« October 2007 | Main | July 2008 »
The eagle appears in the standards of many organisations, schools, and nations as a guardian of freedom and truth.
The eagle is also often seen as a bird of God, the only bird that could fly above the clouds and stare directly at the sun.
The eagle represents St John the Evangelist, in honour of the soaring spirit and penetrating vision of his gospel.
The following report (on the Merdeka 2007: A Revolution of Hope event held on 25 November 2007) is adapted and edited from Alwyn's weblog. Nobody does reports on events like he does. Thanks, Al! **hat tip**
It was a tiring Sunday afternoon. But Jojo, Sherman, Tricia, Veronica and Sivin gave the 34 of us folks more than a few things to ponder on at the first RoH public gathering, Merdeka 2007: A Revolution of Hope.
One theme which resounded strongly throughout was the reign of God as a world/other-redeeming project cum phenomenon which the church has unwittingly turned "on its head" into a post-world/self-focused endeavour.
According to Sivin, the church is the sign and instrument of the kingdom of God, i.e. the societal/communal expression and implementation of the fact that God so loved the world that He gave Himself for it.
When the world is the mission, as a methodological starting point, therefore, the world’s unchallenged diversity of contexts and disciplines must find its way into our theologising; hence, RoH’s emphasis on drawing upon the social sciences as dialogue partners with theology (the spiritual science?) The people’s disciplines is a key ingredient in constructing a theology for the people, with the people, by the people.
Sherman also made it clear that he did not believe there was any right or wrong way to do [this kind of] theological reflection. What he probably meant was that it wouldn’t help to limit theological reflection to only one absolute right way, as he did point out a wrong way: a theology without imagination (a fascinating area to look further into, surely).
God made and loved the world. We are called to impart true humanity to this world, fallen and craving to be all that it could have been. This impartation is one done via listening, discerning, understanding, imagining, recognising and embracing all that God has already done in every culture and people-group.
For example, Sherman shared about his Muslim friend many years back who stopped his daily prayer to answer his mother’s call. When Sherman asked why he did that, the reply was that his faith taught that heaven was at the mother's feet (syurga di telapak kaki ibu), an eye-opening albeit not uncontroversial Hadith. The point is that God has not left Himself without witness (Acts 14:17), not least in traditional folk wisdom and religion, and the act of discernment must learn to reap such glorious - if quiet - nuggets of His truth.
To use an awkward but obvious analogy, God has lazed the targets - are we locking on? A people’s theology is a contextual theology done from the ground up, beginning with experience, using all available resources by and/or with those who’s sweat and tears have fallen on it.
Perhaps this is the intellectual component of a willingness to suffer for a particular community. And presumably only a suffering theology can be a prophetic one?
Where there are people, there is politics. Sunday’s session had a huge plus-point over against the recent one in October (note: not RoH), where one (and unfortunately only one) message was clear i.e. that Christians should get involved. Tricia supplied the how. Her helpful clarification of the issues in Malaysian socio-politics served to more clearly conceptualise the players, the problems and the possible steps we could take (including the nurture of an active civil society - surely we’ll be hearing more in days to come).
It’s worth repeating Tricia’s remarks that, in response to the political situation:
* only a tenth of Malaysians would opt to march and protest;
* another third would leave the country; and
* the remaining 60% would do nothing, content in the bosom of government.
These rough statistics belie the goal of keeping government in fear of the people instead of vice-versa. I wonder, though, about people who are far from feeling content at their life’s lot, but can neither raise their fist against the country nor flee it . They can only hope.
Which brings us to what must be a RoH distinctive (over against other theologically reflective movements in Malaysia): a heart for the marginalised and voiceless communities, the poorest of the poor. I reckon no ROH session would be (or should be) complete without some light shed on the status of these people.
A sample of their stories was brought out by Veronica, whose jouney from rags-to-riches to enriching-the-ragged, was the sober highlight of the afternoon: women in their 50s’ protecting grandchildren from their abusive parents; 14-year-olds heading their parentless families; boys seeking out abandoned objects for sale; women etching out a living in the midst of mother- and widow-hood. Veronica herself lived through a time and place of bread lines and poverty which included low-rent accomodation in a haunted house.
According to Jojo, these are telltale signs that Malaysians and the church have largely abandoned the social contract. By this he meant more or less two things, in the context of Malaysia:
1. We must ensure that all people-groups in the country are afforded equal access to the basic necessities of life and the means of improving life, i.e. education, technology, etc.
