On Wednesday, my mother-in-law sent Travis and I a picture she’d taken of a beautiful sunrise over the palm trees from her porch in Arizona, writing, “I woke up to this and wanted to share. God is showing off again.” In reply, I sent her a picture of my current view: grey skies blurring into grey snow-covered streets, remarking, “God is working with a decidedly more monochromatic color palette here.” Pastor Ken may have praised us last Sunday for making it through the ten darkest weeks of the year, but, I don’t know about you, it still feels pretty dark. And grey. And cold. And heavy. Epiphany is supposed to be the season of light, the season of revelation, the season in which, to quote the old hymn, “God in flesh [is] made manifest.” We’re supposed to be on high alert for the wonder and joy and promise of the Word made flesh, but instead I mostly just feel cold and tired and scared. There’s a poem by the theologian Walter Brueggemann titled “Epiphany” that I keep hanging on the wall of my office. The poem opens, “On Epiphany day, we are still the people walking. We are still people in the dark, and the darkness looms large around us, beset as we are by fear, anxiety, brutality, violence, loss – a dozen alienations that we cannot manage.” What I love about Brueggemann’s words is how clearly he recognizes that we are a people in progress. God has been revealed to us in the birth of Jesus Christ, in Christ’s own death and resurrection, and yet, we are still and already and not yet people. So Brueggemann goes on, “We are – we could be – people of your light. So we pray for the light of your glorious presence as we wait for your appearing; we pray for the light of your wonderous grace as we exhaust our coping capacity; we pray for your gift of newness that will override our weariness; we pray that we may see and know and hear and trust in your good rule. That we may have the energy, courage, and freedom to enact your rule through the demands of this day.”
Dear people of God, if Walter Brueggemann’s poem speaks to you the way it speaks to me, guess what, we are in good company. How are we to be people of God in a world that feels not much like the kingdom is exactly the question Jesus is addressing in the Sermon on the Mount. How do we live in this middle time, sandwiched between Christ is risen and Christ will come again? The Sermon on the Mount is Jesus’ first, longest, and most comprehensive teaching on how to live as God’s people in the world. But before doing any teaching, Jesus first grounds his disciples, the crowds, us, in who we are.
The beatitudes, first and foremost, are statements of fact. These are not categories of characteristics needed to be considered among Christ’s followers; they are declarations about the people who already are. “Blessed are,” the beatitudes declare, over and over again, categories that seem anything but blessed. The poor in spirit, the mourning, the meek, those hungering and thirsting for righteousness, the persecuted. Even the more aspirational ones aren’t particularly powerful, the merciful, the pure, the peacemakers. Blessed, blessed, blessed, says Jesus, making it abundantly clear that these are not practical advice for successful living; they are prophetic declarations made on the authority of the coming-and-already-present king.
You are blessed now, the beatitudes declare, and there will be more to come. The two key words in the beatitudes are “are” and “will”. Each Beatitude starts in the present tense, “blessed are…” These are statements of fact and should be read that way. They are reminders of truth, not demands for change. They remain true regardless of our actions.
They begin “blessed are,” and then lean into movement, with the future tense, “for they will…” This “will” pronounces that while the Kingdom of heaven has indeed come near, the full revelation of the kingdom lies yet beyond us. While not dependent on our action, the beatitudes do lean us to movement. We, the community who hears itself pronounced blessed, does not, cannot remain passive but drawn to act in accordance with the coming kingdom. Christianity, declares Jesus in the Beatitudes, is not a “your best life now” religion. It is a way of living as if the kingdom of God is already among us, so that through our actions, righteousness, peace, mercy, meekness, will one day indeed prevail. Blessed are those who live this life now, for they will in the end be made right by God.
All this got me thinking, what might the beatitudes sound like today? So bear with me, this is a little bit the Gospel according to Pastor Kjersten, but here are some possible modern beatitudes. Take a listen, ponder where you agree, disagree, and think about what ones you might add. Where in your life do you need to feel blessing? For it is in those unexpected places that this unexpected kingdom declares us blessed.
Blessed are the cold. The physically cold, yes, those who lack sufficient clothing, or heating, or access to the indoors. But also the emotionally cold, the spiritually cold, who shiver from a numbness that no amount of scarves or cocoa or sweaters can shake. Blessed are the cold, for they will be warm.
Blessed are the tired. Who feel the fatigue of managing so many moving pieces. Who are balancing work and school and other people’s work and school and relationships and the twenty-four-hour-news cycle and the driveway that needs shoveling again and the dog and the cat and All. The. Things. Who go to sleep tired, and wake up tired, and do it all again. Blessed are the tired, for they will find rest.
Blessed are the stuck. Who are overwhelmed by the maelstrom of conflicting facts and narratives and images and ideas. Who know something needs to be done, but feel paralyzed and powerless as to what that thing may be or that they could have any impact on it. Blessed are the stuck, for they will take the next right step.
Blessed are the scared. The cautious, the anxious, the worriers and catastrophizers and dreamers of worst-case scenarios. Who search for the guarantee of safety in everything, and find security just out of reach. Blessed are the scared, for fear is just love in a misshapen bow.
Blessed are the misfits. Who don’t fit in, who can’t connect, who feel out of place. The square pegs in a world that demands round-holed uniformity. Blessed are the misfits, for they will teach us how to belong.
Blessed are the doers of things. The ironers of linens, the fixers of pipes, the ones who bring and serve and clean up after snacks. The sorters of clothes, the singers of songs, the makers of casseroles, the giver of rides. And blessed too are those who do not do. Who show up late and leave early to avoid the interaction. Or who used to be the doers, and now need the doing to be done to and for them. Blessed are the doers and those who need doing, for this balance is how the world stays in balance.
Blessed are the children. The loud, distracting chaotic ones thirsting for attention, and the shy, quiet withdrawn ones trying to blend into the wall. The ones bursting with confidence and the ones still unsure of who they are, who they will be. And blessed are the aged. Those with wisdom only experience can give, and those who are discovering how little they know, meeting new limitations. And blessed are those in the middle, sandwiched between children and elderly, balancing the needs of both while somehow trying to balance themselves. Blessed are all the ages, for they will become each other.
Blessed are the joyful. Not the happy, for happy is fleeting, not the hashtag blessed, for that’s image, not blessing, but the joyful. The ones who find joy in the simplest moments, the beauty of the earth, the way coffee warms you from the inside, a really well-placed pun, and who point out that joy so that it can be revealed.
And blessed are you. Full stop. Blessed are you, in your laughter and grief, in your hope and hurt, in your joy and sadness. Blessed are you in your showing up and your staying home, in your caring for and your being cared for, in your patience and your total lack-there-of. In your hope and in your hopelessness, in your pain and in your healing, in your holding close and your letting go. Blessed is you, for your reward is great in the kingdom of heaven which has drawn near. Thanks be to God. Amen.
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