Blessed graphic
Art courtesy of Jim Parsons
Matthew 5:1-12, Micah 6:1-8
In the past few weeks I've seen several articles on how our culture has lost its Christian foundation, that we are a post-Christian society and effectively pagan. One of these articles argued that students entering into theological education for training in the ministry are functionally illiterate when it comes to the scriptures, spiritual disciplines, and so on.
As you can imagine, all these articles were lamenting—not celebrating—the situation. I've read too much Church history, too many of the primary sources, and way too much Augustine to share these worries. It seems that in every generation there is a cry of lament about poor Biblical literacy, ignorance of the content of the faith, or whatever. Wesley scholar Albert C. Outler did it. Karl Barth did it. John Wesley did it. Francis Xavier did it. Martin Luther did it. Thomas Aquinas did it. There is nothing new under the sun.
If these commentators had actually read the Old Testament, they would realize they are part of a very long line of voices lamenting the woeful lack of whatever it is that they think is necessary for life with God, be it Torah obedience, scriptural literacy, being filled with the Holy Spirit, scriptural holiness, doctrinal purity, or perfection in love. Spoiler alert: we've never really had whatever it is they think we've lost. We've had so many great awakenings because sleeping is the default position. We have to be reminded what the Lord requires of us all the time because we forget, all the time.
Me saying, "there is nothing new under the sun" is not a call for resignation or apathy. We must never stop hoping for the return of our Lord or celebrating the new thing done in Christ. I'm not saying that we should despair of working out our salvation with fear and trembling, or not be concerned with making disciples. I'm saying that it is our duty to be honest about the past, to repent of where we have fallen short, and to celebrate the moments when we loved with perfect love.
For my sisters and brothers who are stuck in the nostalgia trap, those who think that some moment in the past was extraordinarily blessed by God, I encourage you to read deeply from the authors of that day—whatever day that was. Even in these so-called heydays, the authors of their time write of the decadence and decay, the inattentiveness to this or that doctrine or practice which would have marked it as a truly glorious age. Honesty about the past also means being attentive to the good as well. In every age there are great saints who do live into the perfection of God's love for the world. Spiritual and intellectual maturity require that we are honest with ourselves and with God about the good and the bad in every moment.
A healthier Christian stance towards time is complex, and it is a living balance that requires us to constantly check to see if we are leaning too far one way or the other. Our passage from Micah starts in the present tense with commandments to pay attention to God here and now. It then moves to looking backwards, recalling Egypt, Moses, Balaam and the miracle at Gilgal. But then it moves to what God wants from us going forward. This is good prophecy; it starts in the present moment, draws on the past, and calls us to the future.
We cannot forget that who we are, our identity, is encoded by the stories we tell about ourselves. We are our stories, and our stories are not limited to our personal stories but also include the histories that shape us. I've never been to Egypt—but fleeing to Egypt is part of my story. Or better, I let God's story become my story. I step outside my small narrative and sense of self and let myself become one character in God's grand story.
I've never been to Egypt. I may in fact be an Egyptian taskmaster, but the story of God leading the Israelites out of Egypt—and calling the Holy Family out of Egypt—is the story of which I am a small part. We can't neglect the past because our identity is shaped out of the stories of the past.
On the other hand, our identity is also aspirational. We are, in part, already present in who we want to become. The story of God's work in the world is not over; my part in that story is not over, even if we already know the ending. The ending was revealed to us on Easter Sunday, and ought to be visible to us every time we gather to celebrate the eternal feast—every time we get a glimpse of not only the future, but of all eternity. If I discover that I am an Egyptian taskmaster, I pray for forgiveness as I throw down my whip and start walking to Sinai; letting go of my own story and becoming part of God's story. Just as the past shapes our identity, so do our intentions for the future.
