"Do something about it" Reflection for the 25th Sunday of Ordinary Time - Year B

Reading today’s Gospel carefully, we can’t help but feel quite sad for the Lord. 

Take a minute and imagine ourselves in his place. 

There he was, hoping to tell his disciples, his friends, that very shortly he would be handed over, be betrayed, would suffer, and be killed. 

And, what was his friends’ response?

Nothing.

They didn’t understand and didn’t even bother to ask what he meant. Then, just as to prove their ability to be so insensitive, they got into a debate of who would be the greatest among themselves.

Have you ever been in a somewhat similar situation where you wanted to share something so important, and yet your friends just did not seem to care?

I have to admit I so admire the Lord’s patience. If it were me who was in his shoes, trust me, I would not be nearly that gentle, no matter how good of friends they were to me. 

But, see; these guys weren’t bad people. If they were, they wouldn’t bother accompanying a guy who, in his own words, had “no place to rest his head.” No, these were very good folks; the only problem was they were so caught up within their own agenda that they missed the obvious. They missed the Lord’s reaching-out to them and his invitation for them to enter more deeply in his Father’s plan. 

Let’s not be so quick to judge them, however. Because, dear friends, we, people of this twenty first century, are doing the same thing, and are making the same mistake. 

At times in our lives, we find ourselves so caught up with our own plans that we miss Christ suffering all around us. We overlook the 925 million hungry people in our world. We overlook the five millions children died every year because of the lack of food. We overlook the countless men and women, jobless and homeless, many of whom were victims of deprivation and extortion from greedy employers. We overlook, even in our own homes, elderly parents who long for some companionship. We overlook children who are desperate to be acknowledged, loved, and cared for.

These agendas, such as that of an endless striving on the career ladders, of obtaining wealth, of ambitions, of wanting for success, are becoming the driving force of our lives. They, although in themselves, aren’t necessarily evil, without them society cannot progress, however can easily disable us from seeing what truly is happening around us.

 And so, out of sight, out of mind. 

That is until it hits us right in the face with a cosmic impact. For the disciples, it was the horrid passion Christ underwent. For us, what would it be? The loss of the loved ones we’ve inadvertently neglected? Or, the children whom we loved so much fall into crimes, drugs, or alcoholism, because we just haven’t gotten time to care? Or, God forbids, we contract some sever illness ourselves and understand for the first time what it means to be truly in pain? Or, maybe we encounter an experience like that of Kevin Carter, a South African photojournalist, in this story which I wish to share:

In 1993, Kevin Carter began snapping photos of famine victims at an UN feeding center in drought-stricken Sudan. Then, one day, seeking relief from the sight of such misery, he wandered into an open bush. There he heard a soft, high-pitched whimpering and found a tiny, frail little girl crouched, head bowed, struggling to make it to the feeding center. 

 

Carter instantly got camera ready, for here was powerful picture. He started to photograph her when dramatically, a well-fed vulture, taller by far than the child, landed a few feet behind her waiting to claim her when she died. This was a picture of a life time! Careful not to disturb the bird, Carter repositioned himself for the best picture possible. He waited for about twenty minutes for the vulture to do something like spread its wings for even a more dramatic image. I didn’t. So, after Carter took his photo, he chased the vulture away and watched as the little resume her struggle alone. 

Later in the day, when he finally got a chance to sit down and think about it all, he sat under a tree, chain-smoking, talking to God, and … crying. He thought of his small daughter Meghan and longed to hug her. The picture that Carter took appeared in the New York Times in March 1993. It proved controversial. Carter was criticized for being so absorbed in his craft that he didn’t reach out to help the little girl. In 1994, his photograph won the Pulitzer Prize.

Two months later Carter committed suicide.

Carter was not a bad, neither are we. We are merely humans who, sadly, are slaves to blind-sightedness. We fail to his Christ speaking to us of his sufferings in his lowly ones in the world today. It is not because we do not want to; we are just so much caught up in the “me” plans. For Kevin Carter a great photo shot of a life time. What about us? Well, that’s for me and you to name.

Now, from a different angle, we may be tempted to think that God will certainly provide for the poor and the oppressed. After all, they, too, are his children. And we are right. God will provide. God has provided for them, as a matter of fact; God has made you and me. 