2. We must uphold the sacredness of the Federal Constitution.
And why must we? Because, to put a covenantal spin on the whole thing, this is God’s arrangement for our country.
A people’s theology is a covenantal theology, one which calls us to be faithful to the deal we have been graciously given or the story we’re part of. This (Gospel) story, when told and lived and shared, is the vehicle of God’s restoration of our personhood.
Embodying change and sharing God’s tender and aggressively compassionate life is a crucial step in changing mindsets - this is the trumpet call of RoH, which seeks to help people realise their true humanity. For isn’t the virtue which never dies also the same one which always guards the needs of others? (1 Cor. 13:7-8)
A people’s theology is also a protective theology of the watchful love of God.
A portion of a letter from a Jesuit Priest, a friend:
...As for your experience of the DARK NIGHT OF THE SOUL, allow me to share insights from Ignatius of Loyola.
He talks about the life-giving Spirit (Good Spirits) and the death-dealing Spirit (Evil Spirits). The dark night in your case is not from God in the sense of being drawn into the darkness of the all-too-bright-blinding holiness of God, but occasioned by the evil wickedness of the human heart and the system.
So this dark night turns you in on yourself (very self-centered) and weighs you down with thoughts (depressing ones - what a scoundrel scandal you are!!) and thus effects your emotions (leading to despair and alienation from God).
In such moments, turn your thoughts towards God (away from self), stay in the bosom of God (God loves me, God forgives me, God enfolds me with unconditional love) and stay afloat in the sea of God's rays of love.
...Know that we all love you as God's special gift!! Believe this as Gospel truth so that no darkness can completely overshadow this truth with its darkness and thus render the death-dealing spirit "toothless".
The future is uncertain, that’s a given. How wonderful it would be, we think, if there was a crystal ball into which we could gaze just so we could have a glimpse of the future.
The truth is, there is no future to be sighted within the crystal ball, for the future is a non-existent entity. The future becomes existent only when it becomes the present. When the story of life unfolds in all its glory, turning each possibility into a realised present, then the future becomes existent, rendering it a present.
Sometimes, in our need for certainty, we make the future existent, even determined. The case for determined futures often even turns to religious language for support. However, this manner of determinism (not determination) ignores the crucial place of human responsibility in the unfolding of the future into the present.
Choice is what humankind has been given. Sometimes it is a gift, at other times it is a curse. When the future unfolds as the present, it is often a result of choices we and others have made. Surely, there are exceptional instances, but seldom so. And then, when the future has unfolded as the present, how we choose to respond is again another call for the exercise of the human prerogative to choose.
As of now, there is no future to be known. It doesn’t exist. The future is a concept, not a reality. Now, how one responds to such uncertainty, that’s a choice. Make no mistake about it: how we choose to respond to the present uncertainty will affect the future, and we will know it when the future becomes the present.
The lack of adequate tools and utilities frequently becomes a (legitimate) excuse for our inability to perform.
The notion that this life is no more than a preparation for a life beyond, is a theory of a refusal to live, and a religious fraud. It is inconsistent with the living God, who is "a lover of life".
Jürgen Moltmann, The Coming of God, p.50.
That’s a bed. It consists of an old wooden platform and a really black and badly torn mattress, covered by piece of mat with holes all over it.
If this was your bed, and you were 55 years old, and you were working eleven hours a day, and your legs were frequently swelling and turning black and you didn’t know why, and you were earning RM 270 a month (USD 80), and you were supporting four stick-thin undernourished kids who weren’t even your children, and you had just been evacuated from your squatters by the government, the worries you had on your mind right now would have been entirely different.
If this was your bed, you wouldn’t have been worrying about how you’re now less respected and liked by others, or how you’ve been backstabbed by your colleagues, or how you’ve been betrayed by your friends, or how your reputation has been damaged, or how bleak your future is because you’ve just lost your somewhat lucrative job. If this was your bed, you might not even have known where to start worrying.
I met her tonight, this elderly lady. Her daughter had borne her four children (each one most probably belonging to a different father - the latest one now behind prison bars) and then taken off, leaving the four children behind.
After all the years I’ve spent in the seminary theologising about life and its purpose and meaning, I had nothing much to say to this lady except to ask, “Aunty, what will you and the children be eating tomorrow?” Now we have to bring them some food, find a home for her, and find a home for these children. So much for the glorious abstraction of theology and the intricate science of biblical exegesis.
