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Twenty Seventh Sunday in Ordinary Time Year A
Before we take a look at the parable of the vineyard in the first reading and our Lord’s version in gospel, we are going to take a little detour into the literary world. Some of you may be familiar with Oscar Wilde’s parable of the Selfish Giant who had this exceptionally beautiful garden. While the Giant was away visiting a Cornish ogre for seven long years, the local children slipped in and played among the peach trees and the soft green grass. The birds sang, the flowers bloomed, and the children sang with delight. Then the Giant returned and the was incensed by what he saw. He roared in rage and drove these little intruders out. He built a high wall around the garden to secure his property. The garden was his, and his alone.
The children were not the only ones whom the wall kept out. From that moment, Spring forgot the Giant’s garden. The trees refused to blossom. The birds would not sing. Snow, Frost, North Wind and Hail made themselves at home. The Giant sat at his window and wondered why the Spring was so late in coming. He did not understand that it was his own selfishness that had locked the seasons out. Only when he finally tore down the wall, helped a little child into a tree, and opened the garden once more did Spring return—and with it, something far greater.
Wilde’s fairy tale is more than a children’s story. It is a mirror held up to the human heart, and it prepares us perfectly for the parable our Lord tells today.
A landowner plants a vineyard. Unlike the selfish giant, this landowner is generous beyond any measure. He digs a winepress, builds a tower, and leases it to tenants. Notice that it is not the tenants but the landlord who did all the hard work. He does not begrudge them the credit which is obviously due to him and him alone. When the time of harvest comes, he sends his servants to collect the produce. The tenants beat one, kill another, stone a third. He sends more servants. Same treatment. The patience of the landowner is staggering. Finally, he sends his son, thinking, “They will respect my son.” But the tenants, who clearly recognises that this last emissary is the landlord’s own heir and not any ordinary servant, and despite this knowledge, proceed intentionally to commit murder, a crime which no court would exonerate.
What were the crimes of these tenants beyond the final most egregious act of murder? They were not just simply selfishly guarding their property like Wilde’s eponymous giant. They had in fact taken the landlord’s generosity for granted and abused his hospitality and patience: The tenants did not simply refuse to pay the rent. They decided that the vineyard belonged to them. They looked at the fruit and said, “This is mine.” They looked at the son and said, “If we remove him, everything is ours.” Their selfishness was not mere greed; it was a declaration of independence from the one who had planted, protected and provided for the vineyard in the first place. They had committed the first sin of Adam and Eve who envied God and wanted to be like him which is the reason why they believed the lie of the serpent and ate the forbidden fruit. In that tale too, God had planted the Garden of Eden and handed it to our first parents without expecting any payment and they too abuse His hospitality and graciousness by wishing to usurp His power and authority. The greatest act of betrayal.
Isaiah sings the same song centuries earlier. The Lord planted a vineyard on a fertile hillside. He cleared the stones, built a watchtower, hewed out a winepress. He expected grapes—justice and righteousness—but it yielded only wild grapes, sour grapes: bloodshed and the cry of the oppressed. So the hedge is removed, the wall broken down, and the vineyard is trampled. The problem was never the soil or the climate. The problem was the heart that refused to acknowledge the Owner.
We are those tenants. We are that Giant. How easily we build walls around the gifts God has given us—our time, our talents, our relationships, our parish, even our faith—and put up the notice-board: Trespassers will be prosecuted. We treat the vineyard of the world or our little corner of it or our parish or ministry or BEC as private property. We resent the Owner’s claim. We grow envious when others seem to receive more of His attention or favour. And slowly, almost without noticing, we exclude God from the very garden He planted.
The tragedy of the Selfish Giant is not merely that the children were locked out. It is that Spring itself was locked out. The Giant’s selfishness created a permanent winter in the very place that was meant to be a paradise. So too with us. When we exclude God—when we reject others, when we silence the inconvenient word of Scripture, when we push the Son out of the centre of our lives—our hearts grow cold. The fruit of the Spirit withers. Justice becomes injustice. Love becomes self-interest. Peace becomes anxiety.
And yet the parable does not end in pure destruction. Our Lord says the vineyard will be given to other tenants who will produce its fruit. There is always the possibility of a new beginning. The wall can still come down. Ironically, it is the stone that is rejected which will become the corner stone, the foundation of a new beginning for us. If we are ready to welcome Christ into our hearts, like how the selfish Giant welcomed the little child into his garden, we will see the garden of our hearts bloom once again and the cold winter of sin, selfishness, ambition and envy will be cast out. St Paul, writing to the Philippians, shows us the way out of that winter. Prayer opens the gate. Gratitude dismantles the wall. Focusing on what is true and good invites the Spring back in.
