Chapter Sixteen
M
orning crept through eastern skies. He awoke as the first rays of sun painted the western hillsides. Stretching, he rose from where he lay, blinked his eyes several times and began to descend the mountain on the path he had already traced, the dog trotting at his heels.
He heard them before he saw them. A dull roar coming from down the hillside. The roar of many people speaking one to another. He could detect laughter, conversation, inquiry. And then they were there, led by his friends, the disciples. Apostles! He thought. The mountainside had played out into a spacious plateau punctuated by undulating hills. When they saw him, the roar increased. There were cheers. “Master,” cried Peter, “we were worried. Are you well?”
“I am well.” He waited until the talking ceased and the movement of the multitude halted. “Who are your friends?” he asked.
Peter looked around him at the crowd. “Many have come a long way, some as far as the coast of the great sea. They have come seeking you, Master.”
Jesus lifted his hands gesturing for everyone to sit down. They distributed themselves on the ground surrounding him. The soft hills of the plateau rose gently around him, forming a natural amphitheater. He found a large rock upon which to sit. When they had stilled, he spoke.
“Some of you look tired,” he smiled. This crowd was open, receptive. No critics here. They had come in hopes of something good, although most not quite sure what. His expression became serious, compassionate. “Some of you are poor in spirit, your inner resources impoverished. Some of you are depressed and broken, you feel hopeless and find nothing in yourselves with which to cope with life. Be comforted. God understands your weakness. He knows the desires of your heart. He put them there. Yes, be comforted. Yours is the kingdom of heaven.”
Among the assembly were many dressed in patched, tattered robes. Their faces gaunt, resigned, yet contented. These were those who had found happiness in being poor. Those who understood that it is not always a curse. These were those whose lives were simpler, less complex, whose expectations were meager and whose faces were lifted to the Father. Jesus spoke to them, “Blessed,” he said, “are those among you who are poor. Do not despair. For those who wear poverty as a cloak of honor, yours is the kingdom of God.
Many of these had not eaten. They had no resources to buy food. Yet, they seemed serene. They did not complain. How simple it is to cry out from hunger. How honest. How ordinary. How it is to be expected. Yet, no hands were out held. No words of “alms” were spoken. To these remarkable people Jesus said, “Blessed are you who hunger now. For you shall be satisfied.”
As he spoke, one thing became clear to all. He spoke with compassion and love. He spoke as one who wished to take them all in his arms a comfort them. As he spoke, some began to weep. One young couple in particular listened to him with painful expressions. Faces downcast, tears streaming down their cheeks. They had good reason to weep. They had just lost their son to illness. They had buried him not two days ago. They sat not far from where Jesus himself sat. “Blessed,” he said, “are you who weep now, for you shall laugh.” He had seen them. He approached them quietly, smiling. Gentleness emanated from him. He extended his hand and took the young mother by the chin and with the other, he held the shoulder of the father. “Be comforted,” he said, “you shall see him again and you shall laugh.” His eyes met theirs. “You shall laugh,” he said again. Through their tears and imperceptible smile tugged at the edge of their lips.
He strode out among them now. Stopping here to preach. Stopping there to comfort. “The rich,” he cried, “live in comfort now. The surfeited, those who revel in food and wine, those about whom all speak well, take care, for suffering and hunger is but a misfortune away, weeping comes in the night and reputations shredded by a solitary whispered rumor.” They were listening, rapt and attentive. Abishag could not be contained. As he moved about speaking and gesturing, as his voice rose to emphasis or softened to a baby’s touch, the dog danced about happily wagging her tail. Licking one here, nuzzling another there, making eye contact at a child or an old man, seeking to be petted. Wherever Jesus moved the dog moved. Wherever Jesus halted and sat down, the dog was beside him. Those who stood about seemed to enjoy the Master’s dog as much as the Master’s words.
He continued to address those who were weeping. “You are in pain now. You are hurting now. You feel the terrible agony of loss. Oh, hear me dear loved ones, you are close to the heart of the Father. You will be blessed. You will be comforted.” This only intensified the weeping. Only one could not tell if the tears were of joy or of pain — or of both.
Walking back to the rock he turned and observed the crowd once again and then sat down. It was amazing. He spoke in an almost conversational tone, yet each of us heard him in our hearts. We understood every syllable. “Blessed are the meek,” he said, “those people of quiet, non-presumptuous strength, those who know they can, but won't; who have liberty but exercise it with economy and discretion. Such people will inherit the earth.
“There are those among you who hunger and thirst for righteousness, who hunger and thirst for a life liberated from the evil tentacles of an undiciplined, consumptive life; those who will not be sated with anything less than absolute intimacy in the Father. They know that there is nothing else worth having.” Jesus paused and then, “They will be filled.”
“Blessed are the merciful, those who are not accusative and judgmental, those who do not exact payback, those who empower others to live constructively, those who do not condemn, but give strength to a weaker soul. They have shown mercy; they shall receive mercy.
Who was this man? How came he with such power? Such force of influence? Such poise? How is it that thousands converge on him? He is the eldest son of a peasant carpenter. His life, until recently, unremarkable. Who is he to intrude into the concourse of our lives with such love and wisdom?
I cannot say. I can only lament that I had not known him sooner, and rejoice that I live and breathe the same air as he. The mercy of which he speaks, I long to bathe my soul in it. To feel its invigorating life flow over these tired, painful bones. O my God, when I think of my sins against You and against men, how can you redeem me? I think perhaps, through this man.
“Blessed are the pure in heart, whose faith is as innocent and trusting as a child’s. Blessed are those who are weak and who fail, yet still believe. Despite their terrible thoughts of self-incrimination, they will see God.
“Blessed are those who bring principled and equitable peace, those who, because of their very presence, bring stillness to troubled waters; those with whom it is very difficult to contend; those whose presence calms the violent spirit. They will be called sons of God.
“Blessed are those who are persecuted for doing the right thing, those who take a stand for what is right, regardless of cost; those who will take ridicule and contempt, insult and invective for the sake of another, those without a need to be right, but with the rectitude and stamina to defend right. Theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
“Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me. Blessed are those of you who are not afraid of the opinions of others, those whose hearts are at peace and whose conclude that despite the discomfort of insult, life is good. Rejoice and be glad, because great is your reward in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.”
Jesus stood once again. He pointed directly at an individual. “You,” he declared, “are the salt of the earth!” And then he pointed at another and another, “And you, and you, and you,” he cried. And then he spread his arms, palm held upwards and with a shrug said, “But if salt loses its flavor, how can it become salt again? It is without worth, no better than dirt or excrement. It is no longer good for anything.” Pointing again, “So, have salt in yourselves. Do not allow yourselves to become bland and tasteless. Yet, be at peace with each other. Salt does not equate to arrogance.”
He picked up a small child and held him high, looking at his face. “You are the light of the world,” he said to the child. The baby began to cry. Laughing, Jesus handed him back to his mother, “A city on a hill cannot be hidden,” he shouted. “Neither do people light a candle and hide it under a basket. Instead they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house.” He paused as if to invite the next step in logic, “So let your light shine before men. Let them see what good you can do. This will bring joy to your Father in heaven.”
