Category Archives: Daily Reflections

Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name.

Matthew 6:9

Sounds very formal, doesn’t it? It paints a picture of a stern deity glaring at us from a forbidding distance, almost like the gulf between heaven and hell, between Dives and Lazarus in last week’s Gospel [Luke 16:19-31].

That’s quite different from the God who, we claim to believe, loves us so much that He sent His only Son, fully God and fully man, to die for our sins [John 3:16].

But here’s the thing: The early translations of the Bible into English meant nothing of the sort. What we now think are profoundly formal modes of address (thee, thou, thy) were in fact informal pronouns that verged on the familiar, rather like “Hi, Dad!” instead of “Greetings, Father.”

Conversely, the “you” we deem familiar now was only used in formal contexts back then, particularly when addressing a societal superior. “Your Majesty, thou art great indeed” might have gotten you an immediate death sentence for massive disrespect.

Sociolinguists call this difference in formality the T-V distinction, named after the Latin pronouns tu and vos, and it still influences Romance languages to this day (French: tu vs. vous, Spanish: tu vs. vos). In a nutshell, the singular tu and its derivatives connote an intimate, friendly and/or equal relationship between people, while the plural vos et al imply a respectful and/or distant relationship, especially with royalty. (“We are not amused.” “Um, your majesty, there’s no one else here.”)

So which of the two is used in the Latin version of the Lord’s Prayer? Surely the Creator of all things, visible and invisible, merits a royal salute above all royal salutes!

Jesus, though, seemed to have other ideas, for He taught us to pray thus:

Pater Noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum

Matthaeum 6:9; Nova Vulgata

Indeed, throughout the Bible, God is addressed with the familiar tu instead of the distant vos.

So it seems even the early church (the Latin Vulgate dates back to the 4th century) affirmed God as being approachable and familiar, not a distant all-powerful entity who needed to be appeased. A Creator in our midst to be loved, not a cold Judge in a court somewhere who’d smite you ten thousand ways if you so much as stuck out a toe in error.

But then Modern English dropped the T-V distinction, and now we think thou is for kowtowing.

Is this why we hold God at arm’s length in our lives, avoiding Him like that grumpy uncle at the family gathering, only briefly going to Him when we need divine intervention, then immediately turning away again?

Have we unconsciously poisoned our own faith with a cold caricature of the faithful Father who has watched over us every day of our lives, all because of a language shift?

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And as for the “God’s in Heaven, so far away” bit, the Catechism of the Catholic Church sets us straight:

[“Who art in heaven”] does not mean a place (“space”), but a way of being; it does not mean that God is distant, but majestic. Our Father is not “elsewhere”: he transcends everything we can conceive of his holiness. It is precisely because he is thrice holy that he is so close to the humble and contrite heart.

“Our Father who art in heaven” is rightly understood to mean that God is in the hearts of the just, as in his holy temple. At the same time, it means that those who pray should desire the one they invoke to dwell in them.

“Heaven” could also be those who bear the image of the heavenly world, and in whom God dwells and tarries.

CCC 2794

So our God is a God of approachable majesty, an all-powerful Father who is with us and loves us, a Creator who gave us life and wants nothing more than to be reunited with us all at the end of days.

Doesn’t sound like an Odin or a Zeus, does He? More like an omnipotent friend, whose friendship (like all true friendships) should never be taken for granted.

God our Father, Thou art hallowed in our sight. Give us Thy servants the strength to do Thy will, to draw all into Thy presence, for Thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory, now and forever. Amen.

22nd Ordinary Sunday (Year C)
Ecclesiasticus 3:19-21,30-31 | Psalm 67(68):4-7,10-11 | Hebrews 12:18-19,22-24 | Luke 14:1,7-14

Today’s readings focus on humility, and there’s been cause lately to examine my own role as a music leader under that lens.

It began two years ago, when I was forced to step down as a choir head during a parish-wide ministry renewal process. Truth be told, I was getting a little tired of the role, and I wasn’t all that good at it, so it was something of a relief. Anyway, I was still conductor, so I could focus my efforts on that role.

