So for the new school year, educator Nick Chui encourages teachers to laugh with their students. Crack jokes. Don’t worry if they don’t always laugh back. Or if they roll their eyes and go “lame”. They will eventually. And they will thank you for it. And you will thank yourself.
Because your “Hope is built on nothing less than Jesus Christ and righteousness.”
Because failure is not the last word because of Christmas.

…

They say that one of the tools to “surviving” as an educator is to have a sense of humor. Lately, my students have been sharing that they have found me funny, by laughing at my jokes in class and by saying so during Teachers’ Day. (I take that as a sign from God that I will likely have a relatively long lifespan in the education industry!)

Cue music “I will survive…”

But how do we define humour and the funny? Fr Robert Barron suggests that “The essence of comedy is the coming together of opposites, the juxtaposition of incongruous things”. Imagine for a moment a typical scene from Mr Bean. He bows deeply in a show of reverence to the Queen as part of the royal entourage. When he gets up he accidentally knocks the Queen with his head. As the Queen falls, he panics and flails about, causing other members of the entourage to fall. In the chaos, the audience laughs, and Mr Bean entertains yet again.

If this is humour, then the incarnation, i.e the birth of the second member of the Blessed Trinity is humour par excellence. God, the creator of the Universe, chooses to become a human baby born of a virgin. And the chosen couple, Mary and Joseph, had to obey an earthly emperor and run back to Bethlehem for a census. When Mary gives birth, she does it in a stable. Angels visit to say hello but the same angels don’t seem strong enough to fend off Herod and his minions, leaving them to flee as refugees into Egypt while other babies under the age of two in Bethlehem were murdered.

When I reread these passages during Advent, I often catch myself imagining Joseph saying to himself, “Me, the foster father of the Son of God, and running away like a refugee? What a joke man!”

But the good news of Christmas and by extension the entire Christian story is that the joke will be eventually be on the Herods of the world. Herod dies, Joseph comes back and settles down in Nazareth. Jesus dies on the cross, his enemies thought it was game over, he rises again on the third day.

Our recalcitrant student one day comes up to us and says “thank you for not giving up on me”, stunning you with a mixture of shock and surprise.

So for the new school year, laugh with your students. Crack jokes. Don’t worry if they don’t always laugh back. Or if they roll their eyes and go “lame”. They will eventually. And they will thank you for it. And you will thank yourself.

Because your “Hope is built on nothing less than Jesus Christ and righteousness.”

Because failure is not the last word because of Christmas.

And because to see it, we need a sense of (Divine) humour.

Who more than Mary could be a star of hope for us? With her “yes” she opened the door of our world to God himself; she became the living Ark of the Covenant, in whom God took flesh, became one of us, and pitched his tent among us.” [Pope Benedict XVI, Spe Salvi (On Christian Hope), 49]

…

“Human life is a journey. Towards what destination? How do we find the way? Life is like a voyage on the sea of history, often dark and stormy, a voyage in which we watch for the stars that indicate the route… Who more than Mary could be a star of hope for us? With her “yes” she opened the door of our world to God himself; she became the living Ark of the Covenant, in whom God took flesh, became one of us, and pitched his tent among us.” [Pope Benedict XVI, Spe Salvi (On Christian Hope), 49]

How do we navigate by the Star of Hope? Perhaps we can find a parallel to our own life’s journeys in Mary and Joseph’s from Nazareth to Bethlehem.

We all start at our own Nazareths, with our small-town mentalities, our reputations (if any) preceding us, and voices that ring in the ears of our hearts: “Can anything good come out of there?” (John 1:46) But, like Mary and Joseph who were summoned to the Roman census, we are similarly compelled by the world – students, parents, peers, civil authorities – to stand up and be counted.

Mary and Joseph probably bypassed the shorter way through Samaria, preferring the safer and friendlier but longer and harder way along the Jordan River valley and then up from Jericho, 250m below sea level, to Jerusalem, at an elevation of 750m, and thence on to Bethlehem. It was amazing that Mary – no doubt with backache, bladder discomfort and fitful sleep, swollen feet and general fatigue, like any ordinary woman in the last month of pregnancy – made it in one piece over that rugged terrain five days and 130km later.

