not determine the end of the objective reality proposed by the sacrament. Objectively, Christ remains faithful; He continues to confer the necessary grace through the Sacrament of matrimony, and this ultimately defines the permanency of the marital bond. In another instance, even if everyone in the congregation felt listless and bored during the entire mass, or the priest was ill-prepared to celebrate the mass, the mass is still objectively the Sacrifice of the Cross. As the fate of marriages cannot be determined by changing sentiment, the victory of the Cross is not undone by our fluctuating moods.

So, what do we do when the wine runs out? What do we do when the thrill is gone? What do we do when the faith dissipates? Many look for substitutes, only to find themselves disappointed once again because the wine will also run out. ‘Running away’ is no solution too. Mary shows us the way. The strength of Mary’s faith is when she tells the servants to follow the instructions of her Son. We run to Jesus with faith that He can do even the impossible, even outmatching the miracle of transforming water into wine. Mary teaches us to come to Him in humble submission, ready to listen to what He has to tell us, even though it may go against our better judgment. So, when the wine runs out, don’t attempt to brew some more, don’t look for cheap alternatives and don't run away. It’s not over. The best wine has been saved for the last – it is Jesus.

Be opened!

Twenty Third Sunday in Ordinary Time Year B

Today’s text will trigger the ire of those with a penchant for the pedantic. As it is often said, “the devil is in the details!” Our Lord travels North before travelling eastward in order to make His way home to the South. A straight path in the direction of Galilee to the south of His current position would have been the most efficient and quickest way to get home. But our Lord chooses to make a round-a-bout detour to get to where He wishes to go. This is no coincidence nor directionless meandering. Everything our Lord does is calculated.

Today’s episode takes place again in Gentile or pagan territory, the Decapolis, the very lands where He was expelled after having exorcised the Gerasene demoniac. The reason for His summary dismissal is unclear. His healing and exorcism of the demoniac may have frightened the locals and the episode of the swine plunging into the sea in a lemming-like mass suicide and the ensuing economic loss to the owners may have been squarely blamed on Him. But here, the people of the area seem to have forgotten their past hostility. In today’s story, they see the Lord as a problem solver by bringing this deaf and mute man to meet the Lord.

Now we can assume that this deaf mute was also a local, thus a Gentile and not a Jew. It is indeed strange that our Lord would use an Aramaic word “Ephphatha” instead of some other more commonly known word in Greek, the lingua franca of the area. Well, it may be argued that this would not have made a difference since the man could not hear.

But it is the actions of our Lord which deserve our attention. To heal the man, the Lord placed His fingers in the man's ears and His spittle on the man's tongue. To us modern folks, this is indeed cringe worthy. Many have wondered why He did such things in healing the man. Some suggest that it was a sign that gave the Gentile man additional confidence that Jesus was in fact healing him, for Gentiles sometimes employed such methods in their attempts to heal people. Others have proposed that this foreshadows the outpouring of the blood of Christ that will bring full restoration not only to our souls but finally to our bodies in the new heaven and earth.

Perhaps, the depths and significance of this miracle is lost on the deaf mute and the audience, but every Jew was seeing in this miracle the fulfilment of the Old Testament prophecies which we had just heard in the first reading: “Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened, the ears of the deaf unsealed, then the lame shall leap like a deer and the tongues of the dumb sing for joy.” Our Lord would subsequently heal both the blind and the lame and complete the list of healings mentioned in the prophecy. But these miracles are merely signs pointing to a far greater prophecy of Isaiah: “Look, your God is coming, vengeance is coming, the retribution of God; he is coming to save you.” Our Lord is no mere wandering miracle worker. He is the promised Saviour not just of Israel but of the whole world. In fact, His name “Jesus” means “God saves.”

But the Gospel intends to go beyond showing us the ability of our Lord to physically heal the deaf and fulfil the prophecies of the Old Testament. The deaf mute man is a symbol of humanity, of modern society in particular. We are witnessing a society that has grown deaf to God, a society that is no longer “open” to the voice of God speaking through every man’s conscience, a society that can no longer speak or communicate with God because it has lost the vocabulary of prayer. And when man ceases to listen and speak to God, he can no longer authentically communicate with his neighbour. Although we often boast of living in an Information Age with the most sophisticated means of communication available at our finger tips, there is a lack of deep meaningful communication that builds community.

We could say that the world has become deaf and tongue-tied! How is it possible to listen to the Divine voice while tuning into the clamour of the television, the internet and so many other things? Ears filled with a hankering for the things of this world cannot distinguish the voice of the Almighty, for it is impossible to pay attention to two conversations simultaneously. Either one speaks with God, or with Satan! Today no one speaks of God, of the striving for sanctity, the hatred that we should have for sin or the great risk that modern man runs of being thrown eternally into hell. In general, people’s lives revolve around personal concerns, trivial matters inflated beyond reality, while choosing to be forgetful of the Creator and supernatural realities. Those who do not externalise their love for the Lord through prayer and an intimate relationship with Him, are deaf by choice.

If we sense our own deafness in the face of this grave scenario, we ought to ask ourselves: what is the solution? This Sunday’s Gospel does not only diagnose the problem but provides us with the cure. We must approach the Lord in faith through His sacraments and His Church. When we encounter our Lord in the sacraments in which He instituted, we too are similarly transformed and our spiritual senses healed. Our vision, our hearing, our sense of touch, taste and smell should be overhauled by a glimpse of God’s Truth, Beauty and Goodness. That is why our churches must be beautiful and our liturgies rich in symbolism and grandeur. Beauty is not just a matter of aesthetics nor is it a question of personal taste. It is meant to open the “eyes of faith,” to put in sharp focus and vivid colour, what God is bringing about in the world. We have become too over familiar and comfortable with our own iconoclastic and white-washed churches. We have become blind and deaf to the means by which God wishes to communicate to us.

Just like our Lord looking up at the very final moment before the deaf man is healed, our common mundane everyday human situation is elevated into the presence of God in these moments when we encounter Him in the beauty and elegance of our churches and liturgy. Beauty, justice, love, and mercy are no longer external to us but now we participate intimately with their source in the triune God. Heaven and earth overlap, time collapses.

Life and reality viewed through the sacraments put our most basic assumptions on trial. God is not somewhere else, too busy, or unconcerned with the created order. Instead, all of creation is “charged” with the goodness of God and every inch of it participates in the life of God sacramentally. In this way, the sacraments and sacramentals serve as a revelation of sorts, a window into what is most real, and helps us wonder more truly about what God is doing in the world. Through and in the sacraments and sacramentals, we hear our Lord’s command once again: “Ephphatha!” “Be opened!” They help us to see sacredness even in the midst of human depravity, wealth in the midst of poverty, and redemption in the midst of human fallenness.

When Little becomes Abundant

Seventeenth Sunday in Ordinary Time Year B

There is this wonderful line which could only emerge from the inspired genius mind of St Augustine: “The New Testament lies hidden in the Old and the Old Testament is unveiled in the New.” This is what we see in our lectionary’s juxtaposition of the first reading and the gospel. Both readings provide us with two incidences of miraculous multiplication of bread, the first implicit, while the latter clearly more explicit by virtue of its scale. Elisha multiplied 20 barley loaves so as to feed 100, with some even left over. But in the Gospel, our Lord multiplies 5 barley loaves and feeds 5,000, leaving 12 baskets left over. We’re talking serious one-upmanship here!

What does the multiplication story of Elisha in the first reading and our Lord Jesus have in common is their seven-part movement in the narrative: a crisis arises due to shortage of food, a chanced character volunteers to make an offering of meagre means, the protagonists issue a command to feed the crowds with these limited resources, followed by incredulity, a second command is given, the feeding takes place and finally, there is food left over. Both narratives fit nicely into this 7-part template. But there is no equivalence. What our Lord does, out matches what is done by Elisha and in fact by Moses who fed the Israelites with manna from heaven. This is no mere coincidence.