Then came a series of interactions with the newer members of my choir, in which I glimpsed the latent talent just waiting to burst forth.

But most of those voices went quiet after a while, and I never thought to ask why.

It escalated with an article in the latest Catholic News (originally posted here), wherein Archbishop William Goh reminded us all that true leaders need to consciously prepare their successors for a smooth and orderly transition.

And it culminated in my suddenly coming awake in the early hours of this morning with a sobering realization: I’m casting a very long shadow, and that’s not a good thing at all.

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Experience is a boon in most situations. It lubricates existing operations, and helps everyone avoid the potholes that have been run over before, or the ones you know are lurking over there in that deceptively-smooth road, though no one else has seen them yet.

But experience also casts a deep and dark shadow. It helps point out a safe way to navigate unknown territory, but it can also ossify into “this is the Way, now and forever, amen”. It shields others from the harsh spotlight of criticism and doubt, but it can also block out the gentle life-giving sunlight that fosters growth and exploration, and quash with fear and uncertainty the tiny young voices that would speak of a newer and better way.

Alas, after almost thirty years at the music helm, I’ve become Odin Borson, All-Father and King of Asgard, literally thundering corrections and exhortations in equal measure, and casting a shadow so long that only a few of the newer choristers dared to speak up, and sometimes not in a good way.

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But God always provides.

In this instance, He’s arranged for me and my fellow long-standing conductor to be away for an extended period, leaving us no choice but to have one of our younger members stand in during the coming weeks. (I’m sure everyone would also welcome a respite from the weekly thunder.)

He’s also caused me to work closely with a newer member in the tricky process of hymn selection. That she has chosen hymns that I knew myself, but never thought to pick, is a very encouraging sign, and kindles hope that there’s still much talent waiting for the opportunity to spread wings and fly.

So it’s also a good time for us to begin the process of grooming the next generation of music leaders, to step down from our rostrums, to shorten the shadows we cast, letting the light of Christ pour over the newcomers and giving them the time and space to blossom into a new creation, a new way.

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When I first began pondering today’s scripture, I misread the source of the First Reading as being from Ecclesiastes. I don’t think that was happenstance, as Ecclesiastes 3 (rather than Ecclesiasticus 3) begins with one of my favorite Bible passages:

There is a season for everything, a time for every occupation under heaven

Ecclesiastes 3:1

It’s the growing season now, and it’s time for this old farmer to step sideways out of the sun, and nurture fresh apprentices. Time to move to the lowest place, lifting a new generation up with fraternal guidance and correction.

Because, in the end, my way must be Christ’s Way, now and forever, amen.

Today, we laid our dear friend to rest, all of us companions on a journey of laughter and sorrow, of soaring highs and aching lows.

And as we sang through silent tears the hymns she so loved, I was reminded of another voice from the past: a bright, energetic lilt belting out old tunes and show tunes alike as our coach rumbled down endless highways, with half of us wondering “are we there yet?” and the other half “where’s the nearest toilet? I can’t hold it in any more!”

As with most people, she’d have her favorite songs, one of which was that famous little ditty from Annie. You know, the one that just sounds like her:

The sun’ll come out tomorrow
Bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow
There’ll be sun!

Just thinkin’ about tomorrow
Clears away the cobwebs and the sorrow
‘Til there’s none.

And like most people, she’d sometimes forget her lines, and stumble to a sheepish halt.

But once in a while, she’d just make up new lyrics and soldier on. I suspect that on at least some of those occasions, she was just playing the fool.

If she were with us today, I daresay she would’ve cooked up something like this, with a cheeky grin:

When I’m stuck with a day that’s gray and lonely
I just stick out my chin and grin and say….LORD!

The sun’ll come out tomorrow
So you gotta pray on till tomorrow
Come what may

Tomorrow! Tomorrow!
God loves ya tomorrow
As much as He does today!

Truth in a song, bittersweet from our loss.

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One of the last things she showed us all was how to prepare for the end. Her funeral mass was planned months before, but not micromanaged: She chose her favourite readings and hymns, and entrusted everything else to us.

