Love God above all else

Thirtieth Sunday in Ordinary Time Year A

The Pharisees come to the Lord with a question that sounds pious but is really a test: “Master, which is the greatest commandment of the Law?” This was not a genuine question born out of sincere curiosity. In fact, it is quite likely they know the answer. The truth is that they wanted to catch Him in a debate about priorities—which duty ranks highest, which love comes first. Our Lord answers without hesitation, and His answer holds the whole Law and the Prophets together in two sentences that can never be separated and which every Christian should know by heart: “You must love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your mind. This is the greatest and the first commandment. The second resembles it: You must love your neighbour as yourself.”

Notice the order. Notice the force of that word “resemble” (Greek - omoia, from the root “homo”), or in some translations, “like.” The second is not an optional add-on, nor is it a softer version of the first. It resembles the first, it is like the first—because it draws its very life from the first. Any love for neighbour that is not rooted in love for God is no longer the love Jesus commands. It may look generous, it may feel warm, it may even do a great deal of good on the surface—but it is not Gospel love. But one thing is clear - the two parts of the commandment are inseparable, although they sometime seem to pull us in opposite directions.

There is a real tension here, and we must not pretend otherwise. On the one hand, we can become so absorbed in “loving God” or think that we are doing so, that we grow cold toward the people He places in our path—the stranger, the widow, the orphan, the one who inconveniences us. In fact, our Lord tells us that “if we have done this to the least of the brethren, we have done this to Him.” But there is more. The first reading from Exodus is blunt about the consequence of our indifference: the Lord hears the cry of the oppressed, and His anger flares against those who claim to belong to Him while crushing the vulnerable. You cannot love God and treat your neighbour as disposable. Remember what St John tells us: “Anyone who says they love God but hates their brother or sister is a liar” (1 John 4:20).

On the other hand—and this is the subtler danger in our time—we can become so absorbed in “loving neighbour” that God quietly drops out of the picture. We start to think that being a decent person, a helpful person, a socially conscious person is enough. We reduce the second commandment to a programme of social justice or altruism: do good, be kind, make the world better. And we call it Christian love. Loving others becomes purely our effort and ours alone. That is why love can often feel burdensome when it is not reciprocated. This is the problem we see in so many marriages, including those among Catholics. They view the love that they have for each other is purely a commitment they made during the wedding ceremony, not realising that there is a necessary third party to the marriage, One who cements the indissoluble bond between them - it is God. God’s love completes the marriage and brings it to fulfilment.

The second part of the commandment resembles the first precisely because it is an overflow of the first. When the heart is fixed on God—when we love Him with everything we are—then the neighbour is no longer a project or a cause or a way of feeling virtuous about ourselves. The neighbour becomes someone who belongs to the God we love. We see them with His eyes. We serve them with His heart. The love is no longer our own achievement; it is participation in the love that God Himself is.

That is the difference between Gospel love and the altruistic “love” of the do-gooder. The do-gooder acts from a sense of duty, or sympathy, or ideology, or the quiet satisfaction of being useful. All of that can produce real benefits. But it remains horizontal. It does not rise to God, and therefore it does not finally transform the one who gives or the one who receives. It can even become a subtle form of self-worship: I am the one who helps; I am the solution.

Gospel love is different. It begins on its knees. It begins with the confession that we ourselves are the ones who have been loved first—loved when we were strangers, when we were orphans of grace, when we had nothing to offer. Only from that place of having been claimed by God does our love for others become pure. It is no longer about proving our goodness; it is about allowing the goodness of God to pass through us. St Therese spoke of this love which “drove the members of the Church to action, that if this love were extinguished, the apostles would have proclaimed the Gospel no longer, the martyrs would have shed their blood no more”. Without such love, we would be an empty shell.

Saint Paul, writing to the Thessalonians in today’s second reading, shows us what this love looks like in practice. The believers there had received the Gospel “in spite of the great opposition,” and their joy in the Holy Spirit became a living witness. Their love was not a social programme; it was the fruit of having turned from idols to the living God and of waiting for His Son. Their neighbour-love was rooted in God-love, and therefore it had power.