We too, find the journey of life difficult, negotiating twists and turns, ups and downs, even as we carry the burden of young peoples’ lives physically and emotionally. Even if we know how to travel smart, eschewing the wide and broad way that leads to destruction, and choosing the long, steep and narrow path through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, we seem to end up being rejected and dejected. Even Mary must have thought that God’s timing could have been better. Instead of giving birth in a clean, warm home with a midwife and women friends in attendance, she shared her delivery room with animals, their droppings and their drool. And poor Joseph – imagine him present at Jesus’ birth, holding Mary’s hand as she laboured, catching the little Christ-child in his arms as he emerged, then cutting the umbilical cord, wrapping him in swaddling clothes and afterwards, cleaning up the mess and sterilising the manger – how much water he must have carried and boiled! Our loved ones suffer with us too.

Yet, as a fellow pilgrim wrote: “Suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not disappoint us, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts.” (Romans 5:3-5). True love became incarnate that holy night.

Standing Before The Gate Of Heaven And Hope

“The present, even if it is arduous, can be lived and accepted if it leads towards a goal, if we can be sure of this goal, and if this goal is great enough to justify the effort of the journey.” [Pope Benedict XVI, Spe Salvi 1]

In another age, another pilgrim had written: “I said, I have laboured in vain, I have spent my strength for nothing and vanity; yet surely my cause is with the Lord, and my reward with my God. And now the Lord says, who formed me in the womb to be his servant, ‘It is too light a thing that you should be my servant… I will give you as a light to the nations, that my salvation may reach to the end of the earth.” (Isaiah 49:4-6)

The Magi followed a star, but Mary was the Star of Hope herself. On Christmas night, “hope came into the world…. He comes into the world and gives us the strength to walk with him: God walks with us in Jesus, and walking with Him toward the fullness of life gives us the strength to dwell in the present in a new way, albeit arduous. Thus for a Christian, to hope means the certainty of being on a journey with Christ toward the Father who awaits us. Hope is never still; hope is always journeying, and it makes us journey. This hope, which the Child of Bethlehem gives us, offers a destination, a sure, ongoing goal, the salvation of mankind, blessedness to those who trust in a merciful God.” (Pope Francis, General Audience, 21 Dec 2016)

Mary’s journey did not stop at Bethlehem. It continued to Egypt, back to Nazareth, to Jerusalem, Calvary, Ephesus and beyond into eternity, with Christ close to her as always. Mary knows full well the perils of our earthly journey and this is why the Church sings Alma Redemptoris Mater in the season of Advent as we await our Lord’s Incarnation. The first few lines, translated from Latin, reads:

“O loving Mother of our Redeemer, Gate of Heaven, Star of the Sea, Hasten to aid thy fallen people who strive to rise once more…”

There is a door in one corner of CHIJMES in Singapore where, in the not-too-distant past, unwanted infants were left abandoned at the doorstep of the former Convent of the Holy Infant Jesus in Victoria Street. It is plain, small and inconspicuous, but all children who crossed its threshold were reborn into a new life. It was called the Gate of Hope.

Just as plain, small and inconspicuous as that little door, Mary was chosen to be the Gate and Mother of Hope. Through her “yes” that opened the door of our world to Christ, we sinners who have fallen short of His glory are reborn through Him into a new life and another chance at being the stars of Bethlehem – to those in our homes, schools, and parishes – that God created us to be.

As we begin our journey towards Christmas with the lighting of the Candle of Hope on our Advent wreaths, let us pray that we will always shine in the world like bright stars because we are joyfully offering it the Word of Life (Philippians 2:16). And Hope does not disappoint because the Word has promised to be with us till the end of time.

Our Journey Towards The Infant Jesus_Michelle Tan

This week, we light the second Advent candle – the candle symbolising peace. In Donna Koh’s article titled ‘Peace be Upon You’, she reflects on the meaning of “home” in a world where people move far, far away for a multitude of reasons. She shares how love, joy, and hope seeped through the cracks of a dark and difficult year to bring her closer to God.