Friends, the bottom-line message of this reflection is narrowed down to just this: notice Christ. Listen to his cry of pains and suffering in our world today. And then, to the best of our ability, do something about it.

“Was there nothing to fight for?” - Reflection for the 24th Sunday of Ordinary Time Year B

Today’s Gospel is so rich in meaning that it presents several themes that we could use for our reflection. The location in which it took place, which is Caesarea Philippi, alone can be the topic for much discussion; then there was the theme of Peter’s profession of faith, the Christological question: “Who do they/you say that I am?” And of course, there is the theme of the cost of discipleship which will be the central topic I wish to reflect upon this Sunday.

“Whoever wishes to come after me must deny himself, take up his cross, and follow me.”

The standard set by Christ seems quite clear.

How are we to apply it into our daily life?

In the time past, whenever I gave talks to young people, I often encouraged them to be proud of their Catholic identity. I told them to courageously live their faith in spite of what other people think of them and say about them. All these advices are sound and right, for indeed that is what we should do. The only problem was that I had made it sound so easy. I had told those young people to do something that I myself was never challenged to do.

Growing up in a Catholic family, in a relatively Catholic friendly neighborhood where you could find a Catholic Church every other mile, my faith was never challenged. Right after high school, I joined the seminary, and thus my entire college experience was also confined into a quite Catholic environment. So, this young, idealistic seminarian truly didn’t have a clue when he told his fellow peers to live their faith courageously and proudly in their respective environment.

So, naturally, the Lord found a way for me to learn a valuable lesson of what it entailed to be a follower of Christ – to be called Christian.

This summer, I was sent to study in D.C. For the first time, I was placed in a secular University in a city where Godly values seem more and more undermined. I finally understood what it felt like when people kept distance from you, ridiculed you, ignored you, looked down on you, and even being hostile towards you for your faith values as well as your Catholic identity (much more so once they found out that you’re studying for the Priesthood).

Admitted I was quite dejected because many of these young people whom I have always been eager to serve had shunted me as if I had contracted some deadly decease. At the same time, I grew a deeper appreciation for those Catholic youth who have been so strong in their identity as Christians and who have no fear practicing their faith in the midst of a culture, an environment where God had been seemingly forgotten.

More than anything else, I learned a lesson of humility, and because of such an experience, I am able to find in this Sunday’s Gospel a much deeper understanding.

“The Son of Man must suffer greatly and be rejected by the elders, the chief priests, and the scribes, and be killed…”

“Whoever wishes to come after me must deny himself, take up his cross, and follow me.”

The verb “follow” (Greek: Akoloutheo) does not only refer to “follow one who precedes” but also “join in as an attendant” and to “accompany.” Therefore, Christ’s invitation for those who seek to follow him is not only to walk behind him, but to work with him. What he suffered, his followers should expect to suffer; the bitter cup he drank, his followers should expect to drink; the shameful death he endured, his followers should expect to endure in their own manners. However, it also means that the glory that he is in will be the reward of those who hold fast to the end.

Throughout the Church’s history, countless men and women have taken up this challenge. For instance, early Christians, for Christ’s sake, were accused of practicing cannibalism, incest, atheism, etc. They endured painful and horrid deaths: Peter was crucified upside down, Bartholomew was skinned alive, Paul was beheaded, Ignatius of Antioch was devoured by wild beasts, and many, many more who had met the same fate.

In this modern age, one would think a “respect” for religion should be somewhat respected. Alas, no. Christians are still persecuted in every corner of the world. We are still despised, misunderstood, imprisoned, and martyred for our faith in Christ Jesus and for standing up for what is right, for human dignity, for religious freedom, for justice, and for the Common Good. So much so that recent, Cardinal Francis George, Archbishop of Chicago, made a striking prediction, “I will die in bed, my successor will die in prison and his successor will die martyred in the public square.”

Modern martyrdom is still happening every single day in our world. Christ’s words still echo strongly to each and every single one of us, “Whoever wishes to follow me must deny himself, take up his cross, and follow me. For whoever wishes to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake and that of the gospel will save.”

And just to conclude with a story,

Robert Mansfield was a white man in South Africa and the headmaster of an all white school who took his students to play cricket and hockey against the black schools. That is, until the department of education forbade him to do it anymore. So he resigned in protest. Shortly after, Emmanuel Nene, a leader in the black community, came to meet him. He said, “I’ve come to see a man who resigns his job because he doesn’t wish to obey an order that will prevent children from playing with one another.”