So the tension remains, and it is healthy. If our love of God does not press us outward toward the neighbour, it is incomplete. If our love of neighbour is not continually drawn back into the love of God, it will eventually wither into activism or sentimentality. The two commandments stand together, the second resembles the first, because only when the heart is given wholly to God can it be given freely to others.

Today, then, let us ask for the grace to hold them in the right order. Let us love the Lord our God with everything we are—heart, soul, mind—and from that love, and never apart from it, let us love the neighbour He places before us. That is the whole Law. That is the Gospel. That is the only love that lasts or in the words of St Therese who found her true vocation in love: “that love is everything, that this same love embraces every time and every place. In one word, that love is everlasting.”

We belong to God

Twenty Ninth Sunday in Ordinary Time Year A

Most people these days seem obsessed with image, that is, how they appear to others and are perceived by the public. Politicians craft carefully curated images. Social media is a gallery of self-portraits, filtered and perfected. We let people see facets of our lives but only those parts which are favourable to us or serve our purpose. Church leaders wish to be perceived as holy and upright. Currency itself bears the face of power. And yet today’s readings confront us with a far more profound question of image and belonging: Whose image do we bear, and to whom do we ultimately belong?

In the first reading, the prophet Isaiah presents us with a startling figure: Cyrus, the pagan emperor of Persia. God addresses him as His “chosen,” literally His “anointed,” His messiah. “It is for the sake of my servant Jacob, of Israel my chosen one, that I have called you by your name, conferring a title though you do not know me.” Cyrus is chosen, not because of his faith, not because he worshipped the God of Israel, in fact, as the prophet noted, Cyrus did not even know the God of Israel. He was chosen purely for the sake of God’s people. He is an instrument in the divine hand, used for a purpose far greater than his own ambitions. He conquers, he opens doors, he restores the exiles—yet he remains largely unaware of the One who grasps his right hand. He seems to be the most powerful figure in the ancient world and yet there is another power far greater than his who is pulling the strings. This is what it means to be chosen by God. We take no credit in us being called and chosen. We did not earn it, we are not deserving of it, we have no achievements to show. And yet, God chooses us, just because He can!

Contrast this with Caesar in the Gospel. The Pharisees and Herodians approach our Lord with flattery and a trap: “Master, we know that you are an honest man and teach the way of God in an honest way, and that you are not afraid of anyone, because a man’s rank means nothing to you. Tell us your opinion, then. Is it permissible to pay taxes to Caesar or not?” Our Lord was not distracted by the seeming flattery and was not naive enough to fall into their trap. Instead, He asks for the coin. “Whose head is this? Whose name?” “Caesar’s,” they reply. Then comes the masterful answer: “Very well, give back to Caesar what belongs to Caesar – and to God what belongs to God.” In some translations it is seen as a debt “repay to Caesar what belongs to Caesar …”

Caesar’s image is stamped on the coin. His claim is political, economic, and, in the imperial cult, quasi-divine. Where local deities used to adorn the coinage of ancient civilisation, Caesar had the audacity to put his own image on the coin. That’s really making a loud statement - Caesar is claiming to be God. He not only demands tribute as a sign of allegiance but also a state-imposed cult that worships him. Yet our Lord quietly demotes him. Our Lord’s actions are clearly treasonous which is one of the objectives of His enemies, to either set Him up for the high crime of treason or place Him with the pagans as an idolater. The words of our Lord are not meant to be construed as a political reasoning that justifies the separation between the power of the State and that of religion or the Church. Rather it is placing Caesar’s authority under that of God’s, the fount of all power and authority. Caesar may have rights over the things that bear his image, but those rights are limited. There is a higher claim, a more fundamental belonging, and even Caesar and all rulers must be subject to that.

Here’s the irony behind these historical figures. Cyrus is the unwitting instrument who does not know the God who chooses him. Caesar is the pretender who claims what does not ultimately belong to him. One is used by God without knowing Him; the other is reminded that even imperial power is subordinate to the God who alone is Lord.

