“Do you see these great buildings? Not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down,” says Jesus. What a downer! Why can’t he just appreciate the magnificence of the temple, the very heart of identity, worship, and religious life?
But no, he can’t. Jesus knows his time is limited. His message of God’s inner presence carries a profound sense of urgency and immediacy. This isn’t a message that people can casually accept or reject. He dedicates his entire life to this cause, even risking death. With this priority in mind, his seemingly nihilistic comments about the temple’s destruction aren’t hopeless. If we interpret his remarks on the vanity of great buildings outside the context of his gospel, it leaves his followers and us with nothing to look forward to in life. Why care about anything when everything and everyone will eventually be gone? While it’s true that nothing lasts forever and change is inevitable, the danger of nihilism is that it discourages people from striving forward and flourishing. It’s one thing to acknowledge and accept that all things change, but it’s another to steadfastly seek the presence of God within. This presence, the focal point of Jesus’ good news, serves as the center of our ontological gravity. Though everything, including our lives, may fade away, we hold fast to the one thing that endures—the union of our breath with the Breath of God within. So, we confess with confidence and conviction, because we embody it through our breath, that the presence of God within is our refuge. It’s a sanctified space deep within the mind. By dwelling in this eternal sanctuary, we can appreciate the beauty hidden in the perishability, impermanence, and incompleteness of all living things. We see the fleeting beauty of cherry blossoms not just because they are pretty, but because we are grounded in what is eternal—the presence of God within. This deep, loving gaze upon the beauty of all things perishable, and therefore perfectly imperfect, transforms our attitude toward ourselves, others, and life itself. We do not become easily disheartened as great buildings fall, as nations rise against nations, and kingdoms against kingdoms, at the beginning of the birth pangs. We become hope embodied in a world of death. The temple bell stops- but the sound keeps coming out of the flowers. - Basho (1644-94) Can you be that sound? Let’s visualize the following scene from today’s gospel lesson.
Jesus is with the disciples in the outer courts of the Temple in Jerusalem, carefully observing those passing by. On one hand, He sees the scribes walking by; on the other, people are gathered around the treasury box, which is used for offerings. It’s clear that the scribes don’t leave a good impression on him. Pretense surrounds them. Jesus’s criticism reminds me of a line from the movie based on Chuck Palahniuk’s novel Fight Club: “The things you used to own, now they own you.” This sounds like a typical symptom of addiction. The scribes are addicted to what Russ Roberts calls the “drug of celebrity.” We might wonder how things like long robes, fame, honor, and respect, which they once owned, now own them. What lies deep beneath this addiction to the drug of celebrity? In my reflection about a month ago on 10/13, I mentioned that what we cling to must be comprehended and scrutinized—not to destroy it, but to redirect it toward the presence of God within. Adam Smith (yes, that Adam Smith, the pioneer of modern economics who introduced the concept of the “invisible hand” of the market) has something to add to Jesus’s teaching. Below is a quote from his lesser-known book, The Theory of Moral Sentiments: “To those who have been accustomed to the possession, or even to the hope of public admiration, all other pleasures sicken and decay. Of all the discarded statesmen who for their own ease have studied to get the better of ambition, and to despise those honours which they could no longer arrive at, how few have been able to succeed?...Are you in earnest resolved never to barter your liberty for the lordly servitude of a court, but to live free, fearless, and independent? There seems to be one way to continue in that virtuous resolution; and perhaps but one. Never enter the place from whence so few have been able to return; never come within the circle of ambition…” (Emphasis mine) We redirect our sense of craving and striving through our spiritual practice of contemplation, in which we attentively and intentionally allow the presence of God within to be present in every aspect of our daily routine. This is what I would call inner conditioning. What Adam Smith is talking about is outer conditioning. We don’t want to surround ourselves with the circle of ambition or the drug of celebrity. Jesus sees the poor widow putting two copper coins into the treasury. Because of her outer conditioning of poverty and inner conditioning of knowing what to desire when all else falls short, Jesus honors her. “Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all those who are contributing to the treasury…” Once again, I’m reminded of another line from Fight Club: “It's only after we've lost everything that we're free to do anything.” What are we conditioning ourselves with? What are we surrounded by? How do these things help—or not help—us to live free, fearless, and independent in the presence of God? I remember one of my chaplain colleagues, who was about 20 years older than me, once said, “Every year, patients are getting younger and younger.” She didn’t mean there was an actual increase in the number of pediatric, adolescent, or young adult patients in hospital admissions. Instead, she—and I—were simply getting older by default. This shift in perception is a natural part of aging: what once seemed like an "older" age now feels closer to our own, making younger people seem comparatively younger. British novelist Martin Amis, in one of his interviews, succinctly expressed this human process of aging: “The future’s getting smaller, and the past is getting bigger.”
