Without the Cross we are Nothing

Twelfth Sunday in Ordinary Time Year C

Uniquely found in the Gospel of St Luke, is the context provided for St Peter’s confession. The exchange arises from Jesus’ prayer time. Several times in the Gospel we find Jesus praying in solitude: before being tempted in the desert, when He elected the Twelve, at Gethsemane. It is as if St Luke provides us with the bread crumbs to locate Jesus. Where can you find the Lord, except in prayer? Only the experience of silence and prayer offers the proper setting for the growth and development of a true, faithful and consistent knowledge of that mystery. After this experience of prayer Jesus asks a critical question: “Who do you say that I am?”  Jesus’ question tries to teach them how their faith, to be true, must be separated from the views of the world. Pope Benedict XVI explains that, “there are two ways of “seeing” and “knowing” Jesus: one – that of the crowd – is more superficial; the other – that of the disciples – more penetrating and genuine. The disciples were invited to move beyond the perceptions of the crowds. But this was not enough. They were now challenged to move beyond their own personal confessions.

In the Synoptic Gospels Peter’s confession is always followed by Jesus’ announcement of his imminent Passion. The passion predictions are not meant to be stand alone. To understand Jesus’ true identity, to understand the role, identity and mission of a disciple who is called to be a follower of Jesus, one needs to understand and assume the challenges that came with the Passion. Indeed, the titles attributed to him by Peter – you are “the Christ”, “the Christ of God”, “the Son of the living God” – can only be properly understood in light of the mystery of his death and Resurrection.

And the opposite is also true: the event of the Cross reveals its full meaning only if this man who suffered and died on the Cross is truly “the Christ of God.” If the identity of “Christ” can never be separated from his passion, then the identity of a Christian can never be separated from the cross.

Luke’s gospel adds a certain intensity to the demand of discipleship expected of those who wish to follow Christ. The disciple is not only expected to take up his cross once in his lifetime, but the cross is to be taken up ‘daily.’ The cross is thus lived in the every-day of on-going history. For a disciple of Christ to take up his cross is for him to be willing to start on a death march. To be a disciple of Jesus Christ is to be willing, in His service, to suffer the indignities, the pain, and even the death of a condemned criminal.

I’ve heard people describe our crosses as burdens we have to bear in our lives—the chronically ill relative, the alcoholic or unfaithful husband, the demanding boss, a short temper, recurring health problems. So taking up your cross means putting up with these things, enduring them and soldiering on. We basically have no choice in the matter. With self-pitying pride, they say, “That’s my cross I have to carry.” Such an interpretation is not what Jesus meant. The cross was never meant to be a mere accident, an unwanted burden. Grudging reluctance to bear the cross daily can only lead to resentment – to see life as a curse, rather than a blessing even in the midst of our daily crosses. What made the cross salvific was precisely the freedom and deliberateness by which Christ chose to embrace and die on it.

Commitment to Christ means taking up your cross daily, giving up your hopes, dreams, possessions, even your very life if need be for the cause of Christ. And this must be done with utmost freedom and love, rather than to assume that it is an unfortunate lot that has fallen upon us, one which we cannot avoid. The cross becomes our salvation only because we can choose to accept it and deny it. Thus discipleship becomes an act of freedom, of choosing to lose everything for the sake of the kingdom. For those who freely choose the cross, it is no longer a symbol of misfortune, a curse or an unwanted burden. The beauty of the cross only becomes apparent when we embrace it for love of Christ. Thus, we can echo the words of that medieval mystic, Thomas à Kempis, when he unabashedly confessed that “in the Cross is salvation; in the Cross is life; in the Cross is protection against our enemies; in the Cross is infusion of heavenly sweetness; in the Cross is strength of mind; in the Cross is joy of spirit; in the Cross is excellence of virtue; in the Cross is perfection of holiness. There is no salvation of soul, nor hope of eternal life, save in the Cross.”

It is only in recognising the necessity of the cross in our Christian lives,that we can choose to resist the temptation of fleeing from it. Our two Popes have given us a potent reminder of the pervasive necessity of the cross. In his last address to an emotional crowd, Pope Emeritus Benedict reminded the Church that his resignation did not mean coming down from the cross. He must have been prophetic as proof of this is found in his continuing crucifixion by critics of the Church and pseudo-fans of Pope Francis. The latter extol the simplicity of the new Pope at the cost of tarnishing the character of the old one. They equate the Pope Emeritus with their own poor notion of the Middle Ages—dark, backward and decadent—and speak as if the saintliness of the new Pontiff is an anomaly among the Successors of Saint Peter. Pope Emeritus Benedict continues to bear the cross, not just as a misunderstood figure, a victim of a relentlessly aggressive media, but he chooses to bear the cross for the whole Church. His decision to live a monastic life of prayer within the confines of the Vatican, hidden from the world, is his free and deliberate decision to bear his cross for the Church and the World. It is a sign of courage, not a sign of cowardice; it is an act proclaiming the victory of cross, rather than resigning oneself to defeat.

