How you choose to finish

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.

Mercy and Justice

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.

It doesn't take a miracle to forgive

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.”

No Politics and Drama - Just Charity

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.

Authentic synodality

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.

Where Peter is

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.

House of Prayer for All the Peoples

Twentieth Sunday in Ordinary Time Year A

The modern impression is that our world has become more multicultural and less tribal which would demand new ways of looking at politics, economics, education and even religion. This, however, is pure hubris and a myth. Globalism in our modern age has led to greater conformity rather than a respecter of differences and diversity. In fact, people who hold different views and positions from the mainstream are often ostracised and even persecuted. The ancients, despite our misgivings of their milieu, were more accepting of pluralistic ideas. Perhaps, the reason for this was that of survival. Harmony among peoples of different cultures, tribes and religions ensured that society for the most part could live in peace and conflict avoided.

It was during this milieu that Christianity emerged, a religion that defied strict categorisations. The two major religious world views of this time was universalism and particularism. By and large, the religious practices of the Roman-Greco world leaned towards universalism, that is the belief that all religions were substantially valid paths to enlightenment and salvation. This would explain the inherent syncretism that could take in the religious beliefs of various cultures and nations and mould them into a potpourri of religious beliefs and values which were mutually complementary. The worship of one god or other did not pose any offence as they were all mutually acceptable. It was basically a matter of personal choice.

On the other hand, Judaism posed a threat to this ancient liberal world view by insisting on a particularistic position that the God whom they worship was the only one true God, which meant that all other so-called “gods” were false, figments of popular imagination, or even worse, demons. It is no wonder that the exclusiveness of the Jews evoked hostility and resentment towards them.

Christianity was born out of a particularistic Judaism amidst the aforementioned diversities of a universalistic pagan world. It was initially viewed as one of the sects of Judaism which contributed to it being the target of hostility, opposition and persecution. But the broad divisions between Jews and Gentiles became dissolved with the proclamation of the universal gospel of Gospel. In such a situation, how did Christianity advocate universalism, yet maintained its particularism inherited from Judaism? How did it present itself as an all-encompassing, yet not a polytheistic or pantheistic religion? How did Christianity break down the proverbial high walls which the Jews insulated themselves from contamination by the surrounding pagan unclean world? We can see that this was not merely a radical Christian innovation but a long thread of God’s plan of salvation for His people. God’s invitation often surprises us by reaching beyond our expected circle of familiars.

Today’s readings invite us to ponder this expansive mercy of God, especially as we reflect on the tension between particularism and universalism in Catholic teaching.

The First Reading from Isaiah 56:1, 6-7 proclaims a bold vision: “for my house will be called a house of prayer for ALL the peoples.” The prophet speaks of foreigners who join themselves to the Lord, keeping the Sabbath and holding fast to the covenant. God promises to bring them to His holy mountain and make them joyful in His house. This is no mere tolerance; it is joyful inclusion. Israel, God’s chosen people exists not for itself alone but as a light to the nations. The particular vocation of Israel did not mean exclusion but was the foundation for a greater universal call. What was prophesied of Israel is now fulfilled in the Church, the new Israel. The Church was established as “lumen gentium” (light to the nations).

In the Second Reading taken from Paul’s letter to the Romans, the apostle had to defend the gospel of Christ which was intended for both Jews and Gentiles from the attacks of Judaisers, a group of early “Christian” teachers who insisted that the Gentiles had to become Jews (receive circumcision, observe the Mosaic law) before they could be lawfully admitted into the Christian family of the New Covenant of Christ. Paul, however, fundamentally disagreed with them. He, the Apostle to the Gentiles, speaks of his ministry to the nations to provoke his fellow Jews to jealousy and ultimately to their salvation. “God never takes back his gifts or revokes his choice.” God’s fidelity to Israel remains, yet His mercy extends to all, including those once considered outsiders. This is the Catholic balance: God works through particular means—the election of Israel, the Incarnation in a specific people and time—yet His saving will is universal.

The Gospel story dramatically brings this tension to life. A Canaanite woman, a Gentile from the region long associated with Israel’s enemies, approaches the Lord. “Sir, Son of David, take pity on me. My daughter is tormented by a devil.” At first, the Lord seems to embody uncompromising particularism: “I was sent only to the lost sheep of the House of Israel.” Yet, this woman persists with humility and faith and argues: “even house-dogs can eat the scraps that fall from their master’s table.” Our Lord marvels, “Woman, you have great faith. Let your wish be granted.” And her daughter is healed instantly.

What are we to make of this? In Catholic theology, we reject both extreme universalism and narrow particularism. Extreme universalism—that all will be saved regardless of response to grace—undermines human freedom and the seriousness of sin and conversion. It is true that God bestows things on us without measure. It is true that He wishes the salvation of all. It is certainly the gospel truth that Christ died not just for a few but for all. But it is not true, that we can presume that such salvation is guaranteed without any effort on our part, without any true conversion of the heart, without any transformation, conversion and sacrifice that comes from the core of our being. God bestows the grace of salvation and offers it to all of us, but now we must be willing to give ourselves entirely to him, without calculating, without stinginess.

Even if we believe that God wishes save all mankind and not just a few selected elites, the Church affirms that salvation comes through Christ alone, and we are called to proclaim Him explicitly. The analogy that all rivers flow to the sea cannot be applied to a pluralistic view of religion, that all religions, all paths, ultimately lead to salvation. Only Christ is the one path that can lead to salvation whether we acknowledge this or not for He is “the Way, the Truth and the Life.” Yet we also affirm the universal salvific will of God (cf. 1 Tim 2:4). How do we reconcile this? The Catechism quoting the Second Vatican Council teaches that “every man who is ignorant of the Gospel of Christ and of his Church, but seeks the truth and does the will of God in accordance with his understanding of it, can be saved” through the grace of Christ working in mysterious ways. These are “extraordinary” means only known to God alone. It is always safer to take the known “ordinary” path which is the Church and baptism is the doorway that leads to salvation. This is the reason why we must evangelise, not because we do so from a position of arrogant superiority but from authentic pastoral charity.

Particularism reminds us that God chooses specific instruments: the Jewish people, the Catholic Church as the ordinary means of salvation, the sacraments, and personal faith. These are not barriers but bridges. The Canaanite woman shows us that great faith can cross boundaries. Our Lord did not lower the standard; He recognised authentic faith expressed in humility and persistence. Her “crumbs” became a feast of grace.

In our times, this has profound implications. We live in a world of divisions—ethnic, ideological, religious. Some Christians retreat into a defensive particularism, fearing dilution of truth. Others embrace a vague universalism that treats all paths as equally valid, ignoring the uniqueness of Christ. The Catholic position holds the tension: We are particular in our fidelity to the fullness of revelation in the Church, yet universal in our hope and outreach. The Church is not a club for the righteous but a hospital for sinners, a house of prayer for all peoples.

The Church has indeed become “a house of prayer for ALL the peoples.” Where the Temple of Jerusalem failed in attaining this ideal, the Church has succeeded. If we are beneficiaries of the mercy of God which we did not merit; we must also become its heralds. May the Lord, who heard the Canaanite woman’s plea, grant us the grace of persistent faith that remains steadfastly rooted in Christ and a love that is expansive enough to welcome all to our Father’s house. May His house truly be a house of prayer for all peoples, beginning with me, with each of us.