Christ brings to complete perfection what had already been prefigured in the Old Testament. That is why we should not easily dismiss the Old Testament as historically obsolete or mythical stories. To know Christ in the fullest sense (sensus plenior), then, we must read not only the New Testament, but also the Old. Our Lord Jesus is not just another great prophet in a long line of prophets but He is of an entirely different category which surpasses all that has preceded Him. If the prophets of old had only communicated the Word of God as mediums of transmission, Jesus is the Word of God in the flesh.

Both stories begin in a context of hunger. Few understand the depths of hunger. Becoming hungry for most of us is a matter of choice. Fasting and dieting are deliberate choices. But one must also consider the hunger of millions of people in the world: “the siege of the poor”. They have no choice but to be hungry.

But it is the hunger of such as these that reminds us that life begins with hunger and to be alive is to be hungry. The dead do not experience hunger pangs any longer. Some people are so hungry that for them God cannot but have the form of a loaf of bread. It is no wonder that in both stories of multiplication, we are reminded that the paradigm which God shows us and which we must imitate is giving and not hoarding. That is why the Lord commands His disciples to count the cost of what is to be given and to make an inventory of what they possess.

The miracle of the multiplication of the loaves and the fish, therefore, shows us that the Lord is not concerned with the quantity of the bread; what He desires is that the bread be shared. The hunger of others has rights over me. It never ceases to amaze me at how much energy we put into making excuses that we don’t have enough to share with others. According to a mysterious divine rule: when “my” bread becomes “our” bread, then little becomes enough. Hunger begins when I keep my bread to myself, when I choose to hold on to my bread, my fish, my assets. In contrast to our penchant to be calculative, our Lord shows us another way of being wholly generous because we have received so much from Him. The fact that there were twelve baskets of leftover food is a reminder to us that His grace is aplenty and that it is free.

Because of this last point and for this reason, the seemingly logical explanation of this miracle being the result of the crowds sharing their personal stash of food is untenable. This is not just a story of sharing but one of revelation. Only God could complete such a feat. As God rained down manna in the desert, Elisha increased his meagre supply of bread to feed the hundreds and now our Lord multiplies the bread and fish to feed the multitude of thousands, none of these events could have happened without God’s intervention. It is simply not possible for the disciples or the people to feed themselves or each other. They could not heal themselves or each other. But God can and God does.

So, the grain of truth that confronts us in today’s readings is that we are subject to limitations. We are not able to do everything, we are not able to help everyone, we are not able to save everyone. But that does not absolve us from doing something or helping someone. When we entrust the little that we have to God, He will ensure that our efforts would not be impeded by our limitations. On the other hand, these stories remind us that for a miracle to happen, it is not about God creating something out of nothing. God takes what we offer Him and ensures that it is always enough for us to share it with others, with much more to spare.

Our financial resources, talents, and holiness are clearly inadequate to meet the needs of a hungry and confused world. But what else is new? This gospel commands us to offer these resources anyway, trusting that God will multiply them. Don’t just take my word for it. See it happen at every Mass. In the Eucharist we bring the very ordinary work of our hands, bread and wine, and join to this the offering of our very ordinary lives. Through the invocation of the Spirit and the Word of God, this offering is changed into the Body and Blood of Christ, the Bread of Life and the Cup of eternal salvation. Likewise, we offer Him the work of our hands and our broken humanity, and He transforms these things into perfect humanity and life-giving divinity. And with this He not only feeds us but empowers us to feed the whole world. When “His” bread becomes “our bread”, then little becomes abundant!

Love is stronger than Death

Thirteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time Year B

In the collective imagination of the Anglosphere, Robin Hood is second only to King Arthur in the hold he has on the public mind. The idea of the Merry Men living in self-constructed freedom “all under the merry greenwood tree” in Sherwood Forest – robbing the rich and helping the poor and staying loyal to King Richard the Lionheart during the regency of his brother – has been embraced by countless generations.

Robin Hood and his merry band of thieves have often been portrayed in a heroic light, as those who sided with the poor and stood against the despotic tyranny of the rich and powerful, symbolised in the person of the Sheriff of Nottingham, ironically, a medieval representation of the “blue”, the law enforcement agencies. Robin’s actions were not only regarded as justified but lauded as virtuous because he “stole from the rich to give to the poor!” There seems to be a resurgence of this spirit in many of the liberal ruled cities in America, where criminals are often vindicated as deserving of the spoils of theft and looting due to their disadvantaged social economic status. In fact, stealing is now regarded as a kind of reparation for what many would claim had been stolen from them. Ironically, the law enforcement officers, men who wear the “blue”, are regarded as the “bad guys”, very much like the wicked and conniving Sheriff of Nottingham.

In the second reading, we see St Paul writing to the wealthy church in Corinth and requesting them to send aid to the impoverished mother church in Jerusalem. He begins his appeal by first commending them on their spiritual wealth - “You always have the most of everything – of faith, of eloquence, of understanding, of keenness for any cause, and the biggest share of our affection – so we expect you to put the most into this work of mercy too.” Paul is trying to explain that this act of charity is not merely an act of generosity but also a work of mercy - another spiritual good. In other words, the more they give, the wealthier they become spiritually. Then he sets out the standard and model of such generosity - it is none other than Christ Himself: “Remember how generous the Lord Jesus was: he was rich, but he became poor for your sake, to make you rich out of his poverty.”

Of course, St Paul was not himself resorting to a Robin Hood mentality by taking from the rich to give to the poor. He was making it clear that any such giving should be done from a cheerful and willing heart, rather than grudgingly. Furthermore, he was not insisting that the Corinthians should impoverish themselves by enriching the folks in Jerusalem. He proposes a pragmatic rule to giving: “This does not mean that to give relief to others you ought to make things difficult for yourselves: it is a question of balancing what happens to be your surplus now against their present need, and one day they may have something to spare that will supply your own need. That is how we strike a balance …”

This is the reason why the vow of poverty which is taken by a religious is not meant to be pure renunciation of material goods, but rather a commitment to share everything in common. An interior spiritual poverty is required for communal living. A lack of it rings a death knell to the community, especially when every member is only looking out for his own interest and security, whilst failing to be concerned with the welfare of his brothers and sisters.

We see in the gospel the true hero worthy of our praise and emulation - it is not the fictional Robin Hood but the very real Jesus of Nazareth. Our Lord shows us how God’s generosity and providence can be given and is given to all, without depriving one whilst blessing the other. In the longer version of the gospel, we see both the adult and the child being recipients of our Lord’s mercy and healing powers - the woman who had suffered from internal bleeding for many years and the young girl whom our Lord brought back from the brink of death. It is arguable as to who was in the more dire situation. The focus seems to be on defeating death in the girl. Our Lord returning life to the dead girl confirms what is written in the Book of Wisdom that “death was not God’s doing,” and that God had made “man imperishable, He made him in the image of His own nature; it was the devil’s envy that brought death into the world …”

So, it is death and devil that seem to have robbed us of our immortality and they have done so without enriching anyone but impoverishing all of us. But our Lord comes to the rescue. He robs the devil and death of their booty and final victory. Death may be strong, in fact, it may be the strongest thing that anyone of us knows of - no medicine, no elixir, no insurance or guarantee, no fortress or bunker, no “Iron Dome” can keep us safe from its clutches. But there is one who is stronger, so strong that nothing can stand in His way - not the cross which took His life, not the stone rolled over the mouth of the tomb, not the gates of Hades could keep Him imprisoned. It is Christ our Lord and Saviour. He has plundered the fortress of death and the devil and restored our inheritance to us - life, eternal life.

And this is what St Baldwin of Canterbury declared in the 12th century, a truth that has not grown old nor will ever be obsolete:

“Death is strong: it has the power to deprive us of the gift of life. Love is strong: it has the power to restore us to the exercise of a better life.

Death is strong, strong enough to despoil us of this body of ours. Love is strong, strong enough to rob death of its spoils and restore them to us.

Death is strong; for no man can resist it. Love is strong; for it can triumph over death, can blunt its sting, counter its onslaught and overturn its victory. A time will come when death will be trampled underfoot; when it will be said: ‘Death, where is your sting? Death, where is your attack?’