It is indeed providential, that as one Pope concluded his pontificate with reference to the cross, a new Pontiff would begin his reign by speaking of the necessity of same object. The path of the Church always entails difficulties, Pope Francis said in his first homily after his election to the pontificate, and Church leaders should be prepared to embrace them. He explained that “when we walk without the Cross, when we build without the Cross, when we profess a Christ without the Cross… we aren't disciples of the Lord.” The Pontiff therefore reminds us once again, that without the cross “we are worldly. We are bishops, priests, cardinals, popes, (and I would add lay and religious) but not disciples of the Lord.”

We may be great sinners but He is a Greater Saviour

Eleventh Sunday in Ordinary Time Year C

I’m going to make an unusual departure from the gospel story as the starting point for today’s homily. The gospel may be the preferred choice for most homilists, this being the Year of Mercy. My starting point, however, begins in the first reading. It is the tail end of a sordid tale of adultery compounded with murder. The main story-line deserves an R rating and I won’t be surprised that some of you may choose to walk out as it would seem an unfit story to be told in the presence of children. So, parental guidance is strongly recommended.

The premise of the prophet Nathan’s confrontation of King David began with the latter, seeing from his balcony the lovely Bathsheba at her bath, lusting for her, having her brought to his palace and lying with her and then arranging for the untimely demise of her husband Uriah, a loyal soldier in his army. Now had Bathsheba not become with child, David could have most likely covered up his malfeasance.  But Bathsheba did become pregnant, and David turned to scheming which eventually led to the death of Uriah. And all might have ended there for David, were it not for the insertion of a simple footnote in the text, “But the thing that David had done displeased the Lord.”

So the Lord sent the prophet Nathan to David.  Many of you may have heard part one of this encounter in your earlier days, the parable about two men, one rich, the other poor, and how the rich man had taken a lamb, the sole possession of the poor man for his own purposes.  Hearing the story, David exploded in anger.  “The man who did this ought to be lynched!” 

Here the greatest king in the history of Israel, a proverbial success story of a simple shepherd boy who became king, is tarred by this indelible black mark on his otherwise seemingly pristine record. Not just a simple petty crime. but two of the worst sins imaginable – adultery and murder. What seems worse was David’s lack of repentance or ownership of his crime. There was no indication that he had regretted his actions or even felt the slightest guilt for this heinous crime. Perhaps, David was seduced by his own self-importance. Perhaps, he believed he did not have to answer to anyone as he is king. But the Lord sent Nathan to hold him accountable.

One would expect a protest or at least a lengthy defense. But David makes a simple confession, “I have sinned against the Lord.” No excuses, no quibbling, no finger pointing, no scapegoating, no public display for sympathy. God accepted David’s remorse and forgave him, but the costs of David’s action could not be undone.  David would pay a painful price in troubles that would come to his family, largely because of forces his sin had put into motion.

God did not remain aloof or silent in face of the sin and great injustice committed by David. It would not have been mercy, if He had chosen to do so. God, however, sent Nathan to David to talk about what David had done, to say that it was not “OK”, to convict David of his sin. Admonishing and correcting the sinner is never an expression of judgmentalism but rather a neessary spiritual work of mercy. But the amazing thing is the story does not end there. Our lives are formed, accountable and answerable to a gracious and merciful Father. But we are not only the accountable and responsible.  We are also the forgiven. Our sin, serious and consequential as it is, does not defeat us. We can confess the truth of our sin; we can receive forgiveness; we can start over, begin again. How?  Through God’s forgiving grace. This is the amazingly good news which we have to announce to the world today.

The story of David and Nathan in the first reading therefore sets the stage for our gospel account of the woman with the bad name washing the feet of Jesus with her own tears. There is no denying that the story is about Jesus’ immense mercy. But it is also the story of the woman’s visible repentance. There is another story that seems to be a parallel parable of mercy. It is the woman caught in adultery. There is, however, a distinction between the two stories. In the case of the woman caught in adultery, there is no indication that she felt remorse and had come before Jesus to ask for pardon. Most likely this had not taken place. It was just unfortunate that her sin had been found out and now she was forced to shamefully face the charges that had been laid against her. Sounds like a description of the Malaysian context, “there is no law until you’re caught.”