“I resigned because I think it is time to go out and fight everything that separates people from one another. Do I look like a knight in shining armor?”

“Yes, you look like a knight in shining armor, but you are going to get wounded. Do you know that?”

“I expect that may happen,” Mansfield replied.

“Well,” Nene said, “you expect correctly. People don’t like what you are doing, but I am thinking of joining with you in the battle.”

“You’re going to wear the shining armor, too?” Mansfield asked.

“Yes, and I’m going to get wounded, too. Not only by the government, but also by my own people as well.”

“Aren’t you worried about the wounds?”

“I don’t worry about the wounds. When I go up there, which is my intention, the Big Judge will say to me, ‘Where are your wounds?’ and if I say, ‘I haven’t any,’ he will say, ‘Was there nothing to fight for?’ I couldn’t face that question.”

Being a Christian today is not much different from being a knight in the shining armor. We are expected to fight, fight for our King – Jesus Christ, fight for our values, truths and beliefs, fight in solidarity with the suffering and the oppressed. We are going to get wounded, rejected, misunderstood, and persecuted.

It is really our choice to take up on Christ’s demand of discipleship.

The question is, if one day, we stand before our Judge, scar-freed, and he simply asks,

“Was there nothing to fight for?”

What are we going to tell him?

"Deafness" - A Reflection on the 23rd Sunday of Ordinary Time - Year B

            At the first glance, the meaning of today’s Gospel reading was quite clear. A deaf man was brought to our Lord. Moved with compassion, Christ took the man to the side and healed him of his deafness, and his speech impediment was removed. The Lord thus fulfilled what the Prophet Isaiah foretold in the first reading,

“Here is your God, he comes with vindication; with divine recompense he comes to save you. Then will the blind be opened, the ears of the deaf be cleared; then will the lame leap like a stag, then the tongue of the mute will sing.”

            There is no doubt that being deaf entails many difficulties and challenges. I was privileged to come to know a few deaf people during my life studying American Sign Language at Gallaudet University. My heart was moved hearing many stories of how difficult for some of them growing up as a deaf person; the struggles to fit in with daily life as well as the constant looking-downs and offenses they had to endure from some of the hearing people around. So much so that, interestingly, the word for “sin” in ASL is signed as two index fingers, shaped like two hooks, come forward from a person’s mouth and then get twisted. It reflects the many abusive and condescending attitudes deaf people had to endure from those who were hearing.

            For these people in such difficulties, today’s Gospel offers hope. What Christ did for the deaf man reflects a beautiful message which the Messiah has come to proclaim: God is now among men; he has come and brought with him healings and consolations. Therefore, it was not too surprising that at the center of the seal of Gallaudet University, the first school for advance studies for the deaf and hard of hearing in the world, was the word of command Christ spoke in the Gospel today:  “Ephphatha” – “Be opened.”

            Now, although the majority of us are not physically deaf, however, we are prone to a different form of deafness, that of spiritual – We become those who have ears and yet cannot hear. This kind of spiritual deafness in many aspects is much more detrimental, for it renders us incapable of hearing not only the Word of life, the Voice of our Shepherd, but also the voice of those who are our neighbors. And very often, we are unaware of it.

            Brothers and sisters, it is because of our spiritual deafness that God’s continuous call for conversion is passed through unheeded. It is because of this deafness that the Gospel’s only rule of Charity is ignored.
            The outcome that it brings, at times, is utterly terrifying.

For instance, in the past, it rendered many incapable of hearing the cries of millions of innocent lives lost during the Nazis’ despicable attempt to eradicate the so-called Untermenschen – the inferior, undesirable, and dangerous.

In this present age, it continues to render many incapable of hearing the cries of the multitude of children going to bed hungry, of elderly men and women burdened with illnesses, of workers oppressed and exploited, and of people dying in corners of the streets throughout the world because of poverty, wars, political, and even religious rallies. These cries have echoed up to heaven; alas, many of us are unable to hear.

And if we think this form of spiritual deafness is just effecting the so-called “global problems” in some remote countries, we could not have been more mistaken. Observe carefully, it is effecting many families, even our own.