The Christian imagery in Oscar Wilde’s parable is not just subtle. It becomes obvious at the pivotal point of the story. The little child whom the Giant lifted into the tree bore the marks of nails in his hands and feet. Seeing these wounds, the Giant flies into a rage threatening to destroy whoever did this to a little child. But what were these wounds? Or rather whose were they. “These are the wounds of Love,” the child said. It becomes clear to the Christian, this child is Christ. And it is He who invites the Giant into His own garden—Paradise – at the end of the story. That too, we pray, will be the ending of our story. If we recognise the One who was wounded for our sake and open the gardens of our hearts to Him, we will have a share of rich treasures of the Heavenly Garden which He has prepared for us for eternity.
Brothers and sisters, the wall does not have to stay up. The notice-board, with the warning “Do Not Trespass!,” can be taken down. The garden can bloom again. All it takes is the decision to stop being the Selfish Giant— and to let the Owner back in. Our possessions, our talents, our families, and all the opportunities we have received ultimately do not belong to us. They belong to the Divine Landlord, the Divine Gardener, who lovingly and gratuitously shares them with us. Let us render to Him what belongs to Him and we will witness a hundredfold harvest of blessings in our lives.
Twenty Sixth Sunday in Ordinary Time Year A
Many of you will probably know the comic book character Hellboy. Now, if ever there was a walking contradiction, it would be him. He's a demon, but one of the good guys. According to the story, he was summoned by the Nazis during the final days of the Second World War in the hope that he would help them conquer the world. But things did not go according to plan. The ritual was interrupted, the infant demon was rescued, and he was adopted by Professor Trevor Bruttenholm, who raised him as his own son. The story strongly hints that Hellboy was brought up within the Catholic faith. The Christian symbolism throughout the story is difficult to miss.
Near the climax of the film, Hellboy stands at a crossroads. He is tempted to embrace his dark origins and fulfil the destiny for which he was supposedly created. At that critical moment, someone throws him the rosary that belonged to his adoptive father. As he catches it, the crucifix burns into his hand. The image is powerful. It is a reminder of who he is, whom he belongs to, and what he has chosen to become. The symbolism is unmistakably Christian - sacramentally Catholic. The Cross marks him. The Cross saves him. The Cross enables him to reject evil and choose the good. The one who was sent to destroy the world ends up saving it.
Now that may sound absurd. But that is precisely what redemption is all about. The central question raised in the movie is this: What makes a man a man? Is it his origins? Is it his past? Is it the circumstances of his birth? The answer comes only at the end of the story: "It’s the choices he makes; not how he starts things but how he decides to end."
That is also the lesson of today's Gospel. Repentance is the key to redemption. In the parable, the first son is shockingly disrespectful. When his father asks him to work in the vineyard, he bluntly replies, "I will not go." Sounds familiar. Many of you may recall your own bouts of youthful rebelliousness. To Our Lord's audience, it would have been scandalous. A son simply did not speak to his father that way. Yet something extraordinary happens. The son changes his mind. He thinks better of it. He goes. That change is what repentance looks like.
In the New Testament there are different words associated with repentance. One is metanoia, a conversion of heart and mind, a turning away from sin and toward God. Another word, reflected in this parable, describes deep remorse, a painful recognition that one has been wrong. It is not merely feeling sorry. It is a change so profound that it alters the direction of one’s life. True repentance produces action. The son does not merely regret his refusal. He goes to the vineyard.
Both the first son and the character of Hellboy illustrate a profoundly Christian truth: no one is beyond redemption. No one. And therefore, no one can be ultimately written off before their story ends. The Gospel, which literally means the good news, is not a story about people who never failed. It is a story about sinners who allowed God's grace to change them. I’m most fond of this saying and often repeat it: “Every saint has a past. Every sinner has a future.”
Many people carry heavy baggage. Regrets. Failures. Broken relationships. Poor choices. Embarrassing chapters they would rather forget. The world often tells us that we are prisoners of our past. The Gospel tells us otherwise. We are not trapped by our beginnings. We are not defined by our worst mistakes. We don’t have to live in the shadow of our parents or teachers, no matter how flawed they have proven to be. God's mercy can rewrite the ending.
Let us not forget that parable is not only about the first son. There is also the second son. When his father asks him to work in the vineyard, he gives all the right answers. He sounds obedient. He sounds respectful. He sounds willing. But the truth is that he never goes. This son represents the danger of empty promises.
The contrast is striking. The first son says "No" but eventually does the Father's will. The second son says "Yes" but never follows through. And that should make us uncomfortable. How many young people stood before the bishop at Confirmation and said "Yes" to Christ, yet no longer practise the faith? How many parents promised at their child's baptism to raise them in the faith, yet never brought them back to church? How many couples vowed lifelong fidelity before God and His Church, only to abandon those promises when difficulties arose? Good intentions are not enough. Fine words are not enough. It’s not how you start things but you decide to end.
The parable therefore offers both hope and warning. Hope for sinners. Warning for the self-righteous. Those burdened by sin should never despair. As long as there is repentance, there is hope. But those who consider themselves upright should never become complacent. A good beginning is no guarantee of a good ending. Heaven is not guaranteed. That is the sin of presumption. That is precisely the message of the prophet Ezekiel in today's First Reading. The sinner who turns away from sin will live. The righteous person who abandons righteousness places himself in danger.