…

The month of December is the season of Advent. We think of the birth of Jesus, and look forward to the festive celebrations with our loved ones. We may find ourselves more pensive than usual, looking back on the year that has passed and taking stock of the highs and the lows. This year, I am in a more sombre mood. Instead of the birth of Christ, I am distracted and wonder instead about what Mother Mary’s experience must have been like all those years ago. Scholars tell us that Joseph and Mary’s journey from Nazareth to Bethlehem must have been more arduous than accounts let on. Did she ever feel out of place? Would she have felt indignant or embarrassed throughout her travels and delivery? Did she long to return home amidst her discomfort, short- term as she knew the travel for the census would be? Exponentially more sobering for me this season is the fact that horrific violence continues to rage on at the time of writing, just under 100 kilometres away from the very location Mary and Joseph would have trudged through and where Jesus was born in Bethlehem. Unrest and tension are rife elsewhere in the world too. How did we allow sacred lands to turn into a place of strife, contempt and bloodshed? How do we sit and watch as people lose their homes to violence? Time may have changed physical and political landscapes, but surely the human capacity to feel is timeless and enduring. Life in Singapore is cushy, so perhaps it is difficult to empathise with people whose experiences are so far removed from ours. But imagine what happens when you wake up to the unfamiliar. Imagine losing your home and everything you know, with no end in sight. What does this do to your identity? It does not feel right to celebrate this year. Perhaps I am extra sensitive this year because I too, am not home among the familiar. I too, am in limbo.

The hum of the fridge is my daily companion in the quietest parts of the day when everyone I know and miss in Singapore is asleep, 13 hours ahead of my location. I look up sometimes to realise that it has begun snowing again. To tropical humidity-weary Singaporeans and in the holiday glow, winter is enticing and snow is novel. No one seems to mention how traffic turns snow into a muddy slush that you have to wade ankle-deep in, or how snow turns everything into the most morose canvas that will make you ache for sun-drenched Singapore. Forget shorts and flip-flops: you will spend 10 minutes putting on multiple layers to transform into the Michelin Man just to get to the supermarket down the road. Sunlight will become a rarity. And no one will mention how the decision to take a break from work and stay overseas for a while can cripple you with the keenest grief you have ever experienced. But this was my reality for the first five months of 2023.

In our world of extremes, work and rest lie worlds apart and never the twain shall meet unless we have earned both the money and the right to go on holiday. But off I went with four pieces of luggage in tow to a city I had never visited, taking a break from work in the form of unpaid leave. At the Toronto-Pearson International Airport, the customs and immigration officer demanded to know why I would be staying so long in the city, disapproval and suspicion lacing every question. “If you knew my passport and my country, you wouldn’t ask me those questions,” I seethed in my heart, despite knowing that the officer was only doing his job. It was the first of many self-induced affronts I would come to experience, most probably my form of self-defence against the apparent illogic of leaving Singapore. Sometimes, friendly Canadians would strike up a conversation, their expressions faltering before they asked me to repeat myself. How unfair— I would think to myself— that popular culture has made your accent so instantly recognisable and decipherable to me, and, where I’m from, your intonation and sentence stress would be deemed inaccurate. Do you know where I’m from, I sometimes wanted to scream. You don’t even know me, I always wanted to cry. For five months, I felt like a ghost— invisible and identity-less, unless someone deigned to chat with me at the gym or at a cafe. I missed the buzz of work and professional conversations that gave me heady rushes of satisfaction; the predictable Singapore weather; my mother’s love language of cutting fruits after dinner; having afternoon toast and coffee with my parents at our neighbourhood mall. I missed the reliability of our public transport; face-to-face heartfelt conversations with friends and colleagues that never had a moment’s awkward silence; the familiarity of knowing where to go for anything and everything without ever needing a map. I had thought myself an intrepid traveller— I had hiked in different countries alone; flown 36 hours to South America and passed through three different airports, alone; navigated cities on my mobile phone. Yet it all felt very different this time round. I was tourist no more. I was a short-term resident who had arrived when drug-related assaults were on the rise. Here, cannabis stores are common and addicts shuffle half-naked in a drugged-out stupor on the streets and on public transport, oblivious to the cold. I couldn’t return home after a mere three weeks away and amble back from the airport the way I used to, souvenirs and exhilarating travel anecdotes in hand. Taking unpaid leave meant that there was nothing I could return to, and nothing to occupy my time in Toronto. In one fell swoop I had arranged the most unique arrangement for myself, ever: no job, no friends and family within a 7,000km radius, no familiar surroundings or environment. It was a sobering jolt to my system. It seemed like only I could answer those questions I longed others to answer: do I know where I’m from? Do I know who I am? Am I still me when away from my country and all who know me, and without my job and its soul-sapping but so-satisfying responsibilities?