The woman in today’s gospel, however, has an entirely different disposition. She is aware that others know of her reputation. She willingly submits to the crowds’ derision and to Jesus’ host mocking stares and even judgment. She comes with true contrition in her heart. Contrition is proven by her tears. It is as if St Basil, the father of Eastern monasticism, once wrote, “Weep over your sin: it is a spiritual ailment; it is death to your immortal soul; it deserves ceaseless, unending weeping and crying; let all tears flow for it, and sighing come forth without ceasing from the depths of your heart.” Those tears were an outward sign of her inner repentance that unlocked the flood gates of mercy. Notice the irony, the woman washed Jesus’ feet with her tears and He washed her soul with his redeeming grace and mercy. She offers Him her love, because through the gift of forgiveness, she now comes to realise how much she has been loved by the Lord.

Jesus fully understands the reason for this woman’s love for him. He provides us with the litmus test. It is those who have been forgiven much that are capable of loving much. Simon the Pharisee saw no need for forgiveness, thus his love remains small and miserly. Forgiven little, love little. David acknowledged his own guilt before God and experience an outpouring of mercy and forgiveness. This must have certainly made him a better king, not a perfect one though, but a better king nonetheless. We love God in proportion to how much we understand we have been forgiven.  Forgiveness expands our ability to love. It’s a cause-and-effect thing: His forgiveness is the cause; our love is the effect. It may indeed to be shameful to acknowledge that we are a sinner, in fact we may be a big sinner. But the good news is that we have a bigger Saviour.

In just a few moments God will reassure us of His love and of that forgiveness in a very real and personal way as he comes to us in the bread and wine of the Lord’s Supper.  Healing and forgiveness are intertwined with this banquet which the Lord prepares for us. The sick is healed, the sinner is forgiven, and incredibly the outsider is ‘invited’ not only to the table but also to enter into communion with Christ and His Church. The most undeserving of people are given a place at the table – to be heard, healed, forgiven, restored, taught, fed and to become beneficiaries of divine hospitality. There is only one criteria needed – we are sinners in need of forgiveness, in need of healing and in need of salvation. Those who think they are well, who think they have no need for forgiveness, have no place at the table. But those who come with the heavy baggage of sin, we have come so that our burdens may be lifted, our guilt removed, our sins forgiven, and to receive a new life in Christ, the One who forgive sins and restores us to our rightful place with God. 

We in this vale of tears

Tenth Sunday in Ordinary Time Year C

One of the most popular prayers in our Catholic treasury is the Salve Regina, the Hail Holy Queen. The poetic analogies and metaphors within this prayer are sufficiently rich to evoke our imagination. One particular phrase often catches my attention, “lacrimarum valle”, translated as “vale (or valley) of tears.” We the “banished children of Eve” send up our “sighs, moaning and weeping” in this “vale of tears,” may seem to be an over exaggeration, but for many these words accurately expresses their experience of being trapped in suffering and pain as they hope for final liberation. Tears have a way of opening closed doors and healing broken hearts.

In today’s gospel, two processions meet in the little town of Nain. The first procession was a funeral cortege, transporting the body of a young man whose life was cut down in the springtime of life. What could be more poignant than a mother’s weeping over the death of her only child? In this case, however, the darkness was even worse.  She was a widow. When a husband died, it was the duty of the eldest son to care for a mother. Without a man to provide for her, and no social welfare state, she was now going to be reduced to being a beggar, destitute and abandoned. But as this death march was heading to the burial ground, they meet another procession. Jesus was heading in, surrounded by his disciples and a large crowd of followers.

In many ways, life too consists of two processions. One procession is a death march, a funeral cortege, a journey toward death. The existentialist philosopher Heidegger once claimed that humanity are “beings unto death.” From the moment that we are born or come into existence, we are plunging to our death. Sounds morbid? Certainly. But there is a second procession, a procession of life that involves walking together with Jesus. One of the greatest discoveries on our pilgrimage in this life, in this “vale of tears,” is that there is another pilgrimage going on. As we are journeying toward the Lord, we discover that he is coming to meet us. There’s perhaps no greater illustration of this spiritual reality than today’s Gospel from Nain. Jesus always makes the first move. Our Holy Father, Pope Francis never ceases to describe how God makes the first move, that when we journey, we discover that God was waiting for us. “The Lord always gets there before us, he gets there first, he is waiting for us! To find someone waiting for you is truly a great grace.”

