The Worth of Our Being

Lately, I’ve been talking a lot about the part of the Gospel of Matthew we know as the Sermon on the Mount. That makes sense, there’s a lot there and it’s long, very long. But I’ve been hammering away a bit at the first part, in particular, and a particular view of the opening words of the Sermon on the Mount, something we also gave a special name to: the Beatitudes.

Maybe that’s what got me started down this road. Special names can give things special recognition because we think they’re special, but they can sometimes set things apart. They can also collect important things under one title in a way that makes us see the title as more important than what it actually says. Like the Bible, for example. 

I think that can also steer us into thinking that Jesus isn’t addressing anyone in particular. Even when Jesus is addressing a crowd, his disciples or a single person, when we study and talk about what Jesus is saying, we can label it, try and understand it and find meaning and yes, maybe it speaks to us, but it’s still something we can hold “out there.” Even when we talk about being written on the heart, we seem to be still trying to connect with something that wasn’t said to us, but to people in a different place and time. 

But it isn’t. It’s for us, now, just as we are.

Look, I’ve said (don’t stop me if you’ve heard this before) that I think Jesus looked at the crowd that day and he saw what he so often saw in the crowds that came to see him. He saw people who were hurt and broken, grieving, struggling with the world around them, trying to live what he was teaching and being frustrated by a world that seemed cruel and oppressive. They were looking for healing and hope. So he began by telling them they’re blessed. Right from the start, just as they are, right where they found themselves in that moment. You are blessed, he said. That’s where to start.

But Jesus isn’t just talking about “those people,” nor is he is he talking about “a different time” or generalizing about a “nice idea.” He’s talking to you and me, both to our community and to our individual experience. This is personal.

Look around you. The crowd Jesus addresses is all of us. We’re all addressed here: today we may be among the poor (in spirit and wealth) or the grieving, we may be among the patient and enduring or the lost and seeking, we may be among the doubtful or committed, the oppressed or struggling. We might find ourselves experiencing those moments any day, in any place.

Today, I see the poor in spirit and the grieving everywhere I look. And that includes the mirror. We’re still struggling to come out of an experience of fear, anxiety, isolation and grief that many haven’t known before. We’re struggling with loss and overwhelming social circumstances. We’re struggling with conflict, with learning about past wrongs that  ask for responsibility and healing. We’re struggling with how to be open and vulnerable in a world that seems to demand a different kind of strength. 

To all of us, Jesus reminds us of the hope that resides in the worth of our being, that there is love and strength in simply knowing we are.

Revealing the Connection

I don’t know that there’s much difference between “reveal” and “expose” technically. They seem to be synonyms. Maybe they’re interchangeable, but it sure feels to me like there’s a different connotation. Doesn’t it? Especially when it involves people.

Reveal sounds so much more positive. Revealing something sounds like you’re sharing something that ought to be seen or known. Exposed sounds like something that ought to have remained hidden or was hidden for a reason (and probably not a good one). Reveal feels like it was willingly shared and exposed feels like it was something done without permission or consent, either in the doing or receiving.

Maybe I’m overthinking it, but I’m thinking it because of a couple of stories about Jesus. Maybe even all the stories about Jesus and us.

We’re coming to the end of the season of Epiphany. An epiphany means a sudden revealing or  perception of something or someone’s essential nature or meaning. It’s a season of light and being enlightened, full of stories about how Jesus is revealed but, more than that, it’s about how the stories speak to Jesus being revealed in us.

Epiphany begins with the arrival of the magi who followed the star to the infant Jesus, revealing him to be the promised one. But the first story of the adult Jesus is his baptism in the Jordan River by John the Baptist. That includes a moment of revelation when a dove appears and a voice is heard saying “this is my beloved in whom I am pleased.” Jesus heads off into the wilderness for a time and then into his ministry. The bookend to that, closing out the season, is the Transfiguration story. Jesus on the mountain top with Peter, James and John, appears a vision of light, then standing with Elijah and Moses, revealed not only by that appearance but again by a heavenly voice saying “this is my beloved, listen to him.” Except, this time, Jesus tells the disciples not to tell anyone about it until after the resurrection. I wonder if maybe Jesus felt it wasn’t time yet to be so exposed. I don’t know, I’m just wondering.