I’m sure her earthly affairs were similarly cataloged, sorted and prepared as much as humanly possible. She never wanted to be a burden to anyone, and in her daily work at a local hospital, she must have been keenly aware of how an unexpected departure could derail the lives of the remaining family members. As the Book of Wisdom tells us:

their going looked like a disaster, their leaving us, like annihilation

Wisdom 3:2-3

Perhaps it’s time for us all to take a page from her own book of wisdom:

• to record what we have…and rid ourselves of what we don’t need,
• to focus more on enduring relationships…and less on unending strife,
• to plan for our departure…and let go of unnecessary secular attachments.

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Dear friend, parting is such sweet sorrow, but I think I speak for everyone in your life when I promise you this:

We’ll remember how you loved us all each day, right up to your death.

We’ll celebrate your memory, the last essence of you, for in that way, you’ll still be with us here.

We’ll believe that we will see you on our last day, as a “welcoming party” of one…one with the saints in glory.

We’ll remember.
We’ll celebrate.
We’ll believe.

Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.

My dear friend has returned to the Lord.

That simple statement conceals the depth of my rude awakening this morning, the sucking emptiness that gnawed at my heart while my mind tried to wrap itself around this pronouncement. Then followed communication upon miscommunication, striving to come to a coordinated set of actions with everyone else involved with her funeral.

For the first time ever, I prayed the Office of the Dead in the morning, but it was as if someone else was chanting the words, while Real-Me floated in a numb haze.

Then I went for her wake, ran into so many familiar faces from my yearly travels…and was yanked back to earth with a thump.

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Ten years ago, my friend organized a pilgrimage to Lourdes, Fatima, and Rome. We enjoyed ourselves so much, and received so many spiritual benefits, that she organized another one to the Holy Land the next year, and then to Eastern Europe the next year, and then…

I’ve been traveling with her for eight straight years, roaming thousands of kilometres and overnighting for four months in foreign lands. Have you heard the saying, “To truly know someone, journey with them as long as you can?” I learned that my friend’s love knew no bounds, and my traveling buddies felt the same. When many of us were weary after ten days on the road, her bubbly personality was still in full view, and she didn’t hold back from helping whoever needed a hand.

Which was why, when I ran into so many of those companions tonight, some whom I haven’t seen in years, others with whom I’d just journeyed last year, I was both deeply touched and completely unsurprised. Everyone she travelled with remembered her. Everyone.

Her maid was also at the wake, sobbing uncontrollably. That didn’t surprise me either; I’d seen hundreds of interactions between the two women over the years, and she was always treated more like a daughter or friend than a slave. The proof, as they say, was in the lontong…and it was very good lontong, spiced with love in return for love.

And in her final days, when the burning pain became a constant companion, I’m very sure that she quietly offered her suffering to our heavenly Father, as a redemption for the sufferings and sins of everyone around her.

My friend’s focus was on loving others as Christ loved her…and she was very, very good at it.

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Last Sunday, Fr. Jovita’s homily struck a chord with me, when he mentioned that God had a personal itinerary for each of us during our lives. I imagine my friend’s “travel plan” was a convoluted route that smacked into and ran alongside many others’ for a while, before veering off towards another one’s route, shedding joy and light all the way.

I believe this to be true, because on every day of all our trips together, we’d sing a simple prayer that echoes in my heart till this day:

Lord, you called us graciously to live your life and go your way.
Believing in your love, we follow you without reserve all the way.

Dear friend, thank you for letting me journey with you for so long. Rest now from your earthly labours, and I’ll see you in the fullness of time.

We are companions on the journey,
breaking bread and sharing life;
and in the love we bear is the hope we share
for we believe in the love of our God,
we believe in the love of our God.

“Companions on the Journey”, Carey Landry

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If you’re wondering why I haven’t mentioned her name in any of my posts, it’s because she was an intensely private person, and what she did in her life is far more important, as an examplar that we all should emulate: Love one another as Christ loves us.

Jesus said to him, “Go, and do the same yourself.”

Luke 10:37