‘Love is strong as death,’ since Christ’s love is the death of death. For this reason he says: ‘Death, I shall be your death; hell, I shall grip you fast.’ The love, too, with which Christ is loved by us is itself strong as death, since it is a kind of death, being the extinction of our old life, the abolition of vice, and the putting aside of dead works.”

Not Why but What

Twelfth Sunday in Ordinary Time Year B

Someone once gave me a tip on how to sound smart even when I am not. “Ask a question which you do not have the answer. The other person most likely may not know either.” Of course, if the person did know the answer, you can always curtly tell him: “Wrong. When you find the right answer, come look for me!” Mischief managed!

Today’s readings are sandwiched between questions. In fact, the first reading is a set of rapid fire questions which God poses to Job. The gospel closes with the disciples asking this question about Jesus: “Who can this be? Even the wind and the sea obey him.” Ironically, the answer to the questions in the first reading would also serve to be the answer to the last question posed by our Lord’s disciples in the gospel.

Throughout the book of Job, we see our protagonist and his friends asking all sorts of questions directed at God and Job’s righteousness. The basic question is whether Job deserves his current loss and suffering. His friends say “yes” but Job defiantly protests his innocence by saying “no.” God finally breaks the silence and the book presents it in a most dramatic way: “From the heart of the tempest the Lord gave Job his answer.” Just like our Lord answered His disciples in the gospel in the middle of a storm.

God’s first question to Job (which has unfortunately been redacted from our first reading) sets the tone of their mostly one-way conversation and series of rhetorical questions, “Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth? Tell me, if you have understanding” (Job 38:4). In short, God is reminding Job and his friends, “Who are you to question me?” At the end of this age, we will stand before our Lord as Judge and King of the Universe. It is we who will be questioned, and it would be audacious for us to believe that we are entitled to question Him.

St Paul puts it more directly: But who are you, a human being, to talk back to God? “Shall what is formed say to the one who formed it, ‘Why did you make me like this?’” (Rom 9:20). Some translations of this passage in fact make this point clearer: “can a pot question the potter why it was made this way?”

Does it mean that we should never ask questions? Certainly not. As St Anselm wisely reminds us: “faith seeks understanding.” This is what we see in the episode of our Lord calming the storm in today’s gospel passage. The lack of faith exhibited by the fearful disciples who thought that they were drowning and that the Lord had abandoned them were now challenged to ask questions, questions which would deepen their faith and expand their understanding of who the Lord is: “Who can this be? Even the wind and the sea obey him.“ It’s a rhetorical question that can only have one answer. The answer, of course, is God - Jesus is God because only God could have such power and authority over the wind and sea - and yet, they were not ready to make that leap of faith, a leap which they will eventually make after the resurrection when they witness for themselves that Jesus also has authority over death, His own death.

There is, therefore, no dichotomy between faith and reason. But our pursuit for full understanding should not be the reason to demolish faith. The basis for asking questions and the goal for seeking answers should propel us to recognise our limited knowledge in comparison to God’s immense wisdom which is always beyond and above ours. Curiously embedded in the midst of our questioning nature is a profound insight into the human condition. At once this both affirms our search for understanding and demonstrates its limits.

The wisdom God puts in our inward parts makes it possible for us to yearn for an answer to the mystery of suffering. Yet our wisdom comes only from God, so we cannot outsmart God with wisdom of our own. In fact, He has implanted in us only a small fraction of His wisdom, so we will never have the capacity to comprehend all His ways. As we have seen, it may be good for our souls to voice our complaints against God. But it would be foolish to expect Him to admit His error, that He had made a mistake. The truth is that God never makes mistakes. We do but He never does.

It’s not wrong to experience grief or anger or any other emotion when we’re going through a hard time, when we find ourselves in a middle of a maelstrom wondering whether the Lord is sleeping on the job or that He has abandoned us. It’s ok to ask God our questions. It’s ok to tell God how we’re feeling, He already knows anyway. A key invitation of our spiritual journey is to be emotionally honest about our uncertainties. Questions…are signs of a living, growing, active faith, not evidence of a dying one.

But when we do ask questions, it is good to remember that we may not always get an answer right away, but when it comes, it will certainly shift my perspective. God is giving us a larger picture of our circumstances, just as He was doing it for Job and for the Lord’s disciples. Much like someone who stands too close to a painting and cannot appreciate the artist’s perspective, we need to step back a few steps so that we can glimpse — if not fully understand — God’s larger purposes with greater clarity. Part of this enlightenment is to show us that we may have been asking the wrong questions.

The question to ask is not “why?” but “what?” with a heart to learn God’s wisdom and purpose for us. Instead of asking, “why did this happen?”, we should actually be asking, “What do you want me to learn from this experience? What good do you want to come from this?” God generally does not answer any of our ‘why’ questions, but He will gradually answer those ‘what’ questions as He moulds us into a stronger person of faith. Because He wants us to trust Him like never before.

If we are looking for a reason for Job’s suffering or ours, we may not find it. But this we do know: Job’s ordeal has given him an even greater appreciation for God’s goodness. Job’s relationship with God has deepened, his faith has grown stronger and he has become wiser as a result. The same could be said of us whenever we experience hardship or face adversity. It’s not always easy to trust in the Lord’s providence and wisdom. But we are assured by St Paul, “we know that in everything God works for good with those who love him, who are called according to his purpose” (Romans 8:28). We may not see it clearly now, but it makes the hard times a little easier to bear, knowing that there is something to learn (and one day, to teach and encourage others) and that God will answer us “from the heart of the storm.”

We Lepers

Sixth Sunday in Ordinary Time Year B

Leprosy? Most of us have never seen anyone with this debilitating disease. Leprosy seems to have been stamped out in our country and any trace of the colonies, where lepers were hold up, to isolate them from the rest of us healthy folks have been lost to development. But both scripture and the Church’s history refuse to let us forget. The story of St Damien of Molokai, Apostle to the Lepers, must certainly be one of the most inspired hagiographies ever written and one which reminds us of the “lepers” that continue to live among us, though often out of sight.

In 1866, to curb the spread of this virulent disease of leprosy, the Hawaiian authorities decided to consign lepers to an isolated community on the island of Molokai. Once the lepers were out of sight and no longer a threat to the general population, the government turned a blind eye to their basic needs. Where even other missionaries kept away, St Damien, a missionary priest, pleaded with the bishop of the territory to allow him to minister to the needs of these lepers. The bishop kindly accompanied Damien to the colony and introduced him to the 816 community members as “one who will be a father to you and who loves you so much that he does not hesitate to become one of you, to live and die with you”. Little did the bishop realise that his words would prove prophetic.

Damien’s superiors had given him strict advice: “Do not touch them. Do not allow them to touch you. Do not eat with them.” But Damien made the decision to transcend his fear of contagion and enter into solidarity with the Molokai lepers. Other missionaries and doctors shrank from the lepers. What surprised the lepers most was that Damien touched them. But Damien not only touched the lepers, he also embraced them, he dined with them, he put his thumb on their forehead to anoint them, and he placed the Eucharist on their tongues.

One day, while soaking his feet in extremely hot water, Damien experienced no sensation of heat or pain—a tell-tale sign that he had contracted leprosy. The disease quickly developed, causing Damien to write to his bishop with the news. Damian who had not hesitated to become one of the lepers, chose also to live and die with them.

If you find that story amazingly moving, then you should feel the same if not more for what the Lord has done for us. Our Lord approaches a leper in today’s gospel and touches him.

To truly understand the significance of our Lord’s action, we need to understand two important concepts in the mind of a Jew– leprosy and the laws of ritual purity. The idea of leprosy was more than a virulent disease to be avoided. For the Jews, it was a sacrament in reverse - outward sign of inward curse. It was a sign of separation from God. For this reason, both the diagnosis as well as the final assessment that it had been cured, was not left to any ordinary doctor. Since, leprosy was seen as the ultimate punishment from God, only a priest, a minister of God could confirm that this sin was absolved, and the punishment lifted.