The gospel tells us that when Jesus saw this grieving mother, he “felt sorry for her”, it was not just pity, but a profound compassion that would have come out of the very depths of his being. His first and only recorded words to her were this, “Do not cry.” I do not believe it came across as a reprimand or an order, “Stop sobbing! Stop wailing!” Rather, they were words of consolation and encouragement. The Lord did not mean that we should not weep for the dead.  He himself wept for his friend Lazarus.  He wept for the people of Jerusalem when he prophesied the destruction of that city; and lastly, in the Sermon on the Mount, He praised and blessed those who weep, “for they shall be comforted.”  In the Orthodox methodology of salvation, tears are among the first means of cleansing the soul, heart, and mind.  Tears are a gift.  In sorrow, they are part of the healing process.  In repentance, they are the “second baptism” that lead to genuine healing, confession, absolution, and reconciliation with God and the community.

But there is, though, a difference between tears and tears.  St Paul commands the Thessalonians “that ye sorrow not, even as others which have no hope” (1 Thessalonians 4:13) like the pagans and the godless, for they mourn their dead as utterly lost. According, Pope Benedict XVI, “there are two kinds of mourning. The first is the kind that has lost hope, that has become mistrustful of love and of truth, and that therefore eats away and destroys man from within. But there is also the mourning occasioned by the shattering encounter with truth, which leads man to undergo conversion and to resist evil. This mourning heals, because it teaches man to hope and to love again.” Christian mourning, therefore, brings healing and change, rather than traps us in hopeless and endless grieving that leads to despair.

Even so, these tears can be useful.  They come when the pagan “who has no hope” comes to the end of himself and realises he is impotent before the powers of the world and that, despite his best efforts, he can protect neither his own life nor anything he values.  It is in this moment that the touch of Christ is so critical.  The Lord was there for the widow of Nain, and, even more significantly, he was there for her son.  He does not just offer the comfort of a warm embrace and a loving touch; He offers the lasting comfort of eternal love and resurrection from the dead.  Death cannot survive the encounter with Christ. In His presence the transformation is complete; our lamentation would be turned into the song and our mourning into joy. 

Yes, death is a reality of life. Every person in this room has probably been confronted by the death of someone we love; a family member or a friend. Death often raises more questions than it provides answers. Today’s gospel also answers none of these questions, at least not in the way we most often want. We cannot rationalise or explain death. We cannot gloss over it, deny, or ignore it. It is real and, regardless of when or how it comes, it is always painful. No logic can satisfy. We can never make sense of the loss that comes with death. It hits too close to home. We all weep and struggle with the mystery of death.

Beneath our questions and feelings lies a great fear. It is a fear that in many ways dominates and drives not only our lives but our entire society and culture. Despite what we know about the Christian faith, despite what we say we believe, despite what we want to believe, we fear and believe death to be final, the end, the ultimate reality. We have been deceived and convinced that death leaves us no future. That’s why we so rarely talk about death openly and honestly. That’s why when we do talk about it we don’t know what to say. That’s why many stay away from funeral wakes or even if they do attend they avoid viewing the body.  It’s too much to see, too much to bear, when you believe that’s all there is and it is the end.

The crowds are our witnesses that Jesus has already given us everything he gave the widow and her son. Death is not the end, the final or ultimate reality. Life is eternal and love is immortal. Life is not bound or determined by time, but by God. As long as we see death as the running out of time, the end, the grand finale, we will always be jealous of the widow. We will always be looking for just a little more time, an encore. This gospel is not about getting more time but about being given greater life. Jesus did not promise us a long life but eternal life. Isn’t that what our burial liturgy says? “Life is changed, not ended.” Isn’t that why Jesus can stand before this widow, feel in his gut her pain and loss, and still say, “Do not cry?” Isn’t that why every week we stand and say, “We look for the resurrection of the dead?”

Today, on altars all across the world, Jesus wants to touch us all. Today he is about to work a far greater miracle than raising a young man from the dead. He is about to change simple bread and wine into his body and blood so that we might, in receiving his risen body, have life through him. The altar is the place from which Jesus wants all of us, whether we headed to Church on a procession of life or one of death, to leave following him on a procession of life all the way to the heavenly Jerusalem. God still visits his people. He still interrupts our sorrowing and our grieving. He surprises us with life as He wipes every tear away and promise us that death will be a thing of the past. “After this exile (on earth),” whom do we meet but but the Blessed fruit of Mary’s womb Jesus,” the Lord of Life and the Living! In Him there is no death, only Life!