So, the Church cautions us and teaches us to avoid both despair and presumption, both being sins against the virtue of hope. Instead, she invites us to persevere. If you don’t get it right at the start, don’t despair, give up and walk away. The ending can turn out differently if we accept the opportunity granted by God to repent.
And finally, there is a Third Son hidden within the story. Unlike the two sons in the parable, this Son always says "Yes" to the Father and always does the Father's will. This Son is Jesus Christ. He is the eternal Son who never rebelled. He is the obedient Son who said “Yes” to the Father and entered our history through the Incarnation, took upon Himself our burdens. He did not merely speak about obedience. He lived it. He did not merely promise salvation. He accomplished it through His Cross. He said "Yes" to the Father in Gethsemane. He said "Yes" to the Father on Calvary. He said "Yes" all the way to the empty tomb. Through His death and resurrection, He has made all things new. And because of Him, our failures do not have the final word.
We fail. We fall. We stumble. We sin. Yet never forget that our Heavenly Father never ceases to call us back. Whenever we repent, whenever we turn once more toward Him, He gives us another chance. Repentance moves us beyond good intentions. Repentance liberates us from the tyranny of our past. Repentance opens us to the transforming power of God's grace. With God, even the most broken story can have a beautiful ending. For in the end, what matters most is not how we started. It is how, by the grace of God, we choose to finish.
Twenty Fifth Sunday in Ordinary Time Year A
Many of you will know Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables. An embittered ex-convict, Jean Valjean, is imprisoned for the “piddling” crime of stealing bread for his starving family. After his release he steals again—this time from a bishop—yet is met not with condemnation but with extraordinary forgiveness. In fact, the bishop generously adds to the loot which Jean Valjean had just stolen from him. One immediately sees the vast difference in the way the civil authorities and the Church mete out justice. The bishop’s mercy transforms this man, hardened by the harsh penitentiary system of the state. Jean Valjean spends the rest of his life serving God and neighbour, demonstrating extraordinary mercy where he had been shown the same by the kindly bishop. Arrayed against him is Inspector Javert, the relentless embodiment of rigid justice, who pursues Valjean without rest, unable to conceive that a man once condemned might ever be more than his crime.
The dramatic tension in the tale is clear: mercy versus justice. Bishop Myriel (and later Valjean) personifies a mercy ready to give second chances, to treat persons according to their concrete situations rather than abstract rules. Javert, on the other hand, personifies a justice that is inflexible, harsh, and blind to conversion. Justice, in Javert’s hands, becomes something that looks distinctly less just. One looks to a future of possibilities, what a person can become with repentance and conversion, while the other only looks to the past, incapable of seeing a path out of an irredeemable situation. It is not Jean Valjean who is trapped in his past, the past littered with mistakes, but it is Inspector Javert who is the one who is truly trapped in his inability to forgive and see beyond his prejudices.
Today’s familiar parable of the labourers in the vineyard evokes a similar tension and the same mixed reactions. To those who identify with the latecomers it is pure good news: God’s mercy is so boundless that even those who respond at the eleventh hour are not excluded from the reward of the Kingdom. But I don’t think our Lord was giving permission to those of you who come late for Mass and excusing such behaviour.
Yet the full-day workers feel the sting of injustice. They have borne the heat of the day, put in the greater effort and time, and still receive the same denarius as those who arrived almost at the close of business. From their perspective the landowner—God—appears neither generous nor just, but a capricious taskmaster who fails to honour merit. So, the question arises, as it does in Les Misérables: Is God unjust in seeming to favour the undeserving? Or is this simply mercy at work? How can we speak of a God who is both just and merciful?
The apparent incompatibility dissolves once we clarify what “justice” means. To do justice is to give a person at least what is due. That is precisely what the landowner does. Every worker had agreed to a denarius for the day’s labour. Those hired first received exactly what was promised; they were not short-changed. Justice is satisfied. Mercy, however, goes further: it gives more than is strictly due. The landowner’s generosity to the latecomers does not violate justice; it exceeds it. As St Thomas Aquinas observes, “God acts mercifully, not indeed by going against His justice, but by doing something more than justice; thus a man who pays another two hundred pieces of money, though owing him only one hundred, does nothing against justice, but acts liberally or mercifully… Hence it is clear that mercy does not destroy justice, but in a sense is the fullness thereof” (Summa Theologiae I, q. 21, a. 3). The Apostle James also reminds us that “Mercy exalts itself above judgment” (Jas 2:13).
What most unsettles us is that the parable seems to contradict a hallmark of human justice: impartiality. “Justice is blind,” we say. We cannot play favourites. Our sense of unfairness arises not from any breach of contract between the landowner and the early workers, but from the comparison we ourselves make between the pay and the hours worked. We assume, with the arrogance of our limited perspective, that remuneration must be based on merit, that it should be strictly proportional to effort, and that God must conform to our measures of fairness. We forget that the landowner is free to do what he wills with what is His.