So who are we when we don’t have our country, loved ones, or routines to remind us who we are and what we are capable of doing? Far away from home, I found myself stricken by the thought of cooking, but persevered, telling myself that if my mother can cook anything and everything, then this same culinary prowess must be in my DNA, ready to unleash itself with more practice. So, I made fried rice, pizza, dumplings, mee hoon kway and so many other dishes from scratch, and like any Asian woman who calls the shots in the kitchen, complained about how my cooking tasted in order to hear gushing compliments from those eating my food. I brought kaya croissants (store-bought from the only Singapore-style cafe here; I am not at that fusion-baker level yet) to my CrossFit gym so that the Lebanese, Irish and Canadian owners could taste something from my home country; unable to write work emails or plan programmes, I resorted to meal-planning and grocery-budgeting for “intellectual stimulation” (they were underwhelming); I attended French classes, panicking from the student’s seat every time the teacher gave us a Kahoot! quiz (but not before teaching my classmates how to use Kahoot!, like the trained teacher I am); I made friends with people from parts of the world (Mexico, Argentina, Australia, Hong Kong, Canada of course, and etc) whom I would never have gotten the chance to get close to while in Singapore, some of whom have become my Toronto family; and any time I could, I talked about my home and my work, pretending not to convulse with pride when people raved about our airport, our national carrier, our education system, and more. And little by little, as I strove to feel connected to what felt like a previous life, I found more lightness in my heart. I thought I was moving away and moving on, but it turns out that knowing where you come from and appreciating how it has shaped you is every bit as important.

What about residents or refugees who have been wrested from the familiar and thrust into an alien landscape? Homesick as I was, I have never seen and delighted in true diversity and inclusivity until I lived in Toronto. Residents really have come from every corner of the world, I hear tongues completely unfamiliar to me, and wealth does not segregate as distinctly. At times, I walk past wizened Asian men and a part of me longs to ask “Uncle, why are you so far away from home?”. But time and again, I encounter someone who looks Asian by ethnicity and am always confounded to hear a torrent of North American-accented English spilling out of their mouth. They have clearly grown up here, might even have been born here, and I quickly learn how presumptuous I am to have assumed that Toronto isn’t home for them. Most of the time, people move for better opportunities, with hope and a dogged determination that life will turn out better. But what happens when you are forced to flee your country? What happens when you were displaced? Over here, I marvel at how people’s backgrounds and life choices are accepted without question nor judgement. Near my house is an Orthodox Church, where both the Canada and Ukraine flag proudly adorn the entrance. In the Old Town, there is a banner hung outside the Anglican Cathedral which welcomes same-sex marriages to be conducted and celebrated there. Toronto is a city that people come to for a myriad of good reasons, and I have learnt that people don’t always leave for greener pastures. Sometimes they leave out of necessity, even driven by fear. I am not a refugee by far, but this year my heart lies with the many people in the world who have lost their homes, do not feel at home, and yearn for home. I remember Mosa, the tall, dashing grandfather who had driven me around when I was a tourist in Jordan and who had plied me with maamoul after the one time I had some and raved about it. He had fled to Jordan from Palestine as a young man, and I remember the silence when he pointed out his homeland from the car, within sight across the wadi. I have learned that we can have many homes, that home can be a feeling as much as it is a place, and that making a home lies in our hands.

So, this isn’t a feel-good piece of writing that brings immediate good tidings. I write from uncertainty and loss instead, away from the easy and the good, having put myself in a space where I have struggled to find myself and stand up for what I want. But I also write with thanksgiving, hope, and faith. This year has been exceptionally challenging for me, and I have spent many days in tears and darkness — both literally (the sun sets at 4 p.m in winter) and figuratively. Yet I cannot be more grateful to recall the kindness and care shown to me by others— messages from friends and ex-colleagues in the middle of my loneliest, quietest days that remind me who I am and where I am from; invitations from friends in Toronto that assure me that I am capable of making new and lasting friendships; stories shared with me by others who have had similar experiences to mine, and commiserating with these like-minded friends. God sent me so many angels to support me through the year, for whom I will be forever thankful. Other fierce reminders of His presence and mercy took several forms: basking in the warmth of the elusive sun on hikes; visiting churches that welcomed me with open arms; the endless patience that Canadians demonstrate, be it while waiting in line or traffic; getting stopped for directions by strangers which boosted my morale to no end as I imagined being able to pass off as a Toronto local. I had encountered the legendary Canadian kindness, and learnt that people have the power to make you feel at home too. When you are in a dark place, even the smallest act of kindness feels like the blazing sun.