I believe that Jesus, in his life and ministry, in his essential being, is showing us that we, too, are divine and of the earth. Just like him. That’s what Jesus is revealing to us, encouraging us, even - as John says - commanding us to do: to love just as Jesus does. Not for a moment do I think that Jesus is expecting us to be perfect at it, but simply to live it. Maybe Jesus worried that people would see him as something beyond their reach if they heard this story.

See, as one of us, Jesus reveals how to be vulnerable. In his ministry he made himself vulnerable healing the sick, spending time with outcasts, eating with sinners. He made himself vulnerable in loving, that we might learn to love. Jesus’ moment of transfiguration was revealed and lived out - mountain top experiences and the lowest of valleys - in his life. Ours can be, too.

We’ve learned, I think, that vulnerable is a weakness. It leaves us exposed, yes, but it also leaves us open to empathy, to connection, to building relationships. I think Jesus reveals it to be one of our greatest strengths. A divine one, even.

Sure enough, even now, we might hear the transfiguration story as something that sets Jesus apart from us, something that exposes what Jesus is that we aren’t. I think it reveals a connection to the divine light in all of us, if we’re just willing to be vulnerable enough to be open to it.

Oh, There's More To It

The Sermon on the Mount is a lengthy section of Matthew’s gospel, chapters 5-7, that includes some important and familiar sayings and teachings of Jesus. The Beatitudes, the images of salt and light, teachings on the law, how to pray (the Lord’s Prayer’s here, too), judging others and more - it’s a highlight reel of ethical and healthy living, not just for individuals but for community, for bringing the kingdom of heaven here.

It’s called the Sermon on the Mount because the author of Matthew presents it as one continuous piece of preaching. One very long continuous piece of preaching, certainly much longer than you’d want to sit through in a church pew on a sunny Sunday morning.

Some biblical scholars have suggested that it was likely that Matthew collected sayings and teachings from a variety of places and assembled them into this “sermon.” That’s an interesting thought and one that would certainly make sense if your experience of a sermon was what most people experience each week. You sit, someone talks at you, you listen, someone talks some more. And there’s a lot of stuff here to remember. You’d best take notes.

What if it was a sermon, but it wasn’t that kind of sermon? Maybe even just the first half hour or so. What if it was something more engaging, something more authentic, something that went kind of like this.

Jesus sees there’s a crowd. He steps up a little higher on the hillside to get a better view of their faces. That’s Jesus for you, always wanting to know his audience. He sees how desperate they are for a word of hope, some encouragement that things will be better, some direction that might help them feel closer to God. He sits down as they gather round, but instantly realizes that’s not what they need. They need connection. He stands up again and he steps into the crowd. He begins to talk.

 He looks people in the eye and he says you are blessed. Just as they are, broken and hurting, needy, eager for encouragement, each one is blessed. As he moves through the crowd, he reminds them all that we begin in blessing. We don’t earn it or seek it out, it’s already who we are: blessed by God. He’s passionate about it, he speaks from the heart, he’s authentic and they hear him.

He might pick up a handful of dirt when he tells us we are salt or point out how the sun casts shadows behind what it illuminates when he tells us we are light, just to make the point that it’s real, that we are already impacting the world around us. He gestures at the top of the mountain when he mentions the city on a hill where everyone can see it. He's on a roll now, moving through the crowd. The disciples hustle to keep up.

But hang on, says someone in the crowd - Jesus would have welcomed questions - what about the law? Jesus grabs one or two of them - his hands on their shoulders - as he explains how he came to fulfil the law. And he gives them three huge examples, and he might go one on one with them as they question him about them: the point is, it's not just "don't murder," he says boldly, it's hold in your heart love and respect for all life. Begin there. And adultery's more than a word, what it really means is to not lust after others as if they're some kind of object. Respect them. Begin there. And divorce? The real problem isn't the legality of it, the real problem is the brokenness of all our relationships. Begin there. Begin with what’s at the heart of the law, not the letter. 

Be sincere, Jesus would say, be authentic to what’s in your heart and engage each other with that. That’s what’s at the heart of the law, too. The law is a way to loving God, yourself and your neighbour. From your heart.

Blessing, Seasoning, Enlightening

You are blessed. You, a child of God, are blessed, just as you are. Don’t let anyone tell you that you’re not. You are.

I feel I’ve said this before. And I have, repeatedly, and it bears repeating again. And I’m not the only one who thinks so. Jesus does, too.