We mortals in our hubris often forget that God is not bound by our human limitations. His justice and His charity coincide. There is no just action that is not also merciful, and no merciful action that is not perfectly just. He is not a detached, blind judge. He is a Father personally invested in each of His children. Love is not blind; love is bound. He gives not merely what we deserve, but what we need. So, the parable should not be interpreted as an indictment of God’s unfairness but rather of us in being envious. We can’t stand it to see others being better off, more successful, experiencing good fortune. The problem is not God’s partiality but rather our jealousy.
As long as we equate fairness with strict equality of outcome, God’s generosity will never make sense. We must move beyond the reflex that interprets another’s gain as our loss. The plain truth is that none of us—early or late, Valjean or Javert—can earn God’s love or salvation by our own efforts. We would be fools to presume that we come anywhere near deserving the generous payment of eternal life offered by the Eternal Landowner. Can we fault Him for lovingly, freely, and mercifully offering the gift of salvation which none of us deserved?
That should be good news rather than an occasion for envy or complaint. The next time we feel God has been unfair or has overlooked us, let us look to the saints who lived the principle that the last shall be first. They were too gratefully occupied in the vineyard to waste energy calculating who received how much for what. They lived for only one purpose: to love and serve God by loving and serving others. Put others ahead of yourself. Rejoice in their good fortune. Give thanks for the abundant generosity and mercy of God, who continues to invite both the Valjeans—and yes, even the Javerts—into His Kingdom, awaiting only our repentance and conversion of heart.
Twenty Fourth Sunday in Ordinary Time Year A
Peter’s suggestion of forgiveness being offered seven times would have already been regarded as generous by any standard. In most of our own experiences, twice is the limit. You may recall the proverb, “fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.” Forgiving the same offence twice only exposes my gullibility and foolishness. But then our Lord issues an answer that takes it beyond Peter’s magnanimity: “Not seven, I tell you, but seventy-seven times.”
The number seven, as many of you know, symbolises completeness. For the Jews, the seventh day was the Sabbath day when they ceased from menial work and recalled what the Lord had done for them in creation and in rescuing them from slavery. The seventh year was a special year of favour to the Lord and the seventh multiple of this period, served as the great jubilee where debts were forgiven, slaves were released and property which were taken were returned. But how about seventy times seven? Was it just merely repeating the above theme and giving it a superlative twist by multiplying it even further?
We turn to Chapter 9 in the Book of Daniel for an answer. The context of this book is the period of Babylonian captivity and exile. Daniel was studying the book of Jeremiah’s prophecies when he came upon the prophecy that Israel would be released from captivity after 70 years. The 70th year of exile was coming, and so Daniel began fasting in sackcloth and ashes, and he began confessing the sins of Israel and pleading with the Lord to hear and restore Israel. While he was praying, the angel Gabriel appeared and told him that the Lord had decreed “70 weeks.” Another period of 70 was going to follow the 70 years of exile in Babylon, and, Gabriel told Daniel, at the end of that 70-week period, that period of 70 x 7, the Lord would finally take care of sin. After 70 x 7, the Lord would “finish transgression, make an end of sin, make atonement for iniquity, bring in everlasting righteousness, seal of vision and prophecy, anoint the most holy” (v. 24). You could just imagine Daniel’s disappointment when nothing happened at the end of this period.
By the time of our Lord Jesus, this prophecy was an obsession for many Jews. From weeks, the fulfilment of the prophecy stretched on for years, and then decades and thereafter, centuries. From the time of Daniel to the Messiah, there would be 70 x 7, not weeks but years, to the Messiah was predicted to come after 490 years. The anticipation of the arrival of the Messiah was heightened by what he was expected to do - he would deal with Israel’s transgressions once and for all. At the end of the 70 x 7 period, there would be a great Jubilee, a release from debt, a manumission of slaves, a return to the land. This would be the fulfillment of the hopes of all faithful Israelites.
Forgiveness often seems … often “feels” … impossible to most of us, especially when we equate forgiveness as no longer remembering the hurt or feeling the sting of the offence. We often feel that if we still feel hurt or upset about an offence that perhaps we haven’t forgiven the offender. Or, that it is somehow unforgiving to hold the offender responsible for healing the wound they caused or fixing the damage they have done. We feel that unless we are ready to give them a free pass and choose to never bring up the issue again, we haven’t really forgiven them. But is this what real forgiveness looks like? You may be surprised to know, happily surprised, I may add, that forgiveness isn’t as hard or as impossible as you think. All of these mistaken beliefs and unreasonable expectations placed on us actually make forgiveness feel like a bigger burden than it’s meant to be.