Here is how we detect it. We know that we have become spiritually deaf to our loved ones when no one seems to listen to each other anymore. Parents are too busy to know what’s going with their kids. Children are finding their elderly parents to be burdensome and are a pain-in-the-you-know-what. Spouses have become so self-absorbed that they pay no effort to know each other’s needs.

Yeah, forget the “big problems” of the world, the effects of being spiritually deaf is happening right in our very family if we pay no attention to it. It is in its own way much worse that being physically deaf for the reason that it is robbing us of things that truly matters. It is making us so poor. It is creating a new form of poverty – the greatest form of poverty, that of being unwanted, unloved and uncared for; that of “apologies withheld, of comfort suppressed, of affirmation denied, of embraces ungiven, and of love unspoken.”

It is of this deafness that we need to be healed.

How many of us are asking for that?

"The Cassock, the patches, and the donkey"

 I have always had a great fondness of the black cassock. It fascinated me as a little kid, and I remember asking my grandmother why priests wore black cassocks. She told me that, “The black color signifies death. The priest wears a black cassock because he is ‘dead’ to worldly things.”

As a young teen, when I took the first few steps of discernment, I saw my Godfather, who has been a priest for 52 years, put on his cassock to hear my confessions and I longed for the day that I, too, could wear one like that.

Entering St. John Vianney College Seminary, I could still remember how happy I was putting on my cassock for the first time. I can’t truly explain why, but I found it to be so special.

Today, I sat in the National Shrine of Immaculate Conception for a Priest Ordination. As I was praying the Office, a small group of seminarians passed by. I had known that seminarians of the Northern dioceses are allowed to wear clerics and cassocks. However, the first time witnessing it left a deep impression on me.

 There they were, in their very expensive Italian-made cassocks, their spotless white collars, and their fancy French cuffs, standing off to the side talking. A strange feeling took over me. The cassocks which I was seeing seem so foreign and other-worldly. I didn’t feel the fondness that I always have had. I felt repulsed.

 It seems to be a rather strong word choice, but that was exactly how I felt. Admittedly, I thought to myself, “I am not sure am deemed worthy to sit with them for Mass.”

Perhaps, you probably are thinking, “Oh my gosh, he is in a vocation crisis.”

 No, not at all.

It is just that when I saw how fancy and expensive the stuff they were wearing, the beautiful image of the black cassock seemed to have lost its true meaning.

I don’t know if you have ever seen the movie St. John Bosco – A Mission to Love. In one part of the movie, Pope Pius IX expressed his desire to make Don Bosco a monsignor. The kind priest smiled and responded, “Holy Father, my kids are so used to see me in my old black cassock. I am sure they would recognize me in the fancy garment of a monsignor.” Indeed, Don Bosco’s cassock was distinguished by the countless patches that his mother, Mamma Margarita, had to put on, partly because it was so old, but more because her son spent all day playing with the rough teenage kids. The patches became the mark of John Bosco’s dedication to the young.

Another person came to my mind, the Cure D’Ars, St. John Vianney, Patron Saint of all priests. If you get a chance to look at his clothing, you will see how worn and patched the holy priest’s cassocks were, especially from behind because of the 17 hours he sat in the confessional hearing confessions every day.

Please don’t get me wrong. By no means am I saying that we should wear clerical attires with patches and tears, nor am I undermining or being condescending towards group of seminarians I saw. Neither am I criticizing the use of clerical dress. I have always loved the black cassock and will always be for the use of it.

The black cassock, as my grandmother wisely explained, set the priests (and seminarians) apart. It reminds us that we no longer of the world but belong to God, and our aim is to die to worldly allurements.

However, the temptation is to see it as a symbol of prestige and self-importance.

We can so easily fall into the pit of thinking too highly of ourselves and making it all about us rather than about our Master, the Lord Jesus. We can become forgetful of our roles as mere servants.

Fr. Joseph, my dear old spiritual director, taught me a great lesson about the donkey. He told me that he often reflected on the image of the donkey that carried the Lord into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday. He said it would be really sad if the donkey thought that all the praises and flowers thrown at his feet by the people were meant for him, rather than the one he was carrying. We are donkeys of the Lord. Our role is to carry him to the people. It is not to us, but to Him, the praises are due, and most definitely it is not for our honor but for the sake of God’s kingdom that we don our attires.

O dearest Jesus, Lord and Master of my life, please let me not ever forget that!