In the gospel lesson for today—to which few of us paid any attention because we have heard this passage so many times—Jesus tells us who is blessed. What stood out to me in my prayers and preparation for today was the sense of the time in the blessings. They did not strike me as aspirational, or commandments, but as simple matters of fact. Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
When Moses led the Israelites out of Egypt and went up the mountain alone, he came back with 10 words that we call “commandments.” Jesus goes up the mountain and the crowd follows him, and he gives nine blessings. Until this reading, I had understood them to be commandments: be meek in order that you shall inherit the earth. But that's not what Jesus says. He says, "happy are the peacemakers" – present tense, indicative mood. The identity he gives to those who hunger and thirst (for righteousness) is "those who will be filled." The identity Jesus blesses us with is future-oriented but starts in the present. Jesus does not remind people of the past as Moses did, he does not recount God's mighty acts of salvation, he does not lay down new terms for a new covenant or re-articulate the old covenant. He just starts blessing—he just starts naming those who are already blessed.
But as I continued to pray about the text, the future fell away, as did the present and the past. Instead of looking at these using linear time, what if we looked at them from Kairos time, from an eternal perspective? What if we quit trying to figure out how we are going to get blessed, and started looking at how we can participate in the blessings?
"Blessed are the poor in spirt, for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven." I understand the poor in spirit to be anyone who identifies with the poor. If our identity is formed by our stories, then identifying with the poor means claiming a story as our own in which we are the poor—not lying about the illusion of wealth we have, but recognizing the profound poverty in which we actually live. Some of us have experienced economic poverty and our personal stories are the stories of the poor. Others of us have never wondered where our next meal will come from, so identifying with the poor means setting aside our own personal stories and living into the stories of others. But identifying who gets blessed is only half the blessing; the other half is the actual blessing itself. Jesus' entire mission, in Matthew's Gospel is summed up with "repent, for the kingdom of Heaven has come near." So, saying that the poor in spirit have the kingdom of Heaven is no small blessing.
But if these aren't exhortations or commandments, but simple statements of fact, are they true? Are the poor in fact possessors of the kingdom of heaven? We who call, Lord, Lord, we claim citizenship in Christ's kingdom. Do we in fact give possession of this kingdom to the poor? I'll leave the question. And if someone possesses the kingdom of Heaven, are they poor?
"Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted." Blessed are those who mourn. Is it true? Are they comforted? In what way do we who call Jesus our Lord seek to comfort those who mourn? In my ministry with the dying, I find that as I provide comfort, I am led to mourn. A dear friend, who I walked beside these past 12 months, died yesterday from pancreatic cancer. I think I provided her with comfort. But I am now mourning.
"Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth." How many times have we heard about what it means to be meek—like a well-trained war horse as one professor once told me. But what does it mean to ensure that there is an Earth for the meek to inherit or to see that they do in fact inherit it? Might we find ourselves meek as we seek to keep the Earth worthy of inheriting? As we work for righteousness and justice, do we not find new injustices to name and resist? As I pray and do my disciplines in order that I might see God, I find moments of purity in my love for God and neighbor. As others call me a child of God, I strive to be worthy of that title and help bring about the peace that others project onto me.
In Kairos time, past, present and future collapse into one whole. Our identities which are formed from our histories and our aspirations become unified into that simple thing which we are below all other marks of identity: children of God, loved and worthy of love.
Moses gave us ten words. Jesus gave us nine blessings. In those nine there is another: the blessing of an identity in relation to what God is doing in blessing the world. In Western Christianity it is common to say that in the Eucharist heaven breaks into our presence—we invite all the company of heaven to join with the people on Earth. But I think that is backwards. We on Earth break into heaven, get a foretaste of the banquet happening in Kairos time, and share in the blessings which are already real: the blessing of the love of our Lord who went up the mountain and shared himself with us, is sharing himself with us, and will share himself with us. All in one perfect moment. Blessed are we, for we shall be blessed.
The Rev. Dr. Scot C. Bontrager serves as associate pastor at First United Methodist Church in Richardson, Texas. This article is adapted from a sermon presented Jan 28, 2020, at United Methodist-related Perkins School of Theology in Dallas, Texas.