St Augustine taught that forgiveness simply involved the willingness to surrender one’s natural right to revenge. When you stop wanting to hurt someone for having hurt you, when you choose not to strike back when you are struck or don’t want bad things to happen to them because they hurt you, you have forgiven them. That’s really all forgiveness requires. Easy right? Some of you may protest - easier said than done. Granted, sometimes, that’s hard enough. But the truth is that God doesn’t expect the impossible from us unless He chooses to give us the grace to do what is impossible. You may think that requires a miracle. The good news is that you don’t need a miracle to forgive. The Catechism of the Catholic Church teaches, “It is not in our power to not feel or to forget an offence; but the heart that offers itself to the Holy Spirit turns injury into compassion and purifies the memory in transforming hurt into intercession” (No. 2843).
It is possible to forgive someone — that is, to refuse to wish or inflict pain or insult on them for having hurt you — and still feel pain or anger, or a host of other feelings. It is likewise possible to forgive the offender but still need them to make things right in some way. Forgiveness is a function of love. To love someone is to work for their good. Letting people do bad things without requiring them to learn from their mistakes and heal the damage they have done is not working for their good. It is not love. It is aiding and abetting the offence, the sin. It is keeping the person locked in his or her sin.
Alright, now that you understand that forgiveness is possible, how about reconciliation? The truth is that reconciliation can only happen when there is mutual commitment on the parts of both the injured party and the offender to make things right again. Forgiveness is always possible, but reconciliation is never guaranteed. You need both hands to clap. Forgiveness allows the offended person to extend the invitation to reconciliation, but it is up to the offender whether they are willing to accept that invitation or not. Reconciliation is a gift two people give to each other by committing to the process of healing the damage that was done and for reconciliation to occur, the offender needs to be able to do three things: feel it, own it, fix it. So, even if the other person doesn’t feel your hurt, or refuses to admit his or her fault and therefore, see no obligation in fixing the issue, you can still offer forgiveness to that person which is ironically a gift to yourself because you can now move on in freedom.
Ultimately, forgiveness is not just making things right with our neighbour. It is also making things right with God. Pope Benedict XIV reminds us that “We cannot communicate with the Lord if we do not communicate with one another. If we want to present ourselves to him, we must also take a step towards meeting one another. To do this we must learn the great lesson of forgiveness: We must not let the gnawing of resentment work in our soul, but must open our hearts to the magnanimity of listening to others, open our hearts to understanding them, eventually accepting their apologies, to generously offering our own.”
Twenty Third Sunday in Ordinary Time Year A
One of the main complaints about the Church community life is that there are so much politics and drama. If only everyone, especially fellow Christians, could just learn to get along rather than get into each other’s hair. I would often remind people that the word “politics” comes from the Greek “polis” which means “people.” The reality is that “where two or three are gathered, there is bound to be politics and where there is politics, there are bound to be fights!” But our Lord also assures us that not everything is dark and glum about community life: “where two or three meet in my name, I shall be there with them.”
One may be scandalised to note that conflict takes place within the Church too. Aren’t Christians supposed to be peacemakers? Perhaps, but the truth is that conflict crosses all boundaries of religions, traditions, cultures and time. Even in the early Church, even in her earliest days there was conflict. The New Testament attests to this. The trouble is that most of us have difficulty dealing with conflict. Yes, there are a few among us that like to stir things up and then, either watch from the sidelines as others battle it out or else, jump right into the drama. However, most of us find conflict uncomfortable. I’m one of them. A parishioner once told me that I have a personality of a “pigeon.” I think she meant “dove.” That is why many think they can avoid conflict by choosing not to correct others.
Our desire to avoid conflict, our refusal to correct, may have less to do with charity than it has to do with a self-serving motive. In all honesty, it’s always difficult to correct because we don’t want to appear as the bad guy. We don’t want to sour existing bonds or ruin friendships. But silence and inaction are never the solution, and they both definitely do not flow from the well-spring of love. St Paul, in the second reading, writes, “Love is the one thing that cannot hurt your neighbour; that is why it is the answer to every one of the commandments.” Almost everyone would agree that love is the answer but to interpret love as inaction and silence is ludicrous. Love, in fact, places a duty on us to confront the evil. Ultimately, if we truly love them, we must always work for their salvation, which includes correcting them.
In today’s first reading, the prophet Ezekiel’s perception of his vocation as a prophet is more aptly described as that of a concerned brother watching out for his brothers and sisters in the faith. A prophet was considered to be the conscience of the nation, and we know from experience that the conscience often pricks and convicts. Ezekiel, therefore, compared his role to that of a sentinel or watchman who searches the moral horizon for impending disaster and then sounds the warning so that others take heed. He did not relish being thought of as a busy body who waits to pounce on every fault of his wayward brethren. His vocation flowed from his love of God and his love for his people. He was willing to be the voice of reason and Truth and even be at the receiving end of hostility and misunderstanding, if only he could convince his brethren to cease following the route to self-destruction.