With aging (and illness), we are all subject to death and, thus, separation. The Feasts of All Saints and All Souls highlight death, sharing a common purpose: to remember the dead. My simple, perhaps somewhat too protestant, way of distinguishing the two is whether those we honor are globally or locally saintly. We honor and commemorate the saintly aspects of the dead that continue to influence who we become and how we act skillfully. St. Agnes, for example, is believed to have been martyred around the age of 12 or 13 during the reign of Emperor Diocletian, who persecuted Christians in the early 4th century. She is known for her faithfulness and purity—qualities we might strive to embody. The holy acts of “local” saints, in particular, center on mutual love, which is intimately expressed in the form of ongoing grief. We personally know these local saints, and despite our shared perfectly imperfect human flaws, we recognize the beauty, grace, and compassion they had for us. These values are handed down to us, creating a lasting communion with them. This morning, I would like us to focus on the lesson from Revelation. The words from Revelation are comforting: “...he will wipe every tear from their eyes. Death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more…” Yet, I would like us to reflect on what underpins this consolation: “See, the home of God is among mortals.” The home of God is within us. This is a reiteration of Jesus’s gospel. Recall the phrase from our confession of sin in our morning prayer: “We forget that we are your home.” We don’t need to wait until after death for every tear to be wiped away. Biologically speaking, the dead don’t shed tears—only the living do. We journey into the home of God within through the Breath of God. The very first breath of a newborn and the very last breath of a dying person both come from the Breath of God. In the home of God within, we follow that same Breath through our own breath and commune with those who are now part of the Breath. And there’s more. We gain a clearer understanding of who we are now in relation to who they were to us. In their physical absence, we can no longer be who we once were. We unbind ourselves from the hurts and pains caused by separation, beginning anew our relationship with them through the Breath of God in the home of God within. In that place and time, here and now, death is no more. While the future may be getting smaller and the past bigger, as Martin Amis said, “You have to head forward.” We can indeed head forward in the home of God, where we are present with “the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end.” The gospel lesson today may seem discouraging for us Christians and for those considering following the way of Jesus. Jesus' expectations are undeniably high. He demands that his followers fully commit to the kingdom of God; there’s no room for “one foot here and the other there.” For the person whom Jesus “loved” (Mark 10:21), one foot was firmly planted in keeping all the commandments, while the other was in his wealth. Jesus, with his penetrating insight, recognized that this man's adherence to the commandments might have been driven by a desire to maintain and increase his possessions. It’s possible there was a sort of bargain in his mind between obeying the commandments and reaping material rewards. For the disciples who left everything behind—perhaps because they had little wealth to anchor themselves—complacency could still prevent them from entering the kingdom of God. Jesus, therefore, warns them of the creeping danger of complacency.
In the person who did everything right except give up his possessions, and in the disciples who did give up everything but may have had different motives, such as honor and fame, I see two themes: clinging and complacency. So first, let’s start with clinging. Jesus goes right to the heart of what our law-abiding citizen and potential disciple candidate clings to: wealth. Why is wealth a problem in this case? He has his priorities in the wrong place. The Ten Commandments are boundaries that help us cultivate the presence of God within. By keeping them, we create fewer obstacles to God’s presence within us. After breaking a precept, say, stealing something from others, there’s much more inner work to be done in contemplation. In silence, don’t we all encounter our naked selves? In the case of the law-abiding person in the gospel lesson, he uses the commandments to cling more deeply to what he considers to be the most important element of his life. Wealth happens to be it, and wealth still is the most popular one. Jesus exposes this person’s hidden desire. He’s shocked because he’s stripped of the clinging disguised as adherence to the commandments. As we witness the encounter between these two, we’re invited to join and ask: what are we clinging to? It may not be wealth. It may be fame, honor, health, security, etc. Notice that all these things each of us clings to aren’t bad. These are more like mental food we like to feed on. There’s no need to judge them for what they are. Does this mean clinging itself, this deep desire, is the problem? Is it so evil? No. Our human desire or striving, or so-called conatus in Latin, is what keeps us going. It just needs to be redirected—redirected to the presence of God, always and everywhere available within. In a way, Jesus’ desire for the presence of God is transmitted to us. Nothing should be in the way then. The disciples, on the other hand, need no redirection. They are already directed. Yet complacency may creep into their minds. So here comes a rude awakening: “But many who are first will be last, and the last will be first.” They need to be reconnected—reconnected to the presence of God with concentration and mindfulness within. Always begin anew at the beginning. What matters to us is our consistency, whether it’s a camel [kamelos (κάμηλος)] or a rope [kamilos (κάμιλος)], to go through the eye of a needle. We gaze upon the eye of a needle through which the radiance of God’s presence threads our hearts. “There’s a thread you follow. It goes among things that change. But it doesn’t change.” - William Stafford About two months ago, I came across the highlight of the final volleyball match between Brazil and Canada at the 2024 Paris Olympics. After a heated altercation among the players, the wise DJ played “Imagine.” The entire crowd began singing along, and those in the midst of the conflict softened, smiles spreading across their faces.
