Good News for the Poor

Matthew 5:3; Luke 6:20

Being “poor in spirit” is readily available to us at the moment, no matter which front of life you choose to examine. On the global front, war and rumors of war tear through too many places with atrocity and terror beaming straight into the house through Youtube. Closer to home, it is an election season, and I have been hard-pressed to find anyone who is really excited about it—our system seems broken and we don’t really know what to do about it. Even as we seek to distract ourselves, we run into a poverty of spirit—the NFL, the biggest pro sport in town, started a new season, but player arrests have led the headlines more than scores. As we turn to faith, our denomination held its national meeting, the General Assembly, in Detroit last summer, but that revealed a house divided and a church struggling to find itself in changing times. Everywhere we turn there are many examples of poverty in spirit—as a friend of mine in North Carolina would surely say if asked, “Things just ain’t right!”

But here we meet Jesus on the Mount, beginning a sermon that will outline the ways and means of being faithful in the truest sense—losing ourselves in the presence of God, transforming and transcending who and what we are to bring the Kingdom of God to earth. He began with the Beatitudes, a series of benedictions. They are completely oxymoronic in our time and place—he blesses everyone whom our world would name “the Least of These.” Our time and place blesses success stories—winners, power, wealth, and so on—those are the blessed—their wealth, glitter, and glamor reveal all. So, what is Jesus up to?

Take in this first parable—

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Jesus begins with us as we are. He does not shy away from the world as it is. He does not demand that we get right before we get with him. He enters our world, our experience, and our poverty in all of its forms. That is the “blessing”—the farther we feel ourselves from God, the closer God draws near. 

Sometimes folks wonder why Presbyterians begin their regular worship services with a prayer of confession—it seems such a downer in a time of praise—but here is the reason—we begin with an acknowledgment of who and what we are; we acknowledge our need for God; our incompleteness, our hurts, our weaknesses, and all the other places where we are open to saving grace in our longing for something more, something full, something that reeks with joy. 

In other words, when “things just ain’t right,” God is immediately present making things as they should be. 

Luke is far more blunt in his recollection of Jesus’ list of Beatitudes—he recalls that Jesus just flatly said, “Blessed are the poor.” Luke wants us to see the full existential power of Jesus’ entrance into our world as it is. He works to counter a move many, many people of faith make—we take Jesus out of the very real world, isolating him in the realm of sacred theology and states of mind. We assume that God will fix the “things that just ain’t right” that are of head and heart, leaving the world to be as the world is, looking for that great day of recreation that is far, far away and removed—be of good cheer, heaven is going to be there when you die, and all will be well. Luke counters directly that no, heaven is not the place where redemption can be, it is here, it is now! Luke sees the power of resurrection present everywhere he looks. The power of Christ is the power to face our world head on, diving in, and bringing the change.

That makes him somewhat frightening. His Gospel is really popular on college campuses where the young seek to tackle the world with bold, bright idealism not yet dimmed by running into the wall of the world as it is. But among the more sober among us, we fret over his immediacy, his demand for justice now, and his refusal to back away from it. 

So, we scurry back into the confines of Matthew. There is the gospel of mind and heart. There is a “spiritual” manifesto that we can safely use as an escape pod from the world as it is. 

Don’t do that—or, at least, don’t escape to Matthew exclusively. Instead, allow both witnesses to speak together. Matthew helps us realize that Luke was not some sort of spiritual terrorist; Luke helps us realize that if we make God only effective for the end of life, we are missing a wealth of hope for here and now. 

Taken together, we find help and comfort for our souls because just as in our liturgy, the assurance of pardon leaps from this beatitude. How it works is like this—

Two and a half years ago, I assisted my dad and their chaplain in the funeral for my brother who drank himself to death. That death was about as poor in spirit as any death could be. There was no higher meaning. There was no heroic glory. It was a sad end to a tragic life. But as we gathered for the funeral, ran through the promises of faith, and cried unto the Lord, there was no abject despair. There was no abyss of emptiness yawning before us. Instead, there was joy—real and actual joy. We could sing “It Is Well with My Soul” without a hint of irony. We could intone that all shall be well and all manner of things shall be well. We could do so because of this beatitude. God is with the poor in spirit, so much so that the Kingdom is theirs. We knew that because we were empty before the Lord. We confessed who and what we were. We met the Great Physician who healed us.

Yes, wherever we look right now, we see endless evidence that “things just ain’t right,” but blessed be the poor in spirit, for God is with them with the fullness of grace, mercy, and love that can transcend, transform, and recreate the world right here, right now.

Open to the Lord, confess your need for God, and God will answer.