In this Sunday’s Gospel, our Lord provides us with a concrete illustration of how love is translated into fraternal correction. He indicates the three escalating levels of fraternal correction. First, we are to correct the sinner privately. Then, if he refuses to listen, we bring one or two others. Finally, if necessary, the sinner must be brought to the Church. If he refuses even the correction of the Church, and if the matter is serious, he is to be excommunicated. This is what we have witnessed with the recent saga concerning the illicit ordination of bishops by the Society of St Pius X which led to the excommunication of all those involved in it. The last stage seems harsh and even at odds with the first two, but a careful reading would reveal that all three stages serve one single purpose. In the verses immediately preceding today’s text, our Lord speaks of searching for the one lost sheep. In a sense, brotherly and sisterly correction should follow the same idea. Therefore, correction’s goal is not retaliation but reconciliation, that is to lead back into the sheepfold the one who has gone astray and who has gotten lost along the way. St Thomas Aquinas teaches us, “fraternal correction is a work of mercy” and he cheekily adds, “Therefore even prelates ought to be corrected.”
Love isn’t something that makes us feel good. There are times when we are asked to love at a great cost. Pope Benedict XVI had always emphasised the intimate connection between charity and the Truth. Charity is always at service to the Truth, it can never be a cover up for a lie. In one of his homilies, the erudite Pope refers to an important part of the regalia of the bishop, his pastoral staff, and uses this to speak of the Church’s authority to correct – the crosier now seen as a disciplinary rod. “The Church too must use the shepherd’s rod, the rod with which he protects the faith against those who falsify it, against currents which lead the flock astray.” One can imagine the Pope reminding us of that age old adage, “Spare the rod and spoil the child.”
When the Church seeks to correct us, it is only because she wishes to inspire us to greater fidelity, not less. And when the Church extends the rod of authority, it is not to beat us into submission, but to gather us into the safety of the sheepfold. If the Church seeks to impose its sanction on us, it is only because she wishes to provide the moral parameters for our actions so that we may be guided back to the path of salvation. And that is why we should always be grateful that the Church continues to speak with the prophetic voice of Christ. For her motivation is never spite or meanness, but Love.
Walking the path of love is never easy. The other path which is filled with bickering and jealousy, violence and revenge, hate and fear is often crowded, broad and smoothly paved. Few would always choose to walk the more difficult path of love. Although few may choose to walk this path, let us be assured once again, “for where two or three meet in my name, I shall be there with them.” Yes, we never walk the path of love by ourselves. We are never alone. The One who loves us beyond all telling, the One who ate with sinners, pagans and tax collectors, the One who offers His enemies forgiveness on the cross, walks along with us. And as He walks along with us and ahead of us, He continues to guide and correct us through the voice of the Church, His Body. We should expect no less from Him.
Twenty Second Sunday in Ordinary Time Year A
Today, “synodality” has become the most popular catchword in ecclesial lingo. The 3 years process which culminated in the Synod on Synodality sought to promote “a process of listening and discernment.” This has sparked hope in some Catholics but deep concern in others. Why would something so innocent sounding be even construed as controversial? The real issue is not the word but the understanding, or using modern lingo “the POV” (point of view), regarding its meaning: is this synodal process a true exercise of ecclesial communion, like those experienced by the Church Fathers, or an attempt by the progressive camp to impose a new ecclesiology that dilutes sacred authority in favour of human consensus, which ultimately leads to change in doctrine?
The Greek etymology of the word “synod” suggests that we are fellow travellers journeying together, walking along the same path, sharing the same experiences, ups-and-downs of life, facing the same trials and challenges and therefore we should look at common ways of making decisions to chart our common path. When translated to ecclesial governance, it would even suggest that the governance of the Church should not be left to a group of celibate old men who have little or no experience of the real world. Instead of a top-down way of governing and making decisions, it should be a grassroots based approach, with our ears constantly to the ground.
But authentic Synodality has always had three characteristics: firstly, it was hierarchical - the successors of the Apostles, or the bishops, guided by the Holy Spirit, discerned in communion with the Pope (last week, we heard how the keys of the Kingdom were conferred upon Peter and his successors and not to every Tom, Dick and Harry); secondly, it was always doctrinally faithful, in that such consensus could not reinvent the faith but defended the Tradition received from Christ and transmitted through the Apostles, because any consensus cannot just be of members of a particular generation and among contemporaries but across the ages; and finally, such Synodality was exercised with a pastoral orientation - which basically means seeking the salvation of souls rather than adaptation to the world and pandering to the feelings of the crowd. Let us not forget the caution issued by St Paul in the second reading: “Do not model yourselves on the behaviour of the world around you, but let your behaviour change, modelled by your new mind. This is the only way to discover the will of God and know what is good, what it is that God wants, what is the perfect thing to do.”