Lastly, I write this thinking of victims, refugees, the lost and the lonely, and people wading their way through pain, worry or grief today. And if you, reader, are not at Peace as well, I believe that Hope, Joy and Love will be your balm. In John 14:27, we are assured by God that “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.” It is Advent after all, and even if we feel the absence of one symbol, trust that the combination and confluence of the other three will bring us out of the darkness. God has placed us exactly where we need to be. All we have to do is trust Him. Besides, after every winter, ice thaws, the cold relents, and in their place, light always beckons. Jesus Christ our Saviour is born.

Last week we lit the first Advent candle – the candle symbolising hope. Michelle Tan reflects on hope. She makes a case that the light of hope cannot shine in the darkness unless fuelled by faith. Revisit the Parable of the Wise and Foolish bridesmaids (Matthew 25: 1 – 13) to learn how we can keep our lamps lit as we journey through Advent.

…

The Catholic Church recently celebrated the beginning of a new liturgical year on Nov 27, 2022, the First Sunday of Advent. For those of us who have Advent wreaths, we light the first of the four Advent candles on them, the candle of Hope. (The other three candles symbolising peace, joy and love, are lit during the Second, Third and Fourth Sundays of Advent on 4, 11 and 18 December respectively). South African theologian and Nobel Peace Prize-winner Archbishop Desmond Tutu said, “Hope is being able to see that there is light in spite of all the darkness.”

As the calendar year draws to its end, the New Year threatens to be shrouded in the darkness of the impending doom of the world as we know it. Climate catastrophes, political upheavals and wars, scandals in and exoduses from the Church, the desanctification of marriage, the disintegration of morals, and the spread of the culture of death have already plunged many into existential crises. What is the point of educating future generations if there is no future for them? Yet, the lighting of the first Advent candle, whether in church or at home, reminds us that not long from now the Light of Christ will come to dispel the darkness both in the world and in our hearts. “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” (John 1:5) The lighting of the candle of Hope is thus a fitting beginning to our Advent journey towards Christmas and a new year ahead.

Hope

Father Ronald Rolheiser, a Catholic priest and columnist whose reflections are carried in many Catholic publications worldwide including our Archdiocese’s Catholic News, relates the story of how French Jesuit priest and theologian Pierre Teilhard de Chardin (1881-1955) was challenged by his critics: “‘Suppose we blow up the world with a nuclear bomb, what then happens to your vision of a world coming together in peace?” Teilhard’s response lays bare the anatomy of hope: ‘If we blow up the world by nuclear bombs, that will set things back some millions of years, but eventually what Christ promised will come about, not because I wish it, but because God has promised it and, in the Resurrection, God has shown that God is powerful enough to deliver on that promise.’”

And what did Christ promise?

“I saw the Holy City, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride beautifully dressed for her husband. And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, ‘Look! God’s dwelling place is now among the people, and He will dwell with them. They will be His people, and God Himself will be with them and be their God. He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.” (Revelation 21:2-4)

Fr Rolheiser goes on to say, “Hope is precisely that, a vision of life that guides itself by God’s promise. It is not simple optimism, nor is it wishful thinking, a fantasy-daydream that someday our ship will come in. Hope is not based on whether the daily news is good or bad on a given day. If we hope or despair based on whether things seem to be improving or disintegrating in terms of world events, our spirits will go up and down like the stock market. Instead, hope looks at the facts, looks at God’s promise, and then, without denying the facts or turning away from the daily news, lives out a vision of life based upon God’s promise, trusting that a benevolent, all-powerful God is still in charge of this world.”

Faith, love, peace

But the light of hope cannot shine in our darkness unless fuelled by faith. The Blessed Virgin Mary is the example par excellence of such faith and hope. Her faith and trust in God’s promises sustained her through the Incarnation, Jesus’ public ministry, His Passion and Cross and the Resurrection. As Elizabeth prophetically announced, “Blessed is she who has believed that the Lord would fulfill His promises to her!” (Luke 1:45)

And it was Our Lady’s love for her God and His Son that enabled her to love His people as Mother and Mediatrix of His graces. Mary was the embodiment of the theological virtues of faith, hope and love i.e. the virtues that help us live in close relationship with God. No wonder she is called the Star of the New Evangelisation, leading the People of God ever closer to the Lord, like the star of Bethlehem led the Magi to the infant Jesus.