How about the laws of ritual purity? Since God is considered holy, anything which is unholy is not permitted to enter into His presence. The rules of ritual purity were designed for this. In the Old Testament law, there were five main ways people became unclean (even if it’s just temporary): eating “unclean animals”; (e.g., carrion-eaters); giving birth; contracting skin diseases; genital discharges; contact with corpse. Leprosy fell under the third category. Coming into contact with an unclean person would also render one unclean. So strict rules like those given to St Damien (“Do not touch them. Do not allow them to touch you. Do not eat with them”) had to be observed to avoid contamination. Instead of doing this, our Lord “stretched out his hand and touched” the leper. In the eyes of the crowd, our Lord had been contaminated.

But instead of being contaminated Himself, He heals the leper. We are reminded that we do not only get infection through close proximity, we can also get saved by it. C.S. Lewis explains this beautifully: “Good things as well as bad, you know, are caught by a kind of infection, if you want to get warm you must stand near the fire: if you want to be wet you must get into the water. If you want joy, power, peace, eternal life, you must get close to, or even into, the thing that has them. They are not a sort of prize which God could, if He chose, just hand out to anyone. They are a great fountain of energy and beauty spurting up at the very centre of reality. If you are close to it, the spray will wet you: if you are not, you will remain dry. Once a man is united to God, how could he not live forever? Once a man is separated from God, what can he do but wither and die?”

The story of Jesus healing the leper ends happily for him but unfortunately for Jesus. At that touch, they were equals. Ironically, this man was now able to enter any town he wanted because he had been healed, but Jesus could no longer enter towns because of the news of this miracle had spread. He had become a social leper.

The healing of the leper was just a warm-up for what the Lord had prepared to do for all of us, a model of what was to come at the cross. When He died for our sins, for as many of us who have been washed in the blood, our sins died as well and Jesus was then able to be reconciled with the Father, from whom we have been separated because of our sins, our spiritual leprosy. By communion with Him, by participation in His cross, we could receive eternal life. He shared His divinity with us as we shared our humanity with Him but without Him taking away our humanity. Our humanity is thus sanctified by His divinity.

In the case of St Damien, although he entered into the most profound solidarity with the lepers by becoming one of them, he was never able to remove this disease from their bodies or the social stigma from their existence, what more his own. But in the case of our Lord Jesus, He has taken us into Himself. In exchange for our flawed and broken humanity, He has exchanged with us His sublime divinity. The Venerable Archbishop Fulton Sheen describes the sublime transaction of the In­carnation in which Christ said to man: "You give me your hu­manity, I will give you my divinity. You give me your time, I will give you my eternity. You give me your bonds, I will give you my omnipotence. You give me your slavery, I will give you my free­dom. You give me your death, I will give you my life. You give me your nothingness, I will give you my all.” So, let us turn to the Lord in confidence, humility and much love and ask: “Lord, if you want. You can cure me.”

A New Authority

Fourth Sunday in Ordinary Time Year B

“Don’t put words into my mouth” is a popular way of deflecting accusations by arguing that you have been misquoted, that your original speech has been embellished by words which do not reflect your original intent. Under these circumstances, you would not appreciate any extrapolation by others. The original words and context are always the best, or as they would say, “from the horse’s mouth.”

Despite our insistence on others keeping faithful to what we had originally said, we always appreciate novelty in speech. Innovation excites. Repetition bores. Sometimes, the truth does not matter especially when it hurts and does not work in our favour. The more fanciful the story, the more entertaining. That is why the best gossips and rumours are often the most incredulous. Who wants to know the boring truth, when you have the make-believe version that is much juicier?

Our readings today reverse the above cultural trends.

Instead of innovating with our own words and ideas, the first reading seeks to look for an ideal prophet following the archetype of Moses, someone who speaks God’s words and not his own. In fact, only God has every right to demand that we do not put words in His mouth and claim to speak on His behalf when He has not spoken these words at all. “All they have spoken is well said. I will raise up a prophet like yourself for them from their own brothers; I will put my words into his mouth and he shall tell them all I command him. The man who does not listen to my words that he speaks in my name, shall be held answerable to me for it. But the prophet who presumes to say in my name a thing I have not commanded him to say, or who speaks in the name of other gods, that prophet shall die.” The Lord promises to raise up another leader like Moses, a prophecy which can only be fulfilled perfectly in the person of Jesus.

In the second reading, we are reminded by St Paul that words are not sufficient in witnessing the gospel of the Kingdom. It must be matched by actions and a particular value-based lifestyle. This is why St Paul advocates the celibate life. He does so not because he believes that marriage is bad and that the conjugal life is somewhat evil. He does so because celibacy, just like marriage, is also a sign of the life of the Kingdom. Celibacy does not make sense unless the values of the Kingdom of God fill the celibate’s whole horizon.

Finally, we have a miracle story in the gospel where our Lord exorcises a man possessed with an evil spirit in the synagogue. The crowds seem impressed by our Lord’s teachings, because “unlike the scribes, he taught them with authority.” St Mark does not elaborate any further as to the meaning of this term: “authority.” We often believe that “authority” and “power” are interchangeable. Yes, although there is intersection between the two concepts, one does not immediately imply the other. Persons with authority can be made powerless and those with power may not have authority.

The original Greek used by the evangelist would help us make more sense of the differences between these two words. The Greek word for power is dunamis, from which we derive the English dynamite. Our Lord had power as evidenced by His power to perform healing miracles, raise the dead, calm storms and cast out demons. But the unclean spirits likewise had power over the humans and the animals which they possessed. The difference between our Lord and the demons is that the former had authority (exousia) to exercise that power, while the demons did not. Exousia or authority points to limits, accountability, ministry and jurisdiction. Our Lord possessed authority by virtue of His identity - being the Son of God - an identity and authority which even the demons recognised and feared. Notice that the demons did not acknowledge the authority of the scribes, Pharisees and religious establishment. In the case of our Lord Jesus, He possessed both authority and power. The demons possessed their subjects with power but without authority.

Likewise, in modern times, many people are no respecters of authority, viewing it as tyrannical and old fashioned. They fail to recognise that without authority, without true limits, jurisdiction and accountability, everything descends into sheer abuse of power. Nothing exists in a vacuum. When we reject legitimate and rightful authority, we become an authority unto ourselves. My favourite definition of a Pharisee reflects this irony - a Pharisee sees a law when there is none and breaks a law when there is one.

It is authority which links our Lord’s deeds with His words, and this is the reason why the crowds commented that our Lord teaches with authority even though they had just witnessed an exorcism, for they saw both our Lord’s teachings and His deeds are united by their common source - authority - “he gives orders even to unclean spirits and they obey him.”

One last point needs to be raised when it comes to the truth of the Word of God. The crowds also declared this after having seen our Lord’s authority over demons: “Here is a teaching that is ‘new’”. Is novelty the benchmark for truth? Modernist would argue that it is so. In their efforts to revise the teachings of Christ, the Word of God and the traditional teachings of the Church, they argue that the only criterion which matters is that all these must be in synch with the values of modern times, values which are constantly shifting and expanding, what we call “new!” What they fail to recognise is that the hallmark of Christianity is not novelty but fidelity. We will be judged not by how the Church gets in “with the times,” but how she is more perfectly faithful as a Bride of Christ, whom St Augustine calls “O Beauty, Ever Ancient Ever New.” It is Christ who makes the teachings of the Church new, not us.

Preaching in all its forms is indispensable to the Church’s mission given to her by Jesus Christ: “Go, therefore, and make disciples of all nations, baptising them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all that I have commanded you” (Matthew 28:16-20). Such preaching cannot just be a car salesman’s pitch, rooted in half truths. It cannot just be one that tickles the imagination of our audience and entertains them with innovation and creativity. It must always be done with the authority given to us by the Lord through the Holy Spirit and not spring from self-appointment. Finally, preaching must lead others to be conformed to Christ and not to the world. The world may demand what is popular and effective but only Christ’s teachings are going to get us to heaven.

The Sound of Silence

Nineteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time Year A

In every concert piece, there is a portion of the score which builds up to a crescendo, followed by a moment of silence where all the instruments are paused at once. It may only last a beat or two and then the strings would quietly start again. That silence is a powerful moment in the piece. That silence isn’t a random absence of sound; it is placed there by the composer as a key part of the music. It is essential to the movement and feel of the piece. The lack of sound almost seems to be a sound in itself. Perhaps, this could be the hidden meaning behind that Simon and Garfunkel classic, The Sound of Silence.

