Then he looked up at his disciples and said:
“Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God.
“Blessed are you who are hungry now, for you will be filled.
“Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh.
“Blessed are you when people hate you, and when they exclude you, revile you, and defame you on account of the Son of Man. Rejoice in that day and leap for joy, for surely your reward is great in heaven; for that is what their ancestors did to the prophets.
“But woe to you who are rich, for you have received your consolation.
“Woe to you who are full now, for you will be hungry.
“Woe to you who are laughing now, for you will mourn and weep.
“Woe to you when all speak well of you, for that is what their ancestors did to the false prophets.
“But I say to you that listen, Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you. If anyone strikes you on the cheek, offer the other also; and from anyone who takes away your coat do not withhold even your shirt. Give to everyone who begs from you; and if anyone takes away your goods, do not ask for them again. Do to others as you would have them do to you.
It has been years that I have been keeping my phone by my bed at night, just in case someone dies. This might be a pastor problem, but I didn’t quite realize it until earlier this week. I’d left my phone on a charger in a different part of the house and I woke up worried, checking the screen to see if there was a message I had missed. And although it might be, in part, part of my job description, I think I might not be alone in this for I know there are those who, for a night or for a season, keep the phone next to the bed because the kids are staying out late tonight, because someone promised to call you if there was anything you needed to know, because you were waiting for news of a loved one and as you are sent home to sleep you know that the only news they might wake you up for isn’t good. I realized I have kept this phone next to my bed as a ritual, as an altar to my fears of what might be. I can say at the best that it’s a recognition of mortality, that none of us knows what the next day will hold and we promise to be present whatever may come. The other side is a monument to my fears: of illness or injury or death, of the things that can rouse one from your sleep with a startle and a gasp at an unknown number or just one more telemarketer who doesn’t understand the Pacific Time Zone.
A place to hold our fears, I think, is common as is a place to hold our grief. It could be that you have a box in some closet, or maybe the attic or under the bed that holds within it a grief that feels too close to name: the gifts, the clothes, the papers that felt hard to go through and so you found a place that is safe where they can stay in the hopes that your grief maybe can stay there, too.
I’ve been listening to a podcast of two folks that listen to self-help books and then live by them for two weeks with comical results. They did this one that was on death, on dying well, and they said there were some listeners to their podcasts who wrote in to say that even seeing the word “dying” on their feed made them too anxious. I understand. If you start thinking about death you confront a whole gamut of things that make us uncomfortable. We think about our own mortality, the fact that each of us will, in fact, die. Death is related to the things we may fear most, of pain, of illness, impairment, dependency. There are plenty of things to fear in this life, like poverty and illne