Blessing!

Texts: Micah 6: 3-8; Matthew 5: 1-12

Up until a few years ago, every Wednesday my Dad and I met for lunch together at Playfair Park. Except for when either of us was away on holiday, Wednesday was our day … for possibly 20 years, rain or shine. We’d talk about the scripture passage I was contemplating for Sunday’s sermon; we’d catch up on family news; there would often be something he had cut out of the newspaper for us to look at together; we’d talk with each other about how it was going, each in our own worlds. 50 minutes later we’d be on our way … always me first. Not because I was in such a rush to get back to the office but because Dad would always bless me on my way. Whether I was in the car or on my bike, as I would roll out of the parking lot and turn to wave, there would be Dad (with the sign of the cross) -- blessing me. Blessing me. There was always then a sense of going on my way with something more … an intangible more … a care, a strength … a blessing.

I’ve had the privilege a number of times to be with a person and their family at the time that person is dying. When I’m aware that’s where we are, I often bring along anointing oil … and for those who wish, I invite them to anoint their loved one, encouraging them to perhaps put the oil on a part of the person’s body that may be in some pain or distress. That loving touch might be accompanied by words, or not. Often there is a litany of thank you’s -- “thank you for all your care;” “thank you for the time when we ” … and out comes the recollection. Sometimes it’s “I’m sorry, I’m sorry” … and out comes the grief or the regret in concert with this healing oil. Sometimes it’s “goodbye my darling … I love you. God be with you.” Whatever it is that comes out in words or without words, it is blessing that’s happening … this conferring of a great goodness.

Now and again we hear each other or ourselves describe some event or experience as “a blessing.” Dad says that a lot these days … “I am so blessed,” he says. He’s not talking about having won the lottery or having escaped unscathed. He’s reflecting on the unfolding of his life … and marvelling at how, quite apart from any good planning on his part, there has been such richness, such help, such grace and goodness come into his life.

In the last few days, Marg was in touch with a several of us asking if we would pray for her neighbour and friend who is in the Intensive Care Unit as a result of a very serious bike accident on Thursday. Marg asked that we hold in prayer his wife also as she endures this time of waiting for some sign of life. And so, from wherever we are, we engage in the mystery of prayer … that somehow they be held and upheld in love, be given strength, that some great goodness breaks over them, rises up within them, surrounds them.  Blessing.

Do you know the experience of blessing? Your life, your heart, your mind, your being strengthened somehow, gifted, visited --unexpectedly.

This isn’t the way I imagined approaching the Beatitudes, this passage we have today from Matthew’s Gospel -- until I came upon this prompt:
“Do not read this passage of scripture. Pray it instead. Let the words and phrases gently enter your heart and mind, like a slow IV drip of healing wisdom. Let go of old interpretations. Expect something new to be given.” [1]

Blessed are the poor in spirit for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are those who mourn for they will be comforted …
What if we heard Jesus not simply naming the conditions that are ripe for blessing, but as actually blessing the people before him.
Just as in that creation story in the first chapter of Genesis where we hear God say “Light!” and there was light … so imagine Jesus looking into the crowd, his eyes connecting here and there and there …
“Blessing! those who grieve.”
“Blessing! those who’ve have the wind knocked out of your sails.”
“You who hunger and thirst for righteousness - blessing!”
“You who are merciful -- blessing!”
“You who are peacemakers -- blessing!”
“When people revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account -- blessing!”

What we are seeing is Jesus pouring out blessing like oil --healing oil, oil of gladness -- right where the need is greatest.
“Blessing is God’s nature. Not anonymously and impersonally, but uniquely. Let it in. You are blessed, each of us is blessed, with exactly what we need, at exactly the right time. … Let how hurt and needy you are, how grieved you are, how lowly and meek you are, how hungry and thirsty for justice you are, how mocked and demoralized you are -- let these be the source, the opening to all comfort.” [3] Let these be windows through which to let in the Love, that Great Goodness, that Abiding Grace.

One last story … from Gregory Boyle that some of you might remember hearing before …
Gregory describes how shortly after he was ordained, he spent a year in Cochabamba, Bolivia. His Spanish was quite poor, and the year was to be filled with language study and ministry. He could celebrate the Eucharist in Spanish, but he admits he was a slave to the prayerbook.