The first reading is particularly poignant, as it provides us with a strange but insightful theophany - a manifestation of God to the prophet Elijah during one of the darkest moments of his life. Elijah had fled a murderous pagan Queen who sought revenge for the death of her pagan prophets on Mount Carmel. From the dramatic and climatic battle with these prophets which proved victorious for Elijah because God had fought on his side, Elijah fell to the lowest moment of his ministry where he wished for his own death as an escape from misery. But God sent an angel to console him and lead him to another mountain, Horeb. On Mount Sinai in the Old Testament, God had revealed Himself to Moses. God had hidden behind dark clouds lit up only by streaks of lightning and the sound of deafening thunder. We see something similar in the first reading - wind, earthquake and fire. But ironically, God is not found in the strong wind, earthquake, or fire. Elijah recognises God’s presence in “the sound of a gentle breeze” or in some translations, “the sound of silence.”

The gospel passage also draws our attention to the sound and power of a storm contrasted by the silence at the end of the story. Having performed the great miracle of the multiplication of loaves and the feeding of the multitude, our Lord refused to allow the disciples to bask in the glory of His miracle. He Himself chose not to. Instead, our Lord chose to withdraw into the hills to be alone with His Heavenly Father, to commune in silence. But the noise would pursue His disciples even when they were far out in the sea away from the crowds. The noise of positive approval of the crowds was now replaced with the noise of a crisis, the noise of fear.

When our Lord came walking on the waters in their direction, the storm had not yet calmed. Despite what they witness, their fears and doubts seem more overwhelming than their faith in God. But there is a glimmer of hope. St Peter seeks to take a first step in faith. He requests our Lord to help him walk on water too. As long as Peter kept his eyes on Christ, he was able to walk unhindered through the stormy sea; as soon as he let his eyes wander away from Christ to examine the intimidating waves and listen to the sound of the strong winds, he began to sink. It was not the noisy raging storm around him which caused him to sink but it was the noise in his heart which stopped him from trusting and listening to the Lord.

Finally, the Lord steps into the boat and the evangelist tells us, “the wind dropped.” The noise fell into silence again. Our Lord had restored calm. Our Lord had silenced the noise in the surrounding storm and the storm within the hearts of His disciples. Once more we see the power of silence.

Many of us too, experience the sound of silence in our own lives. The silence is disturbing and unnerving. Perhaps we’ve prayed and prayed and still no answer comes. Maybe we’ve been in a long season of waiting and the silence grows increasingly loud as the days wear on. Or maybe we find ourselves in a spiritual wilderness where the fog of doubt and uncertainty is thick. We feel all alone. Abandoned. Forgotten. And the silence makes us think God has turned and simply walked away. We start to think He’s given up on us and begin to wonder if we should too.

The problem isn’t with God but with us. It is we who have the wrong assumption about God’s silence. Perhaps God’s silence isn’t silence at all. Perhaps what seems like silence is actually an important pause in the score of our life. Because it’s often in the quiet where the real work takes place. We see this truth in the darkness of the womb, a child is knit together. And in the quiet of each night, while all the world sleeps, our bodies and minds continue their labours, drawing breath and circulating blood and firing synapses. In the tomb, where the body of Jesus was laid after His crucifixion, He descends into Hades to rescue the faithful dead unnoticed by the world, which believes that they have killed Him. God is at work, God is always at work, even in the silence. God is at work especially in the silence. Often, the silence is His work.

I once encountered the deafening silence of God as I was discerning my vocation to the priesthood. I had decided to clear my doubts and seek an answer by undertaking a personal retreat at the seminary. After four days of spiritual direction, personal prayer and silence, the answer did not come. As I drove back alone to KL, I was overwhelmed by an immense sense of loss and sadness, and it was at this moment I had an epiphany. The Lord had indeed answered in His silence. In that long drive home, I realised that He had given an answer to my question: “Lord, if it be your will take this cup away from me.” His silence was the answer I needed though it may not have been the answer I expected or wanted. The cup may have tasted bitter at the first sip but would soon yield a full body of sweetness over the years. God answers even in His silence and His ways are always wise and above and beyond our wildest dreams.

There is good in quietly waiting on the Lord. There is good in the silence. Silence forces us to hear things we can’t hear in the storms and cacophony of life. It makes us sit and notice those things we often avoid or drown out with busyness and other distractions. The silence gives us an opportunity to take an honest look at ourselves. To see what we truly love and trust and hope in. To perhaps realise how fickle our hearts are and how far we’ve wandered from God. To see the lies we’ve long believed and lived by. And, ultimately, to grasp just how much we need God’s grace poured out in our lives. Then, like the flash of light in the darkest night, God breaks the silence. The Spirit prompts our hearts and reminds us of what is true. And we realise God has been there all along.

It is good and comforting to remember that the sound of God’s silence will not last forever. It is but a pause used for His good purposes in our lives. One day, all the silences of life will find their place in the score of our lives and we’ll hear it played out in its completion. We’ll hear the most beautiful composition ever played, the song God wrote before time began, the song of redemption. So, despite the raging storms around us, let us keep our eyes and our hearts fixed on Him knowing that with Him, we will not drown, our ship will not capsize and the ranging winds of the storm will drop. Despite the noises of confusion without and within, if our hearts are united to His, we will hear His voice even in the midst of the sound of silence.

This will end in God's glory

Fifth Sunday of Lent Year A

There is something about the popularity of the special genre of zombie or ghost movies which shows not only Hollywood’s, but that of the common man’s fascination with death and what happens after death. We live in a world preoccupied with death; from the morbid images of the zombie genre films, to death metal music, to the oppressive occult practices, to our youth counter-culture, to the older generations preoccupation with preserving life … people are obsessed with death in fearful and hopeless ways.

Death is portrayed quite differently in Scripture. Psalm 116:15 says precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His saints. Paul considered death his reward and inheritance. And in John 11 Jesus said, “Lazarus is dead; and for your sake I am glad I was not there because now you will believe.” How can this be? Our Lord loved Lazarus; He wept at his grave, yet He is glad? Can death possibly be a cause of rejoicing? As Christians we do not fear death; we may be sad that we will no longer see the ones we love, at least on this side of the grave, but the “sting of death” has been removed because of the resurrection of Christ, and we know that one day we will all exchange this mortal body for one of immortality.

Our Lord told His disciples that Lazarus was “resting” or “sleeping” and that He was going to “wake” him. For the disciples who remained unenlightened before the Lord’s resurrection, they thought that Jesus was referring to Lazarus having a snooze. Little did they realise that He was speaking of death and the resurrection. In Christ, physical death is merely a shadow as we quietly pass from one life into the next. Death is never final; it is always followed by life. Because He experienced separation from God on the cross, we will never be separated from Him.

Just imagine that scene in today’s gospel. It’s like something out of a zombie apocalypse. It’s not like a fairy-tale kiss bringing a sleeping beauty to life. Lazarus’s dead body had been in the tomb for four days. In the warm climate of the eastern Mediterranean, the dead body would rot and stink. Martha explicitly expressed concern about the stench of Lazarus’s body, what more the decomposition that would have begun to set in. Jesus was unconcerned. As He instructed them to remove the stone that sealed the tomb of Lazarus, the family members of Lazarus and on-lookers would have been appalled by such a morbid request and thought of desecrating the body of a dead man.

Just like what we heard in last week’s gospel, we see in this week’s instalment a spectrum of different responses – this week to the theme of “death”. The disciples tried to dissuade our Lord from going personally to Bethany which is close to Jerusalem because they feared death for Him and for themselves. We have Martha and Mary who had earlier appealed to our Lord to come and heal their brother because they believe that He could postpone death with a miracle. Now, that Lazarus is dead, they saw no need of His presence. His presence now was too little too late! Then we have Mary incapacitated by her tremendous grief because she believed death was the end of the road for her brother. And finally, we have Martha who believed in the resurrection of the dead, but only saw it as a future and ethereal reality that will take place at the end of time. Only our Lord, who feared neither death nor saw it as the end of life, could receive the news of His friend’s death and be gladdened because as He told His own disciples: “this sickness will end not in death but in God’s glory, and through it the Son of God will be glorified.” His vision of death must be ours too.