The problem is that today, many misconstrue synodality as a purely horizontal process where the entire People of God would have a say in matters of faith and morals, as if the Church were a democracy. The tension which the prophet Jeremiah experienced in the first reading illustrates this point. Jeremiah is called to faithfully announced the word of God even though most of the people hated him for this message. There are certainly many good points that emerge from this concept of Synodality, at least the perception of it. It takes a popular approach, in that the masses are consulted before any decision is taken for the betterment of the church, in theory at least. It transplants a democratic model into a traditionally monarchical and hierarchical form of governance. But many have also expressed concerns about the limitations of such a model as opposed to the traditional hierarchical one. This form of democratic synodality absolutely denies the divine nature of the Church and her teachings which is not a product of human consensus but divine revelation.
The idea of walking together still begs the question: in which direction are we walking? Who gets to decide the path and the destination? In practical terms, this would be impossible in an egalitarian democracy where everyone’s path is respected because we will not arrive in the same direction if each of us decide to take our own path. Walking together would also be an oxymoron if each person is allowed to take his own path and even if we were to decide on one path among the many, which path would it be? The gospel provides us with the clear solution. We can only take the path of Christ as He teaches today, “If anyone wants to be a follower of mine, let him renounce himself and take up his cross and follow me.” If one decides to choose one’s own path, even if there is a consensus among us, we are taking the path of Satan rather than that of Christ. St Peter made that very mistake when he objected to Christ’s taking the path of the Way of the Cross. He who was supposed to be a foundation stone for the Church, a stepping stone for other followers of Christ, became a stumbling block the moment he stood before Christ to impede the latter’s path.
In the final document of the Synod of Synodality, the concept was defined in this way, “Synodality is the walking together of Christians with Christ and towards God’s Kingdom, in union with all humanity.” I think it is not enough to speak of us walking “with Christ” but rather more scripturally accurate to speak of us walking “after Christ”, sequela Christi, following Him instead of each other’s whim and fancy, for only Christ is the “Way, the Truth and the Life.” This is what St John affirmed in his second epistle: “and this is love, that we walk according to his commandments; this is the commandment just as you have heard it from the beginning—you must walk in it” (2 John 1:6). Without Christ, synodality breaks down completely. If I am headed east, and you want to go west, the conversation breaks down quickly. And then Synodality is nominally reduced to a useful tool in the hands of the strongest, the loudest, the one who commands the bully pulpit and orders others: “you listen when I speak.”
It is always a good thing to listen to the cries and pleas of the people but it is a far more important thing to listen to the voice of Christ speaking through the Holy Spirit in the Church. We should not make the mistake of drowning out the very voice that matters most of all by pandering to the demands of competing voices, even if they were the voices of those whom we perceive to be marginalised. If we propose to “walk together” as a “synodal” Church, the first order of business should be to determine whether we are headed in the right direction by following Christ. The litmus test can never be self-realisation or self-assertion as the world demands, but rather the Christian way of self-denial: “For anyone who wants to save his life will lose it; but anyone who loses his life for my sake will find it.” We can know and understand the Gospel of Jesus Christ fully and correctly only with the aid of the Church which Christ established, along with its Magisterium which Christ continues to guarantee. Clearly, then, true synodality can exist only in the service of the Gospel.
This is what we are about as we continue to strive to be a synodal church. First, that there is no rallying point without fidelity to the Gospel; second, that there is no safe gathering place without the authority of Christ’s Church; and, third, that there is no salvation without Jesus Christ. In other words, if synodality will now be understood as “a way together” inspired by the One who is the Way, the Truth and the Life and guaranteed by the teaching authority of the Church He founded, then synodality will no longer be a waste of time, but a hope and a prayer and even a method for the conversion of the world.
Twenty First Sunday in Ordinary Time Year A
In a popular caricature of first encounters with an alien race, the spokesperson of the extraterrestrials would usually make this request to the first contingent of humans they meet, a request that simply wishes to cut through all the bureaucratic red-tape: “Take me to your leader.” It’s ludicrous and even comedic because any human being can tell you that there is no single individual or body which can claim to be the sole leader of the entire human race. For us Catholics, however, the Pope comes close to being this.
“Ubi Petrus Ibi Ecclesia,” “Where Peter is, there is the Church”, is the famous quote from St Ambrose of Milan. This statement makes an important claim; in fact, an undeniably outrageous claim. It is saying “without the papacy, there is no Church.” Though many would contest and reject the veracity of this claim from without and even within the Church, popular culture has accorded him a special role, a caricature at best. One such popular image is that St Peter stands as a sort of gatekeeper (“or perhaps, even a goal keeper), guarding the Pearly Gates, the entrance to the heavenly realm – a seemingly ignoble job. Though hardly accurate, the image is derived from the gospel passage we just heard today, where our Lord bestows special prerogatives on Peter.