When I reflect on Christian hymns, I often find that while they are rich in doctrinal confessions, they sometimes lack the imaginative actions that could lead to peace. Could “Imagine” be sung in church? Am I pushing the boundary too far? Perhaps. But what if we added lines like these?: “Imagine if we don’t take advantage of one another.” “Imagine if people don’t take one another for granted but make it a daily practice to appreciate who we are and who we become to one another.” These ideas may seem ordinary, as they reflect wisdom we already know but often fail to put into practice. Yet, they can guide us in committing to our relationships and cultivating the virtue of faithfulness. This virtue is essential in all kinds of relationships, including marriage. For Jesus, adultery represents a breach of the faithfulness promised to each other, a self-deception that one can truly commit to someone else. This lack of faithfulness isn't just about respecting others; it's about respecting oneself and maintaining one's dignity. Ultimately, it harms not only others but also oneself. Relationships can become tragic when one person tries harder than the other. How often do we witness or experience this unfortunate outcome? We may not have a way to fix it, but we can “imagine” (yes, imagine until we make it!) creating a community built on a faithfulness that is not just our own, but God’s. Our all-time favorite hymn might be “Great is Thy Faithfulness.” My favorite line comes from the third verse: “Pardon for sin and a peace that endureth / Thine own dear presence to cheer and to guide / Strength for today and bright hope for tomorrow.” I interpret these lines as “another opportunity to learn from mistakes and amend, bringing peace / God’s presence within to help me carry on / strength for today as I breathe in, and hope for tomorrow as I breathe out.” How about you? This virtue of faithfulness can often be found in children. While not always, it’s present in actions that are pure and innocent. To become like a child doesn’t mean being childish, but childlike. Children naturally exhibit deep trust in their parents or caregivers. This trust is an expression of both childlikeness—due to their inherent dependency and innocence—and faithfulness, as they remain loyal and confident in the care they receive. At this point, you might expect me to say the usual: “Be faithful to God as God is faithful to us.” This is indeed the correct approach to developing the virtue of faithfulness, but we already know this in our minds. I’d like us to try something else: Let us be faithful to God’s presence within as we attune our attention to our breath until we realize it’s the breath of God sustaining our very life. I’ve said it countless times—let the Breath of God breathe us—because this is how we embody God’s presence within. God’s presence isn’t an abstraction in our heads; it’s biologically and physiologically in our bodies. This is how we allow God to work in and through us in the world. The God we believe in isn’t confined to the Bible or the words of theologians, priests, or bishops. God is in our breath, in our body, in our mind—faithfully animating us, hoping for us, and imagining the peace embodied in the world. “The Son of Man is to be betrayed into human hands, and they will kill him, and three days after being killed, he will rise again.”
Jesus’ disciples are silent in response. It’s easy to imagine how fear would creep into their minds upon hearing about the kind of death he would face. They are not yet prepared to follow him that far. It’s too extreme—just not yet. So, their defense mechanism turns their eyes to an optimistic future. Instead of asking the questions we think they should, they justify their decision to follow Jesus despite the grim forecast he himself has given. They begin to ask among themselves, “Who will lead us once Jesus is gone? Who will be the greatest to take his place?” It’s not hard to imagine the disciples debating who might be the most qualified candidate to succeed Jesus. The beloved disciple, presumed by scholars to be John in John’s gospel, appears to compete with Peter, who often functions as the oldest son in the family. Consider James and John’s mother, who asks Jesus to ensure her sons sit at his right and left in the future kingdom, causing everyone else to be upset. To all these debates and potential schisms—indeed, they did happen over the centuries (fact: there are over 45,000 denominations globally, and for what?)—Jesus might say, “Hey folks, I’m not dead yet. I’m still here.” I often joke, “When two or three are gathered in Jesus’ name, there is a dispute.” This only happens when we fail to pay attention to the most crucial part of Jesus’ statement and don’t ask the right question, which is: “What does his resurrection look like? What happens after he rises again?” The answer is already in the lesson this morning, repeated twice in case the disciples and we miss it: “Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all…whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent me.” Jesus is not simply telling us to be like Mr. Rogers (though we should pay more attention to the educational needs and resources of children in our nation). The disciples ought to wonder not only about what his resurrection would look like but also where to find it—not elsewhere, but in the most vulnerable. Taking up our own cross as a skillful tool to discern which actions benefit the most and harm the least is one thing. But looking through the lens of the cross to see those around us who are suffering is another. That is how we discover the risen Christ in them. The lens of the cross is to have compassion, to lessen others’ suffering by being a presence of Christ’s peace. Christ is risen in the vulnerable. There’s no need to look above in the sky but below in the lives of those who suffer, whether from the irresponsibility of authorities or their own choices. Our calling, then, is to create the presence of peace, compassion, and grace within ourselves and invite others in. Accepting the risen Christ in others is the Christian vocation, to be risen again and again in a culture of ignorance and death. In doing so, our skillful acts of cultivating the depth of God within are life-giving, others-receiving, and community-forming. Let’s ponder on two words Jesus says in the gospel lesson and their implications for each other. These are not some theological reflections that have no practical use. I would like us to reckon that which can have a beneficial impact on our daily life. Spiritual practice must be useful in that it enriches life.