That first Christmas night, the angels sang, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men!” (Luke 2:14) Whoever encounters the Lord finds inner peace, because the Light of the World shines within. And this peace is not just the absence of anxiety or distress but it is a peace the world cannot define and cannot give, because it is the peace of shalom, of being immersed in the presence of God, of tasting heaven on earth, one of complete and perfect joy.

It is to this shalom peace, perfect joy and unconditional love for God and His people that the second, third and fourth candles on the Advent wreath point us to the coming of Christ at Christmas.

But we are called to be candlelight and stars of Bethlehem leading others to Christ, not only during Advent, but all year round, and not just in anticipation of His First Coming at Christmas but also of His Second Coming at the end times. “You are the light of the world. People do not light a lamp and put it under a bowl. Instead, they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven.” (Matthew 5:11-16) How can we share the light of our hope, peace, joy and love with others? The Bible tells us we can’t!

Keeping our lamps lit

The Parable of the Wise and Foolish Bridesmaids (Matthew 25:1-13) explains why. In one of his Daily Scriptural Reflections on this Gospel passage, Cardinal William Goh wrote:

“We have been chosen as the bridesmaids to welcome Christ the Bridegroom to meet His bride the Church. Like the bridesmaids, our task is to prepare the People of God to welcome Christ. Christ’s mission is to reconcile man with God: through our union and intimacy with Him, we share in the heavenly wedding banquet. But we cannot enter heaven alone; we enter together with the rest of humanity. That is why, when the Bridegroom comes, the bridesmaids enter with the Bride to the wedding banquet.

“How then should we prepare ourselves to accompany the Bridegroom when He comes? The Gospel makes it clear – we need to light up our lamps and bring sufficient oil to wait for His coming. The light of the lamp represents a life of faith, hope and charity. These are the theological gifts of the Holy Spirit. Only faith in Christ can give us hope in eternal life, and it is this hope that inspires us to live a life of charity. What, then, would be the oil that is necessary to give strength to our faith, hope and charity?

“The oil for the lamp of faith, hope and charity is kept burning only when we cooperate with His grace. We have all been given the grace of faith in Christ and hope in the future and the capacity to love with His love in our hearts. But like anyone who has been given the graces, unless we make use of them properly, wisely, and conscientiously, these would have been given to us in vain. So, we must ensure that we have sufficient oil to inflame the gifts of faith, hope and charity in our hearts. We need to keep our faith, hope and charity alive by enkindling them.

“The important lesson to learn from the Parable is that when it comes to preparing ourselves to meet the Lord, there are certain things in life that cannot be shared. The oil of spiritual life, spiritual maturity and spiritual goodness cannot be shared – we must own them ourselves. There is no treasury that we can draw upon to help us to encounter the Lord if we have not made any efforts to do so. This explains why when the five foolish bridesmaids asked the wise bridesmaids to give them some oil, they told them, ‘There may not be enough for us and for you; you had better go to those who sell it and buy some for yourselves.’”

Where can we encounter the Lord and thereby ‘buy’ oil for our lamps if not by deeply desiring a personal relationship with Christ and seeking to meet Him in times of quiet prayer, in adoration before the Blessed Sacrament, in the Breaking of the Word of God, the reception of the Holy Eucharist, or at retreats or in Creation? And we do not have to search for God alone – after all, the Wise Men followed the star of Bethlehem and found the infant Jesus together.

So, as we begin the season of Advent (which shares the same Latin root as ‘adventure’), let our hearts be filled with joy as we prepare one another to become wise disciples of the Lord and fellow adventurers in the new liturgical, calendar and school year ahead:

“Since we have been justified through faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have gained access by faith into this grace in which we now stand. And we boast in the hope of the glory of God. Not only so, but we also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us.” (Romans 5:1-5)

Wishing everyone a blessed Advent, a happy and holy Christmas and a New Year of hope, peace, joy and love!

The symbolism of the Advent wreath lies in the tension between light and darkness, waiting for the coming of the Messiah, the light of the world.

The progressive lighting of the candles each week symbolises the expectation and hope surrounding our Lord’s first coming into the world and the anticipation of His second coming to judge the living and the dead. As the candle is lit each week, light increases and darkness decreases as we are reminded that Jesus Christ is the Light of the world and has overcome darkness.