First, St Peter is given a new name, which in Scripture denotes a change in status or position. Our Lord spoke Aramaic and would have given Simon the Aramaic name Kepha (Rock) which is “Petra” in Greek and “Peter” in English. The Greek “petra” is feminine so the masculine “Petros” was adopted. If “Petra” refers to a rock, “petros” can refer to a little pebble. This has often been the contention of Protestants who see this title not as something honourable but a subtle insult, a diminuent of his status. Protestants argue that Christ is the only foundation (1 Cor 3:11) and to claim otherwise would be blasphemy. There is, however, no distinction in Aramaic, between Kepha the “Rock” and Kepha, the Apostle Peter, upon which Jesus would build his Church. Peter is Kepha, He is the rock. In fact, Syriac Christians, who continue to use Aramaic in their scriptures and liturgy, also claim that Jesus, the Rock of Salvation, conferred his own name and title on Peter. This must simply be the greatest honour accorded to any man.
Having been conferred a new title and name, St Peter is also given the metaphorical keys by Christ. We see the tradition of conferral of keys as symbolising the conferral of authority in the first reading. The significance of this passage in Isaiah is made clear in the gospel. As Jesus, the new King of Israel, re-establishes the Davidic throne He appoints Peter to the office of royal steward to rule “over the house” of His kingdom. As the steward of Christ’s kingdom, Peter is given the authority to bind and loose. These are keys not of any earthly palace but of heaven itself, which is another way of saying that the issue is linked to salvation. Of course, this entails more than the simpleton’s job of opening heaven’s door to the faithful. The keys were understood to represent legislative and judicial powers. These powers, Christ now transfers here to Peter. To say that St Peter has the key means he can declare certain things to be lawful and others unlawful; to prohibit or to permit, to excommunicate and lift the excommunication (as we had seen recently), to teach and to govern with the authority of Christ. In all this, he acts with the authority and power of Christ!
But the authority of the King, officially conferred here on his steward, does not end with the death of the steward. Our Lord would not have missed filling up this gaping loophole. The office of a royal steward was a hereditary position. Familiar with their history, the Jews certainly understood that the office of Peter would be filled by successors as was the royal steward’s office in Judah. The steward may die, but the office continues. In the case of the popes, they have received the keys through apostolic succession, one of the four defining marks of the Church. That is why the keys remain a prominent symbol in the coat of arms of every Pope.
The authority and the power of the Petrine Office, that is the office of St Peter in Christ’s kingdom, which is now handed down to his successors, the popes, is not just a point of contention with the Protestants who clearly reject it but has also become a scandal of sorts for Catholics. Irony has it that the rock, the foundation of our Church, has in fact become a stumbling block to critics, dissenters and persons who often treat their personal opinions as dogmas. In a world that prizes democracy, individualism, and personal autonomy, the Catholic teaching on the papacy often strikes many as outdated and dictatorial. Why should one man in Rome hold such authority over the universal Church? A belief popularly held by many is that no one individual should have unfettered powers of decision.
To the objectors who argue that this reading of scripture and tradition makes the Pope a dictator, we only have to look at the Second Reading from St Paul’s letter to the Romans: “How rich are the depths of God – how deep his wisdom and knowledge – and how impossible to penetrate his motives or understand his methods!” It would be pure hubris on our part to believe that we are wiser than God in such matters. Ultimately, in rejecting the authority of Peter and that of the Popes, one inadvertently but necessarily rejects the testimony of Scripture and in doing so we reject the authority of Christ; because Peter is his choice. Throughout Scriptures, we see God’s choices of leadership often been called into question because these do not conform to our own criteria of suitability for a candidate. In fact, God often chooses the least likely to succeed – the youngest or the oldest, the frailest, the most insignificant, the candidate most likely to fail. The papacy, similarly, is part of God’s mysterious plan, not human politics. Throughout history, popes have been sinners like us—some great saints, others (mostly) flawed. The choice of God often highlights his absolute sovereignty and gratuitousness, rather than a decision based on the extraordinary qualities of the candidate.
Let us not forget that it is Christ who builds the Church and not Peter. And therefore, the primacy of Peter is a primacy willed by God and not created by men, even though we are quite capable of choosing the wrong candidate.
If you have any confusion in your mind where that Church is, when faced with all those conflicting voices that inevitably always sound sincere and credible when claiming to speak the Truth, our Lord assures us, “I give you a marker, a beacon – look for Peter.” Peter will be a point of stability, a guarantee and an assurance that the Church will not be fazed even when everything shifts. In a market place filled with various ideological options and a countless multitude of opinions, where the search for certainty and stability is often frustrated, the Papacy provides us with clear direction. Where do I find the fullness of the Lord? Where do I find His Mystical Body, and not just a body that I have constructed? Then we only need go back his words, “On this rock, I will build my church.” “Where Peter is there is the Church.” Of course, the Holy Father remains utterly human, he sins as you and I sin. He may have opinions as we do. But when he teaches in his office as Pope, we can have confidence that Christ speaks definitively through him. He is indeed a gift from God, a sign of hope. In a fragmented world, this points to the one Lord, one faith, one baptism. May the Church, founded on this rock, shine as a beacon of truth and charity.
