She sat in my office weeping. Not crying, a tear or two rolling down the cheek, and not sobbing, ragged breaths attempting to gasp out pain and gulp down healing or hope. No, those are nothing next to this. This can only be described as weeping. A veritable flood of tears, threatening to wash us both away. Shoulders were hunched as if against a gale force wind threatening to tear out of her grasp whatever shred of equilibrium she managed to cling to, twisting it into shreds like the tissues I kept handing her. Which I did because I didn’t know what else to do, to be honest. It was painful to watch, to grossly understate the emotion.
At least I wasn’t the cause of her tears. That would have added immeasurably to the weight of the moment. We know, from painful experience, the difference. It hasn’t happened often, thank God, but I remember the times I have caused my wife to cry. Some unthinking word, some indefensible act, some brokenness that plays out in a selfish consequence. I stand helpless, given evidence of the pain I had caused, the trust now eroded. And a despair like a lead weight sitting in the center of my soul, dragging me down to depths rarely plumbed.
Or my daughter, again thankfully rare, but there have been times when I made her cry. Thing is, I was right, she was wrong, disobedient, rebellious, unwilling to participate in family responsibilities. And reason wasn’t working, her back talk was getting to me and I let her have it, raised voice, impeccable logic, list of offenses, banished to her room, grounded, punished. The flood ensued. At last, I thought, she has a sense of the seriousness of this moment. But underneath that small satisfaction was the agony of causing my little girl pain. My child, who is light and life to me, who sits dried eyed through sad movies while her friends sob in empathy with beloved characters, who is making her way in the world with a dazzling smile, now stands broken before me, mascara making streaks down her cheeks, and hurt in her eyes.
We know tears, whether we are the source of them, or the cause of them, we know them. And what we know is that we rarely know what to say to make them go away. But almost anybody knows that the absolute worst thing you could say to someone weeping is that they’ll get over it. Not just get over it, but you’ll laugh again.
Luke 6:20-23 Then he looked up at his disciples and said: "Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God. 21 "Blessed are you who are hungry now, for you will be filled. "Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh. 22 "Blessed are you when people hate you, and when they exclude you, revile you, and defame you on account of the Son of Man. 23 Rejoice in that day and leap for joy, for surely your reward is great in heaven; for that is what their ancestors did to the prophets.
Scholars tell us that both Matthew’s Sermon on the Mount and Luke’s Sermon on the Plain are most like compilations of sayings of Jesus accumulated over a larger part of his teaching ministry rather than one sermon per se. It is possible that at various times Jesus stood or sat to teach and put together these various thoughts in one larger teaching moment. It was a technique the rabbis called “stringing pearls.”
The problem is that some of these pearls are hard to hear. “Blessed are you when people hate you..” Really? Is that something we should aspire to? Something we should work toward? “Rejoice in that day (that hating day) and leap for joy...” I don’t know that this is something I really want to claim in my faith. I know, I’ve been told as a pastor that if people aren’t upset by what I am doing, then I’m not doing enough. In which case, I’m doing plenty these days.
But I’m not sure that’s what he was getting at here. It isn’t that we set out to upset people, that do whatever it takes to get us hated. If that were the case, then those Westboro Baptist folks are on the right track. And there is no way in God’s heaven that that makes sense.
Blessed are you who are poor, blessed are you who are hungry. Are we supposed to just let the poor and the hungry live in their blessedness because some day there will be a change in their circumstances? Or are we called to be a partner in that change? Are we the promise that Christ gives to those in difficult circumstances?
And what does it mean to promise the Kingdom of God? Is it, as so many believe, a “someday” kind of promise. You’ll get your reward one day, when you die, or when Jesus comes back, whichever comes first. Or is there something else going on here? If so, what would that be? Is it something beyond the facile “it will all work out in the end” kind of assurances?
I hope so. I remember hoping so that soggy day in my office all those years ago. Grasping at straws, for something of significance to say, I clearly remember thinking Luke chapter six verse twenty-one: “Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh.” And I remember dismissing it from my mind because I knew it wouldn’t be heard. And I knew enough of the situation to know that it wouldn’t be easily made right, there was no simple or easy happy ending on her horizon.
So what do these verses offer those in desperate situations? Hope? Well, yes, there is hope. There is a promise of reversal. There is resolution for even the most complex, the most broken of situations. And we who stand in faith must never lose our hold on that hope. It is what drives us to keep working, to keep giving, to keep loving, even when we don’t see a solution on the horizon.
But these verses tell us that this hope comes packaged in a relationship. “Yours is the kingdom of God.” Even the most desperate of people are still worthy of love, of welcome, of hospitality, There is room at our table, room in our inn, room in our circle even for the hurting, even for the weeping.
That is why when folks hurt and withdraw from community the healing takes so much longer. That is why seclusion is actually detrimental to hope. The kingdom that is on offer is a community, a relationship of healing and hope. That relationship is, of course, first and foremost with Jesus the Christ, the author of hope, the source of healing. But it is lived in the here and now, in the everyday, with the human community we call the church. A place of acceptance and inclusion. At least we hope, at least we strive to be that community, that reflection of the kingdom.
Did you notice that some verses are future tense: you will be filled, you will laugh. But some are present: yours is the kingdom. We can be right now the place of filling and the place of healing, or learning to laugh again. We can’t fix the problems with a snap of the finger, but we can be a part of the solution. If we hang in there together.