And here the readings turn toward us. St Paul writes to the Thessalonians: “We always mention you in our prayers and thank God for you all … (because) God loves you and that you have been chosen.” We too are the chosen. Not by accident of birth or political fortune, but by the free and loving election of God. And the deepest reason for that choosing is written into our very being: we are made in the image and likeness of God, as we read in the Book of Genesis. This is the clue to unpacking the teaching of our Lord in the gospel. The coin bears Caesar’s image; therefore it belongs to Caesar. We bear God’s image; therefore we belong to God. Everything we are—our intellect, our freedom, our capacity to love, our very existence—is stamped with the divine likeness. To “give to God what belongs to God” is not merely to offer a portion of our time or resources. It is to surrender the entire self - mind, heart, soul and being.

Being chosen is not a privilege that excuses us from responsibility. It is a vocation that calls us to live differently. The chosen are summoned to a life of gratitude and joy. This life of gratitude and joy is sustained and expressed through the three theological virtues: faith, hope, and charity. This is what St Paul tells us in the second reading.

In our current political climate where so many Malaysians have grown disillusioned and disheartened with our political leaders, with our Caesars, it is good to know that we have these three virtues that will provide us with the correct lens to view our future.

Faith is the recognition that God is God, and there is no other. Faith allows us to see beyond the surface of political power and to trust the hidden hand of Providence that can use even unlikely instruments for His purposes.

Hope keeps us from despair when the world seems dominated by Caesars of every kind. Hope remembers that history is not finally in the hands of the powerful, but in the hands of the God who once grasped the right hand of a pagan king for the sake of His people. Hope looks toward the definitive reign of Christ, when every image that competes with God’s will be revealed as temporary.

And finally, Charity—love—completes the triad. Because we bear God’s image, we are called to love as God loves: freely, generously, without calculation. It is the joyful response of those who know they have first been loved and chosen. Cyrus was chosen without knowing the Chooser. Caesar claimed what was not his. We, by contrast, have been given the grace to know the One who has chosen us. We know whose image we bear. And imitating our Creator, we must love as He does.

Therefore we can give to Caesar what is due—respect for legitimate authority, civic responsibility, the ordinary duties of citizenship—without ever surrendering what belongs exclusively to God: our hearts, our conscience, our ultimate allegiance, our very selves. Never forget that when you were created in your mother’s womb, you received the indelible image of the living God. At baptism, you received the indelible mark of Christ, the One who shows us what God’s image looks like. You are chosen. Live, then, in gratitude. Live in joy. Live by faith, hope, and charity. Give to God what belongs to God—and discover that in so doing, you lose nothing but instead, you receive everything.

Eat and Live

Twenty Eighth Sunday in Ordinary Time Year A

There is an old proverb that still cuts close to the bone: “Eat to live, not live to eat.” It used to be the signature response of the late Fr Anthony Chan whenever asked the reason for his choice of a bowl of plain porridge when a sumptuous array of delectable food choices was placed before him. In his signature Kwangtung accent, he will readily chirp: “Eat to live, not live to eat.”

Although most Malaysians would scoff at the wisdom of the saying, many would secretly nod in agreement when we hear it. We may not like it, but you don’t need to like something for it to be true. We know the difference between taking food so that the body can keep going and turning every meal into the purpose of existence. Yet how easily we reverse the order. We live for the next satisfaction, the next comfort, the next distraction, as though the banquet of this world were the final destination rather than a provisional provision for the journey.

Today’s readings refuse to let us settle for mere survival. Our vision should not be so myopic. Our goals should be set higher. The first reading in particular open before us a vision of a feast that is not about filling the stomach but about filling the soul with life that death cannot touch. Isaiah paints the scene with almost embarrassing abundance: on this mountain the Lord of hosts will prepare for all peoples a feast of rich food and choice wines—juicy, rich food and pure, choice wines. He will destroy the veil that covers all peoples, the web woven over all nations; he will destroy death forever. The Lord God will wipe away the tears from every face. This is not a meal to keep us alive for another day. This is the meal that ends death itself. Salvation here is not the clever management of scarcity or the clever avoidance of suffering. It is the definitive overthrow of everything that reduces us to survivors.