They’re hardly 2 kilometres from where I live. Within this radius, there are a number of churches and even a theological training institute (the very people whose primary concern are supposed to be the widows and the orphans), but it’s somewhat strange how the plight of these nameless faces remains unnoticed. If you’re living somewhere in my vicinity and want to do something for them, tell me; there is quite a number of families with such a similar plight. If we made it known that our hearts and hands were open, they’d come lining up to receive any help they could get.
When we philosophise our concepts of the Christian faith and try to work it out within the church and seminary walls, it’s called “theology”. When we work these out beyond the church and seminary walls, it’s called “charity”. When both are so integrated that they are expressed as a way of life, it’s called spirituality.
Tonight, I'll go to sleep with the words of the aunty echoing in my mind: "I've been suffering since I was 12 years old". You see, I've always thought that I was a sufferer. But today, I met aunty. And her story has taught me a new bedtime prayer:
Forgive me, Lord; during my moments with you, I've said too much. Those were all words. Just words.
O Jesus! Meek and humble of heart, hear me.
From the desire of being esteemed,
Deliver me, Jesus.
From the desire of being loved...
From the desire of being extolled ...
From the desire of being honoured ...
From the desire of being praised ...
From the desire of being preferred to others...
From the desire of being consulted ...
From the desire of being approved ...
From the fear of being humiliated ...
From the fear of being despised...
From the fear of suffering rebukes ...
From the fear of being calumniated ...
From the fear of being forgotten ...
From the fear of being ridiculed ...
From the fear of being wronged ...
From the fear of being suspected ...
That others may be loved more than I,
Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.
That others may be esteemed more than I ...
That, in the opinion of the world,
others may increase and I may decrease ...
That others may be chosen and I set aside ...
That others may be praised and I unnoticed ...
That others may be preferred to me in everything...
That others may become holier than I, provided that I may become as holy as I should…
[Rafael Cardinal Merry del Val (1865-1930), Secretary of State for Pope Saint Pius X]
Trust used to be a much easier thing.
Trust used to be about me; that when I trusted someone, it reflected my own virtue. Trust used to be something I would have invested in someone - anyone - unless the person overtly indicated that he did not want to be trusted. Even for one who betrayed that trust unintentionally, it would not have been entirely too difficult to choose to keep trusting him. Trust used to be a state of being, not a privilege you accorded to someone who was deemed worthy of it.
I’m afraid I might be losing the virtue of trust. When I can trust a person only because he has shown himself to be trustworthy, then my trust ceases to be a virtue. When I trust people only because they have earned it and demonstrated beyond reasonable doubt that they will do me no harm, my trust no longer speaks of who I am as a person.
I badly want to - need to - struggle to uphold the old virtue of trust. It is difficult when your trust has been trodden upon and when you’ve spent almost a lifetime dodging political bullets and watching people pulling vindictive triggers. People you admired. People you trusted. Trust has become too vulnerable a virtue to embrace, even if it’s right.
To have to convert trust from a virtue into a tool for emotional survival is too unfortunate a thing for one to have to do. It must not happen. Thus, how a betrayed one moves on from here is a consideration of consequence.
While there are those out there who are battling silently every day - with their lives - to make the world a better place, the rest of the affluent world is engaging in middle-class rhetorics.
Engaging in vigils, marches and “peaceful demonstrations” (whilst still maintaining the privilege of sustaining our careers and private commitments) is fine in as long as we do not forget that there are those whose livelihood and security are at stake every day because they are wholly devoted to that cause for which they live. These are silently empowering the poor, educating the ragged children in the streets, and tending to the dying. No amount of vigils, marches and “peaceful demonstrations” we engage in can ever match the cost they are paying for the choices they have made.
Each affluent human person is empowered to, and must, choose his direction in life. The curse of poverty is that one does not have the power to choose. But the curse of affluence is that the onus falls on the empowered one to choose his path in life, between that which is good and that which is better; to define with his God-given conscience what his life ideals will be.
Making the right decisions for our lives gets more and more difficult as we progress in our life journey. At a certain stage of life, by the time we decide to turn back and make the right decisions, we realise that we are a dozen decisions too late. There are now a lifestyle to sustain, commitments to stand by, social and organisational positions to protect, and reputations to maintain. And perhaps it would simply be easier to let our conscience be dulled and to keep rationalising ourselves out of these disturbing mental conversations.