After what seemed like hours and buckets of tears, the weeping finally ceased. After gestures of composing herself, she gathered the mound of tissues and dropped them into the wastebasket I offered. Then she looked up at me with the beginnings of a shy smile and said “thank you for being here with me.” And she went out into the maelstrom that was her life that week with a different set to her shoulders. The only change to her circumstance was that she now new she was not alone anymore. And that was enough.
Shalom,
Derek
At least I wasn’t the cause of her tears. That would have added immeasurably to the weight of the moment. We know, from painful experience, the difference. It hasn’t happened often, thank God, but I remember the times I have caused my wife to cry. Some unthinking word, some indefensible act, some brokenness that plays out in a selfish consequence. I stand helpless, given evidence of the pain I had caused, the trust now eroded. And a despair like a lead weight sitting in the center of my soul, dragging me down to depths rarely plumbed.
Or my daughter, again thankfully rare, but there have been times when I made her cry. Thing is, I was right, she was wrong, disobedient, rebellious, unwilling to participate in family responsibilities. And reason wasn’t working, her back talk was getting to me and I let her have it, raised voice, impeccable logic, list of offenses, banished to her room, grounded, punished. The flood ensued. At last, I thought, she has a sense of the seriousness of this moment. But underneath that small satisfaction was the agony of causing my little girl pain. My child, who is light and life to me, who sits dried eyed through sad movies while her friends sob in empathy with beloved characters, who is making her way in the world with a dazzling smile, now stands broken before me, mascara making streaks down her cheeks, and hurt in her eyes.
We know tears, whether we are the source of them, or the cause of them, we know them. And what we know is that we rarely know what to say to make them go away. But almost anybody knows that the absolute worst thing you could say to someone weeping is that they’ll get over it. Not just get over it, but you’ll laugh again.
Luke 6:20-23 Then he looked up at his disciples and said: "Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God. 21 "Blessed are you who are hungry now, for you will be filled. "Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh. 22 "Blessed are you when people hate you, and when they exclude you, revile you, and defame you on account of the Son of Man. 23 Rejoice in that day and leap for joy, for surely your reward is great in heaven; for that is what their ancestors did to the prophets.
Scholars tell us that both Matthew’s Sermon on the Mount and Luke’s Sermon on the Plain are most like compilations of sayings of Jesus accumulated over a larger part of his teaching ministry rather than one sermon per se. It is possible that at various times Jesus stood or sat to teach and put together these various thoughts in one larger teaching moment. It was a technique the rabbis called “stringing pearls.”
The problem is that some of these pearls are hard to hear. “Blessed are you when people hate you..” Really? Is that something we should aspire to? Something we should work toward? “Rejoice in that day (that hating day) and leap for joy...” I don’t know that this is something I really want to claim in my faith. I know, I’ve been told as a pastor that if people aren’t upset by what I am doing, then I’m not doing enough. In which case, I’m doing plenty these days.
But I’m not sure that’s what he was getting at here. It isn’t that we set out to upset people, that do whatever it takes to get us hated. If that were the case, then those Westboro Baptist folks are on the right track. And there is no way in God’s heaven that that makes sense.
Blessed are you who are poor, blessed are you who are hungry. Are we supposed to just let the poor and the hungry live in their blessedness because some day there will be a change in their circumstances? Or are we called to be a partner in that change? Are we the promise that Christ gives to those in difficult circumstances?
And what does it mean to promise the Kingdom of God? Is it, as so many believe, a “someday” kind of promise. You’ll get your reward one day, when you die, or when Jesus comes back, whichever comes first. Or is there something else going on here? If so, what would that be? Is it something beyond the facile “it will all work out in the end” kind of assurances?
I hope so. I remember hoping so that soggy day in my office all those years ago. Grasping at straws, for something of significance to say, I clearly remember thinking Luke chapter six verse twenty-one: “Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh.” And I remember dismissing it from my mind because I knew it wouldn’t be heard. And I knew enough of the situation to know that it wouldn’t be easily made right, there was no simple or easy happy ending on her horizon.
So what do these verses offer those in desperate situations? Hope? Well, yes, there is hope. There is a promise of reversal. There is resolution for even the most complex, the most broken of situations. And we who stand in faith must never lose our hold on that hope. It is what drives us to keep working, to keep giving, to keep loving, even when we don’t see a solution on the horizon.
But these verses tell us that this hope comes packaged in a relationship. “Yours is the kingdom of God.” Even the most desperate of people are still worthy of love, of welcome, of hospitality, There is room at our table, room in our inn, room in our circle even for the hurting, even for the weeping.
That is why when folks hurt and withdraw from community the healing takes so much longer. That is why seclusion is actually detrimental to hope. The kingdom that is on offer is a community, a relationship of healing and hope. That relationship is, of course, first and foremost with Jesus the Christ, the author of hope, the source of healing. But it is lived in the here and now, in the everyday, with the human community we call the church. A place of acceptance and inclusion. At least we hope, at least we strive to be that community, that reflection of the kingdom.
Did you notice that some verses are future tense: you will be filled, you will laugh. But some are present: yours is the kingdom. We can be right now the place of filling and the place of healing, or learning to laugh again. We can’t fix the problems with a snap of the finger, but we can be a part of the solution. If we hang in there together.
After what seemed like hours and buckets of tears, the weeping finally ceased. After gestures of composing herself, she gathered the mound of tissues and dropped them into the wastebasket I offered. Then she looked up at me with the beginnings of a shy smile and said “thank you for being here with me.” And she went out into the maelstrom that was her life that week with a different set to her shoulders. The only change to her circumstance was that she now new she was not alone anymore. And that was enough.
Shalom,
Derek
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