The psalmist sings the same truth in quieter tones: “You have prepared a banquet for me in the sight of my foes… In the Lord’s own house shall I dwell for ever and ever.” Just imagine that: even in the dark valley of death, the table is set. The point is not that we never go hungry or never walk through shadow. The psalmist has actually experienced the depths of walking in that valley of the shadow of death. The point he is making is that the Shepherd’s provision is greater than the threat. We do not merely survive the valley; we are led through it to the house where we are meant to dwell forever.

Saint Paul, writing from a place of real deprivation and real abundance, has learned the secret: “I know how to be poor and I know how to be rich too. I have been through my initiation and now I am ready for anything anywhere: full stomach or empty stomach, poverty or plenty. There is nothing I cannot master with the help of the One who gives me strength.” Notice what he does not say. He does not claim that God will always keep the larder full or the bank account healthy. He claims that the One who strengthens him is enough, whether the plate is full or empty. Survival is not the goal. Communion with Christ is. And that communion supplies whatever is truly needed because “my God will fulfil all your needs, in Christ Jesus, as lavishly as only God can.”

Then comes the parable which our Lord tells in the gospel. A king prepares a wedding feast for his son. The original guests treat the invitation as optional, almost trivial. One goes to his farm, another to his business. It is clear where their priorities lie. Survival is far more important than bearing the risk of offending the king. Call it being presumptuous. This is where they make the greatest mistakes of their lives. In wanting survival above all else, they write their own death warrant and script for destruction. The king’s response is severe, yet the feast is not cancelled. The invitation is thrown wide open: go out into the streets and invite everyone you find, bad and good alike. The hall fills. But one man is found without a wedding garment and is cast out into the darkness. How do we make sense of this strange ending?

The answer is found in understanding the very purpose of the telling of this parable. The parable is not primarily about etiquette. It is about the difference between showing up and belonging. Many are invited; few are chosen. The wedding garment is not a fashion statement. It is the disposition of a heart that has accepted the invitation on the King’s terms, not its own. It is the recognition that this feast is not one more social obligation or one more opportunity for self-indulgence. It is the banquet of the Son, the feast of salvation where we “eat to live,” the place where death is destroyed and tears are wiped away.

Here the proverb “eat to live and not live to eat” finds its Christian depth. We are invited to eat so that we may live—not the thin life of biological survival, nor to feed our hedonistic urge for binging, not even the slightly thicker life of moral respectability, but the life that is communion with the Bridegroom. The Eucharist is the weekly rehearsal of that final banquet. Here we put into practice what we profess with mere words: “we eat to live!” The food we receive is not calories for another week of striving. It is the Body of the One who has already conquered death. To approach the altar merely to “get something out of Mass,” or to treat the invitation as one more item on a crowded schedule, is to live to eat. To come hungry for the life that only Christ can give, willing to put on the garment of conversion, is to eat in order to live—and to live forever.

The tragedy of the first guests was not that they were busy. It was that they judged the feast less important than their farms and businesses. The tragedy of the man without the garment was not that he was imperfect, but that he presumed the invitation required nothing of him - it exacted no cost, made no demands, and so “easy come easy go.” Both attitudes reduce the banquet to something manageable, something that fits around our survival strategies. Both of these scenarios serve as warnings to those of us who give excuses when we choose to skip Mass or come spiritually and physically unprepared, just waiting for Mass to end. Some don’t even wait. They are out the door once communion has been received.

So, the question returns to us with quiet force: do we eat to live, or do we live to eat? Do we treat the Lord’s invitation as one more demand on our limited energy, or as the one necessary thing that makes every other effort possible? The table is already set. Not calves and fattened cattle, but the Son of God Himself who has been immolated for our sake on the altar of the cross. Everything is ready. The only question left is whether we will come—and whether we will come clothed in the readiness that the King himself provides. Come to the feast. Not to keep sane or healthy for another day, not doing so grudgingly, but willingly and happily, because you know you are about to receive the life that death cannot touch. Eat, and live.