A few weeks into his time there, he was approached by a group of health workers, wondering if he would come and celebrate Mass in a Quechua community located high above Cochabamba. The Quechua Indians there hadn’t seen a priest in a decade, so would he come and celebrate the Mass in Spanish, and one of the workers would preach in Quechua?

One Sunday afternoon he along with a few others hop into the back of a pick-up and the wend their way to the top of the mountain. Midway up, he takes a look in his backpack. He has everything he needs except for his prayerbook. He doesn’t have the words. He couldn’t wing Mass in English so the thought of doing so in Spanish was ridiculous. He frantically flips through the pages of his Spanish bible, trying to find any passages that sound like the words of consecration. “Take this and eat.”

They pull into a huge, open-air landing, a field cleared of all crops, where many hundreds of Quechua Indians are already gathered and set themselves down around this table, the altar.  "I hobble and fake my way through the liturgy of the Word, he says, aided by the health workers, who read everything in Quechua.  After the gentleman preaches, it is my turn to carry the ball. All I have is a crib sheet with some notes I have made, with stolen scriptural quotations, all the while lifting the bread and wine whenever I run out of things to say. It would be hard to imagine this Mass going worse."

Finally it’s over, and he’s standing there spent, embarrassed when this health worker walks an ancient Quechua woman up to him. “She hasn’t gone to confession in ten years.” he’s told. Out flows this stream of rapid fire Quechua. She goes on for about half an hour. When finally she stops, he manages to communicate some penance and his memorized absolution.

After she walks away, he turns to discover everyone gone. The field has been vacated. Even the truck and the health workers are gone. There he is at the top of this mountain, stuck, not only without a ride, but feeling terrible.

"With my backpack snug on my shoulder and spirit deflated, I begin to make the long walk down the mountain and back to town, he says. But before I leave the makeshift soccer field that had been our cathedral, an old Quechua campesino, seemingly out of nowhere, makes his way to me. He appears ancient … As he nears me, I see he is wearing tethered wool pants, with a white buttoned shirt, greatly frayed at the collar. His suit coat is coarse and worn. He has a fedora, toughened by the years. He is wearing huaraches, and his feet are caked with Bolivian mud. Any place that a human face can have wrinkles and creases, he has them. He is at least a foot shorter than I am, and he stands right in front of me and says, “Tatai.”  This is Quechua for Padrecito, a word packed with affection, and a charming intimacy. He looks up at me, with penetrating, weary eyes and says, “Tatai, gracias por haber venido” (Thanks for coming).

I think of something to say, but nothing comes to me. Which is just as well, because before I can speak, the old campesino reaches into the pockets of his suit coat and retrieves two fistfuls of multicoloured rose petals. He’s on the tips of his toes and gestures that I might assist with the inclination of my head. And so he drops the petals over my head, and I’m without words. He digs into his pockets and again manages two more fistfuls of petals. He does this again and again, and the store of red, pink, and yellow rose petals seems infinite. I just stand there and let him do this, staring at my own huaraches, now moistened with my tears, covered with rose petals. Finally, he takes his leave and I’m left there, alone, with only the bright aroma of roses."

Blessing!

"For all the many times I would return to this village, Gregory writes, and see the same villagers over and over, I never saw this old campesino again."  [3]

Blessing is God’s nature. Not anonymously and impersonally, but uniquely.       Let it in. You are blessed, each of us is blessed, with exactly what we need, at exactly the right time.

This morning I’m suggesting we remain seated as we move into prayer …opening our hearts, our minds, our bodies, this body to a fresh outpouring of the Spirit’s blessing … that whatever our ache, our need, our grief, our longing, our hope
that Love, that Great Goodness, that intangible more may gentle us, strengthen us, release us, embolden us.

Let’s begin singing Veni Sancte Spiritus -- Come Holy Spirit
as we soak in God’s blessing this day.

1.  Kayla McClurg, “Blessed are You,” in Passage by Passage - a gospel journey, The Church of the Saviour, Washington DC, 2014, p, 15

2. Kayla McClurg, “Blessed are You,” in Passage by Passage - a gospel journey, The Church of the Saviour, Washington DC, 2014, p, 15

3. Gregory Boyle, Tattoos on the Heart, Free Press, New York, 2010, p. 35-38.