First, the Messiah. This is the identity that Jesus doesn’t wish to disclose to others. The Messiah means the anointed one, which has at least four similar but slightly different meanings. The most well-known example is with Samuel. He anointed Saul as the first king of Israel (1 Samuel 10:1). Then he also anointed David as the future king (1 Samuel 16:12-13). Anointing can be associated with political appointments of kingship from God. Another example of anointing is with Elijah, who anoints Elisha. This symbolizes the prophetic lineage being handed over to Elisha with the receiving of the Spirit to fulfill prophetic duties. In the Christian tradition, we have two kinds of anointing. One is an anointing of healing with oil. The easiest but misleading example of this type of anointing is the last rites. It is misleading because it doesn’t require one in an end-of-life situation to be anointed. It’s for anyone who is ill. Its biblical reference is from James 5:14: “Are any among you sick? They should call for the elders of the church and have them pray over them, anointing them with oil in the name of the Lord.” The other example of anointing is that of Chrism. This happens at the sacrament of baptism. Recall the moment of a priest pouring abundantly the chrism oil with the words: “N, you are sealed by the Holy Spirit in Baptism and marked as Christ’s own forever. Amen.” Now, this use of anointing is the version that is most relevant to us Christians, and integrates all the other uses of anointing in the cases of Saul, David, and Elisha. And quite regrettably, this may be the one we Christians are less aware of in its practical implication. That we are sealed by the Holy Spirit is our confession that life is dependent on the Breath of God. It is marked and fastened securely as we breathe the breath of God within. This signifies us as the followers of Christ, as Christ’s own. On the other hand, Jesus being anointed in a manner of divine appointment makes sense when considering the inner kingdom of God he proclaims. Within that kingdom within, he is divinely anointed and appointed. This again is what we follow after. As Jesus is anointed, we too are. This anointment is the very first ordination that all baptized participate in. This ordination is the foundation of any priestly or diaconate ordination or any Christian ministry. Based on this anointment called Chrism, we put on Christ. Now the second concept: the cross. The cross in Jesus’ time is the symbol of the death sentence. It means suffering. Then, what does it mean for us to deny ourselves and take up our own cross? One way to interpret it is by contemplating death every day. I don’t think this would be a very popular interpretation but certainly is a healthy one. Every day, we keep in mind how everything is inconstant and impermanent. How often do we take things and people around us, especially the ones close to us, for granted? Our act of denying the version of ourselves that is indifferent to the inconstancy and impermanence of life and contemplating death would help us behave wisely in a way that we become skillful in how we treat one another and ourselves. Another way to make sense of denying ourselves and taking up our own cross is to have the cross as a lens to look at our thoughts, words, and deeds. This is to evaluate whether our actions create suffering. The cross becomes the criterion to assess whether our feelings, thoughts, words, and behaviors are skillful. The cross is a tool to see if we are creating stress. For example, as I am about to react to my immediate family’s comment on my behavior, I will intentionally deny my strong urge to say something mean or nasty and take up my own cross, which is to ask myself, “What actions would produce outcomes that would benefit both of us, which would mature our relationship?” That we are anointed as Jesus points us to the inner kingdom of God in which we are “divinely,” which is through the Holy Spirit, the breath of God, appointed as God’s own. But this anointing of Chrism, though it’s a one-time event, is something to be cultivated throughout a lifetime. It is our practical toolkit to deny our unskillful ways of creating who we are and what we do and to take up our own cross. As we create an inner room, we can pause and discern through the lens of the cross whether our action results in unnecessary stress and suffering. We can only be assured of being sealed by the Holy Spirit only through the Breath of God. In this way, we are marked as Christ’s own who encounters in the inner breath of our own that communes with God’s breath. The discerning question of the cross helps us breathe God’s grace into who we become and how we behave towards others. |
Paul"...life up your love to that cloud [of unknowing]...let God draw your love up to that cloud...through the help of his grace, to forget every other thing." Archives
January 2025
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