The greatest self-deceit happens when we can deceive ourselves into thinking we are not deceiving ourselves.
There is a part of each of us that is a monk or a mystic, in that we yearn for perfect peace. But yet our lives are far removed from traditional monasteries. Most of us would not want to give up our personal and spiritual freedom to join the monastic life.
We seek wholeness but realise that wholeness is not possible without sacredness. Sacred life takes root in solutide, in the time we take to develop a relationship with our inner life - in the kind of setting a monastery would offer.
The modern Christian is called to speak to the monk or the mystic within himself. He needs to find his place in the sacred silence of solitude and inner reflection. He needs to live his everyday life as if the world were a holy monastery.
The monastic life, the sacred life, is no accidental incident. It is something we need to seek, to cultivate, to grow into. It is something that costs us something dear: it costs us ourselves.
I couldn't be less bothered about what colour you are, what positions you hold, what titles accompany your name, or how much money you have.
Because fundamentally, when your finger is cut, the blood that flows out is the same colour as mine.
You are only human. You are no more or less human than I am. Can you understand that? I do not fight for human rights; I only fight for the right to be human and to be treated human.
A friend of mine commented some time ago that the politics in the organisation with which he works is ugly. And then he went on to say that he has noticed that the politics in Christian organisations seems to be even worse.
Another person whom I knew mentioned something of that sort: “You may be surprised that the politics here (referring to the Christian organisation she was working with) is worse than the politics in other places.” “This is where you can find all the ‘satans’”, she said.
After having gone through cycles of political rivalries in various Christian organisations, I thoroughly agree with the above observations. And I wonder why such organisations, which are supposed to reflect the peace, mercy, and justice intrinsic to the being of God’s eschatological community, are the very organisations that probably reflect the most distasteful virtues any Christian could reflect.
Why the priority of organisational reputation above truth and justice? Why conspiracies and not open discussions? Why secrecy of agenda and not honesty in motivations? Why backstabbing and not graciously direct confrontations?
And to the victim of political scapegoating, they say: “We suggest you just accept what has happened to you, move on quietly, go do something else, and start your life from base. We say this to you pastorally”. No tone of regret, no sign of remorse. After all, for them, it is nothing personal.
I think this is what many Christian organisations and denominations have become because nobody is holding them accountable for their motivations and actions. The notion that they are subject to divine laws higher than the laws of the land has brought about a kind of lawlessness for which they cannot be held accountable. So each man for himself, and each organisation for its own reputational interest.
What about justice? It’s a concept. We can still preach about it…
One thing I love about river stones is this: they’re beautiful; very beautiful, to look at and to hold. These river stones possess a therapeutic property that makes people love to have them. It’s almost as if they have a healing component by the sheer virtue of their smoothness.
But river stones are difficult to form. It is relatively easier for a human person to sculpt a stone with sharp tools. But when nature creates its own sculpture out of a stone, time isn’t of as much essence, because nature is patient. Because the Creator of nature - the Originator of time - is patient. He isn’t in a rush to create His art.
Sculpting river stones is a task that cannot be rushed, because a river stone has to be bombarded extensively by wave after wave of running water over extended periods of time. The water never stops running and the intensity of its currents never dwindles. Only then can a river stone develop the smoothness it was meant to possess.
So let the river flow. The currents may be fierce, and sometimes unbearably so. But I’m a river stone, made to become increasingly smooth as the cruel currents mercilessly throw themselves over me and threaten to drown me out from the scheme of life. But let the river flow, and let me be drowned and forgotten.
One day, when I’m thoroughly smoothened, my therapeutic properties will emerge. Then, by the sheer nature of my being a river stone, I will be a source of healing to those who have been bruised by those who themselves are river stones and do not know it. And those who truly possess the capacity to appreciate nature’s art will know who my Sculptor is.
It is sometimes rather bewildering when dealing with one’s own conscience. It’s easy to stand up and fight for justice when it pertains to the wellbeing of someone else. But when it comes to our own wellbeing, in the face of injustice, we’re obligated to deal with our conscience. This is because fighting for justice, when we’re the ones facing oppression and injustice, confronts us with the fine line between cruel vengeance and the truly noble duty of upholding justice.