A crowd gathers to hear Jesus speak. (Later, this’ll be recorded in Matthew’s gospel as the Sermon on the Mount.) I think he looked at the crowd and saw a lot of hurting and broken people, people who were grieving, people who were struggling or lost in a world of oppression and hurt, people looking for a word of hope, and he began with just that: you are blessed. It can be difficult to see that when all those things cast such a big shadow over our lives, but even in those darkest moments - especially in those moments - we need to know we are blessed by God’s presence in spirit, in the hands of those who care and comfort, in the lives of those who work for justice and peace, in every heart that loves. You are blessed.

And he didn’t stop there. You are more. You are salt of the earth and the light of the world. Ever know someone who’s the salt of the earth? How about someone who just lights up a room? Or someone who’s a bright star, a leading light in their field or community? The answer should be yes, you do. In fact, Jesus is telling you that you see that person in the mirror because you are the salt of the earth and the light of the world. You can see it in all around you, because they are, too. 

We’ve come to understand those sayings as describing a certain individual who embodies certain characteristics. Someone who’s the salt of the earth is good, honest and true, an example of the best characteristics of humanity. A bright star or a light is similar, it’s about the person and how they stand out as an extraordinary example of a particular gift or skill. But I think Jesus is suggesting those very blessings are already in all of us. For Jesus, being salt and light are about being action.

Both flavour or illuminate what they come in contact with in a way that enhances and enlightens. It’s action that’s about more than the individual, it’s about how we are in relationship with the world around us, the community of which we are a part. It’s about how we can bring out the flavours of our world, enlighten ourselves and our relationships, shine a light on the pathway forward. And that’s the next step.

Jesus goes on to say that he isn’t trying to get rid of the Law and the Prophets, the core of Jewish life and tradition. He’s not meaning to replace it with something new or different, but to fulfill it, to live what’s at the heart of the law. That’s how relationships are built, that’s how we become community with each other and creation, that’s how “the kingdom” comes.

How, exactly? Well, he’ll go on to talk about it in the rest of the Sermon on the Mount and on other occasions. Most importantly, he’ll live it. Not as an unachievable example of holiness, but in a very down to earth, everyday way that we’re all capable of. After all, we are blessed, we are salt and light, we have every opportunity to create a world of love and grace.

Where to start

If you’ve not heard of Micah, the 8th century BCE prophet in Judah, don’t be surprised. In Hebrew scripture he’s one of the “minor” prophets and he’s a contemporary of Isaiah, a heavyweight among prophets.

Micah doesn’t seem to have had a lot to say. At least, he probably did, but not a lot was reported: his book is a slim seven chapters. That doesn’t mean he wasn’t important. In fact, the Twelve Minor Prophets are called that because of the length of their stories, not the importance of what they had to say. And Micah had some good stuff.

Micah talked a lot about the people’s relationship with God, how they know God and connected with God, or, more significantly, didn’t. In typical fashion, he prophesied the destruction of the nation, but also offered hope for its restoration. He lived in a time of conflict and imminent war, he spoke out about ethical and socioeconomic issues, criticizing government corruption and dishonesty in business. He railed against injustice and cruelty and called the people to change, not their behaviour, but their hearts. 

Yes, Micah didn’t see a complicated situation requiring complicated solutions. He saw people. He saw people who were adrift and broken and he offered them this: God has shown you what is good. And what does God look for from you? To do justice, to love kindness and to walk humbly with God (Micah 6:8).

Much like Jesus would later, Micah questioned the sincerity of the priests in the temple and the value of the many rituals and offerings they made to God. God isn’t looking for empty rituals, he’d say, God’s looking for us to be who we truly are, made in God’s image, made of love, made to be good. 

Justice, kindness and walking with God. Not the God of institutions and structures, but the God that is in every heart, every living thing, every atom of creation, the God that is the very energy of life. That God is everywhere we are and invites us into a relationship, just as God invites us into relationship with each other.

Yes, relationships are complicated and the world is a complex, challenging and often confounding place. I think Micah knew that in his day, just as we do, infinitely more so, in our own. But imagine what the world could be like if we began, in hearts and minds, with that simple wisdom of doing justice, being kind and walking with the spirit of love and all that is good. Our complicated journeys would begin on the right foot.

I think Micah could see that kind of a world and offered the hope of it in the future. He didn’t call for giving up the rituals or the government or the business of the world. He called for each of us to live what God sees in us: justice, kindness and living in love. A message of hope for his day and ours.