Read more on one.org.sg

During Advent 2021, at the height of the Covid-19 pandemic, then Bro. Simon Ho reflected on the source of our hope amidst the darkness. He reminded us to “live in a way that makes others, our colleagues and our students, wonder wherein lies the source of our hope.” Two years on, we are now in the post-Covid normal. Some things have changed. Others have not. Is God’s Unfading Glory still our hope amidst the darkness? 

…

2021 has been a challenging year for everyone, but even more so for educators. Remembering my time as a teacher, we feel a sense of accomplishment when we see the smiles on our children’s faces after they have mastered something difficult, or overcome a challenge that they had thought was their limit. But now we can’t see their smiles because their faces are covered up by masks. We are fired up not simply to teach our subjects, but to teach young people. But now social distancing has also meant reduced opportunities for interactions among students and teachers. We feel we know a lot less about our children and youth. Our sense of purpose as educators seems to be challenged: what does it mean to teach in the Covid-19 endemic? Instinctively we know that we are not just here to finish the syllabus and get them through the exams… and hope for the best.

And this sense of discomfort is right, because as Catholic educators, we are called to reveal by our lives and teaching, the one Teacher, Jesus Christ, who is always interested in and saves the whole person. Whatever the circumstances we are in, we are invited to show in our interactions with our students and fellow teachers, that even amidst our less-than-ideal conditions, we can try new ways, using our human ingenuity supported by grace, to cooperate with God to know and form the whole child. We are challenged to live in a way that makes others, our colleagues and our students, wonder wherein lies the source of our hope.

Yet hope can seem dim because we ourselves are in difficult circumstances. But let Christmas this year remind us that hope can be passed along precisely only by those who share in the condition of darkness. God could have stayed up in heaven and saved humanity from above, sending help to His people when they cried to Him for help, as He sometimes did in the Old Testament. But that would mean that our trials and tribulations would remain devoid of God’s presence. So, God Himself did not stay up there in the heavens, but came down into our broken world and shared in our seemingly hopeless situation. The world Jesus was born into was a difficult and dangerous one: Herod was a ruthless, insecure king who was ready to do whatever it took to eliminate any threat to his rule. Israel was under the control of the Romans who did not look kindly on the Jews and treated them with contempt. Even among the Jews, there were struggles between sects and factions for influence and power. Yet it was into this volatile mix of politics and intrigue, tiredness and danger that the Father set as the opportune time for His Son to be born into the world, so that in truth the people who walked in darkness may see a great light (cf. Isaiah 9:1), so much so that St. Paul would say that Jesus’ incarnation happened “when the fullness of time had come” (Galatians 4:4) — when all that should be fulfilled has been fulfilled — the right time that God has been preparing for.

Jesus entered the world precisely when and where it was dark to bring God’s presence and light into the darkness and show us how to walk even when it remains dark. And Christmas reminds us that He did so by becoming a helpless little baby, who could not even defend Himself. Jesus had to rely on others, especially Joseph and Mary, and certainly many other unnamed people the Holy Family met along their journey, to help and shelter them. The absence of light, of the joys and consolations we have been used to, is not necessarily a sign of God’s absence. As the Father had provided what was needed to the Holy Family in those dark days after Christmas, He will also provide us with what we need, in prayer and through the people He has placed around us; but we must surrender ourselves as Jesus did in his littleness, and let go of our notions of success and control. Jesus has conquered the darkness, not by eliminating it, but by making it into a servant to bring about good.

If we look up into the heavens, there are plenty of stars up in the sky every moment; but we do not see them because the light is too bright around us. It is only when it is night, when darkness envelops us, that the beauty of the stars shining in the darkness beyond can be revealed to us in all its beauty. Then the daylight no longer masks heavens’ glory which only darkness can reveal. The darkness of the difficulties we have experienced together these past two years can seem overwhelming. But if we lift up our eyes, to heaven yes, and also to the Cross: gazing on the example of our Saviour Jesus Christ, listening to His word and living by what He has taught and showed us, we will discover His presence with us which strengthens us, enlightens us and gives us hope even when challenges continue to fraught our ways.

This Christmas, may we discover the beauty of that unfading glory which comes from following Jesus, who made Himself small amidst the terrifying forces of darkness, but who ultimately is the True Light and Saviour of the world.