How can Lazarus’ death bring glory to God and to Jesus? The resuscitation of Lazarus was a prophecy in the form of an action. It foreshadows Christ’s own resurrection, and at the same time anticipates the resurrection of all the righteous. Lazarus’ death and subsequent resuscitation will show that God and Christ has power over death, man’s most ancient enemy – an enemy which we thought to be inevitable and undefeatable … at least until now.

So, the story of Lazarus is to be read not just as another miracle of our Lord, demonstrating His extraordinary power, but also a story of hope for all of us - a hope which does not lie in finding an answer to the mystery of suffering, a hope that is not grounded in a final solution to life’s troubles, but a shining hope in the life of the resurrection - a rebirth - of how even the dead, the seemingly lost can be called forth, they can be liberated once and for all from the bindings of sin, desperation and grief, and be finally set free to live not just a dream, but the reality of immortality, never to suffer pain or death again.

Let’s be honest. We human beings can handle many things that confront us in life, but on our own we will never be able to do much about death. We can accept death and resign ourselves to its inevitability, but we don’t have the power to overcome it. In battling death on our own, even with the help of family, friends and doctors, we will always emerge the loser. But the good news is that there is someone who has overcome death. There is someone who can ensure our victory. Our Lord has overcome death because only God can do so. By swapping places with Lazarus, our Lord offered life to the whole world through His own death and resurrection. Death will still come in unimagined ways, but none of them are the kind of death that separates us from God. Physical death is robbed of its power because in Christ there is life on both sides of the grave.

This is the Good News we hear today. This is the Good News our elect must hear today. Jesus is the resurrection and the life, the source of Eternal Life, not just on the last day, but this very day, in this very place- so let us echo the faith-filled words of Martha as we tell Him: “I believe that you are the Christ, the Son of God, the one who was to come into this world.” Let us go forth to live as those for whom death has been past ever since the day of our baptism so that living or dying, our lives are in Christ.

Which class do you belong to?

Fourth Sunday of Lent Year A

I once came across an article which featured a letter from a distraught Singaporean mother addressed to the Central Provident Fund (CPF), Singapore’s equivalent of our Employees Provident Fund. I was once told anecdotally, “what goes in, seldom comes out!” Her request to withdraw S$70,000 to fund her family’s living expenses and treatment for her mentally ill son was rejected. In response to their decision, she wrote a lengthy letter which went viral. What caught my attention was this insightful paragraph: “There are three classes of people in society. One, those who can see. Two, those who can see when shown and Three, those who cannot see even when shown. Which class do you belong to?”

“Which class do you belong to?” A good question to begin our reflexion for today’s gospel. At the beginning of the story, everyone claims to be able to see except the man born blind. But as the story unfolds, we would soon discover that almost all the characters, with the exception of our Lord, suffers from some blindness or other. In John’s gospel, seeing is synonymous with believing. Our Lord uses physical sight as a metaphor for something of even greater importance, spiritual sight, to see with the eyes of faith.

First, we have the disciples of the Lord. They have been the privileged recipients of the mysteries of the Kingdom and witnessed first-hand the Lord’s miracles. They, like so many others, truly believe that they can “see.” It is with this presumed sight that they pose what appears to be a clever theological question with regards to the disability of the man born blind, “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, for him to have been born blind?” Addressing the Lord as “Rabbi” is the first evidence of their blindness. The blind man’s sight at the end of the gospel is so much more penetrating. The disciples also presumed that since the man has suffered such a fate, it must be on account of some sin, either his or that of his parents. It is assumed that people reap what they sow; that ‘bad luck’ is a result of ‘bad karma’; wicked folks get what is coming to them. Our Lord corrects them: “Your assumptions are flawed.” “He was born blind so that the works of God might be displayed in him.”

The next group are his neighbours and people who knew him as a blind beggar. The sight of the blind man being able to see should have inspired awe at seeing the wonders of God, but instead what arose was incredulity. Then we have the man’s own parents who are summoned as witnesses. They recognise their son and they also recognise the amazing transformation, if not miracle, that has taken place – their son born blind, can now see. And yet, they refuse to acknowledge this out of fear of being implicated in this escalating controversy.

Finally, we have the Jews and the Pharisees who were scandalised by the fact that the Lord had performed a miracle on a Sabbath, in violation of their ritual prohibitions. They have heard the testimonies of the blind man, his neighbours and family members, but still refuse to “see”. They’d rather believe their biased opinion of Jesus than what their “lying eyes” are revealing to them. The story culminates in this parting shot of the Lord aimed at the Pharisees: “Blind? If you were, you would not be guilty, but since you say, “We see”, your guilt remains.”

Yes, all these characters claim to be able to see, but can they really? For our Lord, the real question is whether the lack of seeing is voluntary or involuntary. While the blind man couldn’t help being blind, the others, who could have seen, deliberately chose to be blind. Therefore, their guilt remains. At the heart of this fascinating narrative is a simple but powerful contrast: the man who is blind from birth who sees nothing, but upon encountering the healing Saviour, the Light of the World, sees clearly. On the other hand, the other characters who all claim to be able to see clearly, but at the end of the story expose themselves to be truly blind. They deliberately chose not to see. That is the tragedy!

So, the only character that finally sees, is ironically the man born blind. The gift of sight eventually leads him along a journey of discovery, a path that will lead to a deepened faith. It takes a while before he completely comes to believe. Initially, he obeys without understanding. In the beginning he thinks of Jesus as merely a “man” among others, then when he is questioned, he speaks of the Lord as being a “prophet” and finally, his eyes are opened and he proclaims Him “Lord” and falls down in worship. From hopeless darkness he grows into the purest light of faith, entirely through the power of a gift of grace he never asked for; a faith whose logic he follows obediently; a faith that, like a mustard seed, grows in him until it becomes a huge tree. I believe his story resonates with the personal experiences of our Elect.

The story of the Blind Man is our story. Saint Augustine, commenting on the spiritual sense or meaning of the man’s blindness, simply stated, “This blind man is the human race.” This state of blindness is the Original Sin which we have inherited from our father Adam. And we continue to remain in the state of blindness whenever we choose to sin. My dear Elect, this is what that will happen to you at your Baptism: the washing in the waters of Baptism will remove the stain of Original Sin which spiritually blinds you and gives you new sight to see with faith.

Today, it’s good to be reminded by St Paul that: “You were in darkness once, but now you are light in the Lord; be like children of light, for the effects of the light are seen in complete goodness and right living and truth.” Being children of light is a journey. This is your journey. This is our journey, moving in stages to more perfectly know Jesus, to love Him and serve Him. We admit that our vision remains blurred because of sin. In order that our vision may be restored and made clearer, we need to constantly wash it, not in the Pool of Siloam but in the confessional, receiving the healing grace of reconciliation through the Sacrament of Penance. We know that as we persevere, one day we will see our Lord face to face.

Gratitude unlocks the door to prayer

Twenty Eighth Sunday in Ordinary Time Year C

Today’s gospel brings us the story of how ten lepers were healed by the Lord but only one returned to express his gratitude. What distinguished this particular leper from the other nine was not merely the fact that he alone had returned to thank the Lord for the healing he had received. What was remarkable about this man, a detail which St Luke himself noted and did not overlook, is that this man was a Samaritan. This is what makes the story of the ten lepers so significant. Nine are Jewish and one is a Samaritan. Once again, a Samaritan proves to be the protagonist and model of virtue at the skilful hands of St Luke the Evangelist.

You would have heard by now that Samaritans and Jews didn’t really get along although they shared a common heritage and many religious customs. For the Jews, the only thing worse than being a leper was being a Samaritan. The Jews viewed Samaritans as an aberration of their own race and religion - as Tolkien’s hideous orcs were said to have descended from the beautiful race of elves. The former regarded the latter as renegades, having compromised their observance of the religion and cavorting with the enemy including inter-marrying with them, thus sullying their bloodlines.