Endings and Beginnings

When ‘The Mood of Christmas’ was published in 1973, Howard Thurman was already a legendary theologian, preacher and teacher. He taught or influenced leaders of the Civil Rights Movement, many social justice movements and inspired the not-so-famous as much as the famous.

Many more of his books and writings are much better known and more influential, but every Christmas I like to take some time with a short poem in this one called The Work of Christmas. Especially in these days after The Big Day, it’s an important reminder that Christmas isn’t over, it’s just beginning.

I don’t mean the tree or the decorations or even a creche, if you have one. By all means, put those away when you’re ready, and you may be ready on Boxing Day. The scraps of wrapping paper and natural trees are often out the door first. You might do the Twelve Days of Christmas or somewhere in between. Put the stuff away when you’re ready.

But, at its best, the stuff can draw us into the story and give us signs and symbols that remind us of special moments. What’s at the heart of the story can’t be put away with the stuff because what’s at the heart of the story is a beginning. A new life is begun in that stable, yes, but also a way that is true and life-giving. The child will grow up to show us that we are filled with love and light, grace and kindness and how we might live that into the world, too. That’s how “the work of Christmas begins” now.

As we come to the end of a calendar year, there is an ending and a new beginning there as well. Perhaps it’s also a good time to consider what we might be putting behind us and what we might be stepping into, what things we might put away and what work needs to be done. Perhaps Thurman’s words aren’t just about the Christmas story, but our own stories too. Here’s what he wrote:

When the song of the angels is stilled,

when the star in the sky is gone,

when the kings and the princes are home,

when the shepherds are back with their flock,

the work of Christmas begins:

to find the lost,

to heal the broken,

to feed the hungry,

to release the prisoner,

to rebuild the nations,

to bring peace among brothers,

to make music in the heart.

It's what Christmas is all about

This isn’t the first year that I’ve had to concede that I might look a little like Santa Claus. White hair (what’s left of it) and beard, I wear reading glasses that sometimes sit on the end of my nose, my face is a little red - let’s say rosey cheeks - and, of course, most importantly, I might be a little round. Not “like a bowlful of jelly” round, but round enough. Throw a red hat on that and I could be Santa.

I’m pretty sure I don’t meet the minimum “jolly” requirement and my “ho, ho, ho” is weak, so I haven’t been asked to stand in for the real thing. Although, I feel pretty certain that I could. So could you. I’ll come back to that.

I’m on a bit of a mission this year to remind people that Santa is part of the Christmas story. Maybe not the biblical one, but the bigger one, the one we live every year.

There are a variety of traditions that give us the features of the Santa we know, but most of them stem from St. Nicholas. Nicholas was a bishop in the late third, early fourth century in part of Asia Minor that’s now in Turkey. He was born into a wealthy Greek family, but his parents died in an epidemic when he was young. He was devoutly religious and the idea of Jesus as a loving servant, who cares for others and gives all that he has, inspired him to travel, giving generously from his wealth. The legendary stories of his gift giving became the most significant part of his later incarnations, along with Sinterklass in the Netherlands and Father Christmas in Britain and other local traditions.

So: Santa Claus was inspired by Jesus.

I doubt Clement C. Moore was thinking that in 1823 when he wrote “A Visit from St. Nicholas” (“Twas the night before Christmas”). It certainly doesn’t seem to feature in Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer or any of the more recent incarnations, like the “Santa Clause” movie franchise. And then there’s all the other “traditions” we’ve added since to liven up our Christmas season. They seem to lead us further away from that night in Bethlehem. 

Hang on a minute, though. Do they?

The Christmas story is about love and hope. It’s about the birth of a child, in the most unlikely of circumstances, who will be something special. It’s about wonder, and a joy that finds its way into a dark stable in a remote corner of an occupied country, celebrated by people on the margins of society and honoured by the wisdom of magi. It’s about the promise of God’s loving presence in our lives.

However you might know God, by whatever name or however you might describe God, God is love. God is kindness and caring and grace and the spirit of life, not just one day but all days. That’s the thing about Christmas. The promise of that night is revealed in the life of Jesus. Sure, the teaching and preaching and healing and all the stories, yes, but the point is in the living of it. Jesus shows us the love that’s in all of us, and what great love we are capable of in our own lives.

Set aside the commercialism and the stuff for a minute. Santa’s about giving. Santa’s about the good that’s in all of us. Santa’s about kindness to others. It seems like Santa does it all in one night, but it takes a whole year. Jesus isn’t just about one night, either, but every day, every night, every moment being filled with wonder and love.