Finding the delicate balance between these two similar acts (which have starkly contrasting motivations) is a challenge. But one cannot cop out just because the challenge is too big. It is one’s Christian duty to educate one’s neighbour to uphold justice above all political and bureaucratic concerns.
So here’s the thing: it’s time for action. And take action I will. But as I do so, I will constantly examine my motivations for so doing. In upholding justice and educating others to do the same, I must consistently reflect the virtue of grace; yet, it must be a grace which does not compromise the importance of justice.
My actions must reflect virtues that transcend all the furious anger lurking within me at having to face injustice and suffer false accusations. Each step of the journey towards the upholding of justice must be thoughtful, reflective, and gentle - but firm.
Upholding justice is an art. And I think I’m in the process of learning that art now. I’ve never had a problem speaking up for others, but all my life, I’ve had a problem speaking up for myself; as if others deserved justice but I didn’t. The journey towards justice must begin somewhere. So it’s time for action.
“What Lord, after this phase of physical and intellectual growth and raging hormones? What? An intolerable stability in life? A calm of stagnation?
I’ve noticed that for most grown-ups, life is a mundane necessity. They thrive on 'little happinesses' that keep them going daily; 'little happinesses' that are tangible, to keep them sane and aware that their existence is somehow tolerable, somewhat.
Far be it from me! May my life be an adventure of ever-increasing growth into you. Start me on an adventure that will propel me into ever-increasing divinisation, that I may be one with you, in you, and through you. That I may be unceasingly Christified and be like you.
Whatever the cost, whatever the cause. Now.”
This was a prayer I whispered with such utter indignation some years ago. Foolishly so. And now, here I stand in the middle of an adventure, realising that adventures aren’t always what Enid Blyton made them to be.
In the midst of the wildness of this adventure, I doubt I can bring myself to say that prayer. I perhaps over-estimated my capacity to enjoy an adventure. The older me today realises that adventures can be excruciating, horrifying, suffocating, and unsettling; anything but thrilling.
But inasfar as these adventures have been divinising and Christifying, yes, certainly so.
Yet my prayer today, as one going through an adventure, is “Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy.”
An excerpt from a correspondence with my spiritual guide on 06 November 2007
The Concern:
Whilst I'm thankful that I'm not alone as I walk this journey, it's still excruciating. I understand that I most need to learn to walk in trust and obedience towards God. I only pray that he will give me strength to stand up and keep walking despite the terrible sense of humiliation I'm feeling now.
The Response:
Sherman, you have said rightly what is perhaps the only appropriate response at this time: continue to walk in trust and obedience. The path is dark for now, but it won't be forever. The Lord may yet have other surprises for you, although what they might be cannot be clearly discerned.
Focus on "the duty of the present moment".
This announcement comes a little late, I'm afraid. It's because I've been having a fever and a throat infection. Anyway:
I got married.
My wife's name is Emmy Jong.
My wedding service took place last Saturday on 3 November 2007. It was solemnised by a great friend of mine, Revd Sivin Kit, a minister of the Lutheran Church in Malaysia and Singapore. And the preacher was Revd Dr Simon Chan (Ernest Lau Professor of Systematic Theology at Trinity Theological College Singapore), someone whom I've known as my spiritual father for some years now.
The wedding service was more than a service for me. It was very symbolic of how God has been faithful towards me all these years despite the painful seasons I've had to plough my way through.
The way my family members and friends stood with Emmy and me, supporting us through the entire ordeal of ensuring that the service worked out fine, was a sheer sacramental statement of God's guiding hand and assuring presence in my life.
To the friends from the north and the south who travelled all the way to witness the occasion, I offer you my heartfelt gratitude. To the friends who toiled for days to help us with the preparations... honestly, I don't know what to say to you... thank you for loving me.
My wedding: the occasion when I witnessed how my family and friends carried me when I couldn't walk on my own.
Some things, once done, cannot be undone.
Somebody told a lie, and somebody believed it. Now look what it has done.
Lies, once told, cannot be untold. The liar might regret that he has told a lie, because at the point of lying, he never expected that he'd be reaping any sort of consequences from the lie. He told the lie simply to get back at someone.
The only people who can be sure he's lying are the truly discerning ones. They'll know that the liar's lie sounds not too unbelievable, but too believable, to be true.
But now the liar regrets having told a lie, because he's suffering for it. Yet he's come so far and cannot untell his lie. His pants are on fire.