From the impurity of their bloodline to competing claims over the centre of worship to disputes over the canon of scriptures, Samaritans were as similar and yet as distant from the Jews. The fact that our Lord uses a Samaritan in His Parable of the Good Samaritan and depicts him as a paragon of mercy and charity, in contrast to the Jewish priest and Levite, was a real slap in the face of the Jews. Likewise, the fact that only the Samaritan leper returned to show his gratitude in today’s passage would have equally provoked the ire of the Jews, and would have thrown a spotlight on their sense of entitlement and ingratitude.

The Lord tells all the men to go to Jerusalem and show themselves to the priest, but the Samaritan knows he’s not supposed to go to the temple. Being a Samaritan, it would have been strange for him to follow our Lord’s instructions to show himself to the Jewish priest. Samaritans had their own priests who offered sacrifices on Mt Gerizim instead of Jerusalem. And in any event, a Samaritan would have been turned away from the inner courtyards of the Temple before he was allowed to enter and defile it, with or without his leprosy.

Perhaps, this could be the real reason the Samaritan turned back. When all ten men were healed, the Samaritan was the only one who returned to say “thank you” to the Lord. Not being able to fulfil the prescript of the Law as far as Jews were concerned and not being able to even complete the instructions the Lord had given to Him and to the others, he alone turned back. But he did so not out of frustration or resentment (for not being a Jew), but out of gratitude and appreciation of what the Lord had done for him. As a Samaritan, he could never imagine how he too could be a beneficiary of this miracle. His heart overflowed with gratitude.

This Samaritan leper shows us that at the heart of our Christian faith must be this constant attitude of gratitude and thanksgiving, the urge to praise God must surge and coarse through our veins, and be the very air which we breath and words which we speak. At every Mass, during the Preface, a profound dialogue occurs between the congregants and the priest. The priest says, “Let us give thanks to the Lord our God,” to which the congregation replies, “It is right and just.” The priest then continues: “It is truly right and just, our duty and our salvation, always and everywhere to give you thanks, Lord, holy Father, almighty and eternal God.”

Thanksgiving is right and fittingly given to God. Ultimately, nothing we have or experienced is earned or merited; it all comes from God. It can be easy in our society to take what we have for granted: a warm, sunny day; the food we eat; the security of a job, the people we love. We fail to see the wonder in these because they seem so ordinary. Yet offering thanks and praise to God reminds us that God is the primary mover.

Unfortunately, such gratitude is in short supply these days. We live in a culture of entitled persons. One sure sign that we treat everything as an entitlement instead of a blessing —is a lack of gratitude. Ingratitude exposes an attitude of entitlement. How often do we acknowledge God’s graces? How often do we say thank-you to Him and others? In fact, we are more likely to complain when those privileges are withdrawn. The man who seldom comes for Mass, even on a Sunday, and even less frequent for confession, may well throw a royal tantrum when he hears that the Church has suspended both during the pandemic. “How dare the bishop do this?” (Or when the live-streaming feed is down)

This is the painful truth - Entitlement keeps us from praying because true prayer is the overflow of gratitude and desperation. Since entitlement strangles gratitude and ignores need, it leads to the death of prayer.

Ironically, one way God wakes us up to our ingratitude is through difficulties and suffering. Difficulties and suffering often lead to renewed prayer in a Christian’s life because they expose our needs. Wondering if you’ll have a roof over your head tonight and a job at the end of the year, tends to chase away feelings of entitlement. Worried over the future of our country and the world in the aftermath of this pandemic, if there is a future to speak about, makes us start thinking that we aren’t that special after all - everyone is in this - young and old, rich and poor, from New York to Paris. God will bring difficulty into our lives so that we will see our need and pray.

But we do not have to wait until difficulties come, to deal with entitlement. When we spray gratitude on the weeds of entitlement, they shrivel up and die. Not only does gratitude kill entitlement, but it also nourishes the soul, supplying nutrients necessary to see prayer blossom and grow. Gratitude to God leads to intercession for others.

If gratitude is one of the keys that unlocks the door of prayer, then we must get serious about gratitude. Instead of ranting and complaining about all the things which you feel are amiss in your family, office, school or in the church, count your blessings in heartfelt gratitude, instead of making a list of your woes.

The more serious you are about gratitude, the more likely you’ll become consistent in prayer. And instead of feeling grumpy, depressed or entitled, turn to the Lord like the Samaritan who threw himself at the Lord’s feet in adoration and thanksgiving. Our Lord desired the lepers to return to Him to give thanks, not because He had need of their thanks but because He desired to give them an even greater gift: the gift of faith. “Your faith has saved you.” Faith is the source of our salvation; giving thanks cultivates the gift of faith. It is the gift of faith so necessary for salvation which we receive in offering our thanks to God.

The Greatest Miracle

Solemnity of the Most Holy Body and Blood of Christ

The readings for this feast are interesting. Our story of the Eucharist reaches back in time to the earliest point in Salvation History, bearing historical and spiritual resonance with Christ.

The first reading introduces us to an enigmatic figure, whose background and role in the storyline of Genesis remain obscure but who is mentioned again, but this time with greater elaboration, in the New Testament letter to the Hebrews. Although Melchizedek may not be a major figure in Scripture, he’s an important one, so important that he would fuel the imagination of the author of Hebrews and inspire him to make this connexion with Jesus. Hebrews, more than any other book in the bible, tells us that Melchizedek is a key forerunner to Jesus, and his story in Genesis helps us to understand what our Lord was doing when He instituted the Eucharist at the Last Supper.

After Abram (later renamed “Abraham”) had rescued his nephew Lot from a bloody battle with pagan kings, Melchizedek immediately showed up in the story, seemingly out of nowhere. His name, as we are rightly told by the author of Hebrews, means King of Righteousness. He is also described as the King of Salem (many scholars take this to be an ancient name of Jerusalem), the King of Peace. Both titles could easily be ascribed to Jesus, thus reinforcing the link. But perhaps, the most significant connexion with Christ is not to be seen in these titles nor in Melchizedek’s mysterious origins, but in the action of this Old Testament figure.

Melchizedek, after he is summarily introduced, brings out bread and wine. Why did he bring out bread and wine? Was he just being hospitable to his guest, Abram? Was he planning a picnic? The text doesn’t explicitly tell us, but it does give us a clue. Right after it mentions the bread and wine, the text tells us that Melchizedek was a priest. This is very telling. He is the first person in the Bible, to be referred to as a priest. It suggests that the bread and wine were somehow linked to his priesthood, so he did not bring them out just because he thought Abram might have been hungry. Rather, he brought them out because he was a priest, and since priests are by definition people who offer sacrifice, he must have offered them to God as a sacrifice. This interpretation is supported by his next action as a priest - he offers a benediction to Abram.

In response, Abram gives Melchizedek a tithe, a tenth of all the spoils of war, a practice that would be continued by all the tribes of Israel, as they paid an annual tithe to the tribe of Levi, the priestly tribe, as compensation for their full-time priestly services. The author of Hebrew even makes this audacious claim that Levi paid these tithes through Abraham, indicating the superiority of the priesthood of Melchizedek over that of Levi’s. This mysterious figure then disappears, after having appeared mysteriously as a brief interlude to Abram’s story. He or at least his name, reappears again in the only other passage in the Old Testament, a key verse from the Psalms (which appears as an antiphon which is sung immediately after a priest has been ordained): “You are a priest forever after the order of Melchizedek.” (Psalm 110:4) In its original context, this Psalm referred to the royal descendants of King David who ruled over the Israelites, but the New Testament applies it to Jesus (Hebrews 7:17).

We can already see the strong Eucharistic overtones in this passage, the offering of bread and wine being only the most obvious. But all of this was merely a shadowy anticipation of what Christ would accomplish. It was only a partial picture. God is not done in history until He is with us, until He is one of us, until the true King and Priest “after the order of Melchizedek” arrives to offer sacrifice, not just ordinary bread and wine, for us, the true children of Abraham.

Next, let us consider today’s Gospel - the miracle of the multiplication of loaves and fishes. Only one miracle of Jesus is recorded in all four Gospels and it is this. We might find it strange that on the Feast of Corpus Christi, instead of giving us an account of the Last Supper where the Eucharist was instituted, the Gospel focuses on this miracle. Despite modern popular explanations given to this story, it must be reiterated that this is a miracle of multiplication and not a “miracle” of sharing. Modernists want always to reduce the supernatural to the natural. Hence, they say that this event was really about how people spontaneously started to share the food they had, but hadn’t told anyone about.

But no matter how spectacular this miracle is, it is merely another foreshadowing of a greater miracle – it looks forward to another miraculous feeding at the Last Supper – the Eucharist. Although, the Gospel does not give us one of the narratives of the Last Supper, the second reading does – it is St Paul accounting the tradition that had been passed down to him, which he attributes directly to the Lord: “this is what I received from the Lord, and in turn passed on to you.” Note the manner in which he describes this event, as having received it first-hand, even though we all know that he was not present in the Upper Room during the Last Supper. Consider the parallels. Both events were proximate to Passover. It was evening. Those present all reclined. Christ took, blessed and broke the bread. He gave thanks (from the Greek root – eucharisteo) and gave it to the disciples.

Starting from the distant past of Melchizedek’s offering, we move through the manna of the Exodus to the new miraculously multiplied bread to the true bread from heaven, the bread transformed into Christ’s own Body and Blood, which is Itself a foretaste of the new creation and the world to come. One miracle points to a greater one. Instead of being fed bread that can satisfy the body, we are given bread from heaven that will last forever! The Eucharist may seem less spectacular than the miracle of multiplication, but it is in no way inferior. In fact, the miracle of the Eucharist is God’s greatest miracle, and because it is not something which can be recognised by our senses, it is one that calls for greater faith. God deigns to give us, under the guise of mere bread, His very Self. The Eucharist, the Bread of Life, the food of angels, sustains our pilgrimage on this side of eternity. The Body of Christ is broken and given to the multitudes during the Mass.

The beauty of the miracle occurring at each Mass—that Jesus becomes really, truly and substantially present under the forms of mere bread and wine—grounds our faith and reflects the words our Lord spoke: “I am the Bread of Life. He who feeds on my Flesh and drinks my Blood has life eternal, and I will raise him up on the last day.” (Jn 6:35, 54-56) This is no small matter—what an incredible gift from God! We must, therefore, never forget that when we participate at Mass, we witness a miracle, and we participate in this very miracle through the reception of Holy Communion, we share in the Divine Life of our Saviour. Let our petition echo the words of the Sequence: “Come then, good shepherd, bread divine, still show to us thy mercy sign; Oh, feed us still, still keep us thine; So may we see thy glories shine in fields of immortality.”

Our Dowry is Eternal Life

Second Sunday in Ordinary Time Year C

Although Year C should take us through the Gospel of St Luke, our lectionary this Sunday provides us with this passage from the Fourth Gospel - the Wedding at Cana. The liturgy still wishes to unravel the mystery of Christ’s manifestation in the world during Epiphany.

If you imagine that Epiphany is like a triptych, a three-panelled screen, today we are invited to look at the final panel of the three events that comprise the Feast of the Epiphany: the coming of the Magi, the baptism of Jesus in the Jordan, and the marriage feast of Cana. In speaking of these three events, St Peter Chrysologus explains the rationale of divine pedagogy: “the great events we celebrate today disclose and reveal in different ways the fact that God himself took a human body. Mortal man, enshrouded always in darkness, must not be left in ignorance, and so be deprived of what he can understand and retain only by grace. In choosing to be born for us, God chose to be known by us.”

The marriage feast of Cana is the piece that brings all the rest of the Christmas celebrations to its final completion. The Divine Light that drenched us on Christmas night, and which we have been gradually adjusting to, now reveals the whole panorama of the divine plan of salvation. The first miracle is not just a magical performance in which our Lord changes water into wine. His actions point to something so much more profound - it points to our transformation. The human condition, with its brokenness and sinfulness, is wiped out in the divine transformation of human nature.

To understand the significance of this event, let us look at the first two panels to see how these two other events manifest to us the significance of the Incarnation. First, the Feast of the Epiphany focused on the coming of the Magi, the symbol of seekers of all time, finding the truth they sought in a most unlikely place. The Magi represent the call of the whole human race to faith, in the infinite mercy of God expressed in the Word made flesh in its most fragile form.

Secondly, the baptism of the Lord in the Jordan is the symbol of purification. He Himself did not need the purification but by uniting Himself with human nature and submitting to John's baptism of repentance, our Lord revealed that God is in total solidarity with the human condition just as it is. In other words, Christ is with us in our tragedies, in our sorrows, in our joys, and in our sinfulness to heal all our wounds through the process of the spiritual journey: through the sacraments and the divine therapy of prayerful contemplation.

Lastly, we come to this passage and St John takes the trouble to tell us that this wedding took place on “the third day.” The weddings in Palestine took three days. No wonder the wine ran out. Can you imagine preparing an unending supply of wine for this sustained period of celebration? But there is something about the number three which should trigger our sacramental imagination, especially if you have a keen eye for Christian symbolism. In fact, in a sermon of Faustus of Riez, the symbolism is explained beautifully: 

“What wedding can this be but the joyful marriage of man’s salvation, a marriage celebrated by confessing the Trinity or by faith in the resurrection. That is why the marriage took place “on the third day,” a reference to the sacred mysteries which this number symbolises.”

Faustus continues to read into the allegorical symbolism of the wedding: 

“Like a bridegroom coming from his marriage chamber our God descended to earth in His incarnation, in order to be united to His Church which was to be formed of the pagan nations. To her He gave a pledge and a dowry: a pledge when God was united to man; a dowry when He was sacrificed for man’s salvation. The pledge is our present redemption; the dowry, eternal life.” 

Faustus continues: “To those who see only with the outward eye, all these events at Cana are strange and wonderful; to those who understand, they are also signs. For, if we look closely, the very water tells us of our rebirth in baptism. One thing is turned into another from within, and in a hidden way a lesser creature is changed into a greater. All this points to the hidden reality of our second birth. There water was suddenly changed; later it will cause a change in man.”

Human nature is to be transformed into what wine symbolises - namely, the Spirit. Notice that the miracle does not annihilate but transforms the water. The wine is not something entirely new; it is a transformation of what was there before. Similarly, our human nature, our personal history, and our self-identity are not annihilated but transformed. Man is not dehumanised by this change but rather his humanity is elevated. St Ireanaeus, who is commonly misquoted, reminds us of this truth that “the glory of God gives life; those who see God receive life.”

The Blessed Virgin Mary alone notices that the wine has run out and so she intervenes by bringing this matter to her Son and subsequently tells the steward to follow His instructions. Mary’s faith is an embodiment of the new wine that does not run dry despite encountering an obstacle. Upon following her advice and the instruction of the Lord, the steward exclaims after tasting the water now changed into wine: “People generally serve the best wine first, and keep the cheaper sort till the guests have had plenty to drink; but you have kept the best wine till now.” The new wine which our Lord provides will never run out. It is a new creation. The old creation, with its burden of sin is erased, and the new creation, the action of the Spirit, is now available. In partaking of this new wine, we have become a new creation. Having become one with us in our fallen human nature, our Lord transforms our fallen nature into His divinity.

This is what the liturgy proclaims in this feast. We come to this wedding as guests but penetrated by grace, we leave as brides. We come as paupers but we leave incredibly enriched. What the wedding feast at Cana prefigured, every Eucharist now makes into reality. As St Peter Chrysologus tells us: “Today Christ works the first of his signs from heaven by turning water into wine. But water has still to be changed into the sacrament of his blood, so that Christ may offer spiritual drink from the chalice of his body, to fulfill the psalmist’s prophecy: How excellent is my chalice, warming my spirit.” In a short while, we will receive our Lord in Holy Communion. Having savoured all the best vintages of life, we can boldly declare that the Eucharist is the “best wine” kept till now. Though other joys may run out one day, the Lord’s grace will always overflow with ever renewing abundance!