The word “Blessed” in the Beatitudes just doesn’t cut it, not really.
“Blessed” is overused. Bland in some ways. Safe and untouched. Picture rosaries that are “blessed” – the image that comes to my mind is something brand-new and spotless, right out of the sealed plastic container.
That’s not what Jesus is implying when he tells us that the poor, hungry and weeping souls are “blessed.”
After all, what’s so blessed about being poor and hungry? Who among us would ever say that it is a blessing to mourn or be attacked for our faith in Christ? Probably few – if any – would.
So, with all due respect to the translators: throw away the word “blessed.” It doesn’t really work here.
Rather, use the Greek word “Makarios,” the actual word in which this passage would have been originally written. Makarios -- capturing a depth that the English word doesn’t – means possessing God-like, untouchable joy.
Makarios are those who hunger now and mourn now. You and I have God-like, untouchable joy when we are hungry or weeping.
Wait … what? Does that word make it any better than using the term “blessed?” Can we really say that the poor and hungry have God-like joy?
Well, it depends on what we mean by that statement, doesn’t it?
If we see joy as an emotion or feeling that allows us to be completely untouched by sorrow or suffering, then we’d be wrong. If we see joy as nothing more than an external, fleeting happiness, then we aren’t really living life in a spirit of makarios.
Using ‘makarios’ flips everything upside down, quite frankly, when it comes to living the Beatitudes … and the Gospels, in general. Living makarios – God-like joy – keeps us from going through life inside a bubble and relying only on ourselves.
Yes, a bubble is safer, and it does seem these days that we love our bubbles of comfort and protection: only reading and watching the news that leans our particular way of voting; associating with the people who think exactly like us; ghosting people and things when it gets too hard or uncomfortable; hovering over our children and grandchildren until they can’t even stand-up for themselves. Bubble-living in the 21st century.
But that’s not why God sent His only Son. It’s not the way of Christ.
Even the way in which Jesus delivered this message of Beatitudinal living shows that everything now is completely different. Whereas in times past, the prophets always went up the mountain to converse with God and receive stone tablets of the Law, now Jesus comes to us, on our level: we who are a mess in every way imaginable. We who are suffering, struggling and often lost on the way.
God did not stay in a bubble of safe holiness – instead, He came to us exactly where we are to show us where we are called to be. He – the Son of God – was hungry, poor, grieving and persecuted throughout his 33 years. He lived often from a place of exhaustion and pain, and he understood our worry, anxiety, doubt and fear. He lived as we do in all things but sin.
But here’s where the true and lasting Beatitudinal joy comes in: he lived it all for us. He carried it for us. He transformed it for us. And thus came the makarios joy he lived fully.
Makarios are we, too, if we follow that same way: all the way to the Cross.
We are called to suffer with (literally, com-passion) others, to help them bear the burdens of life while pointing them to the love and presence of God at work in their particular Calvary. We are called to weep with those who weep; to be in solidarity with those who are being attacked for their love of God; to feed in every way possible the hearts, minds, bodies and souls of those around us who are starving for the food they most need in that particular moment, be it bread or the Bread of Life.
Living this way is stepping outside of the bubble. It is living ‘makarios.’
But this is only one way of doing so, because that joy is not complete until we begin to live from that space within ourselves in which we are also willing to bear the burdens of life – both our own and that of others – and unite these burdens to Christ in order for Him to use in saving souls, in saving the world.
This does not mean that we go forth seeking suffering. But it does ask of us that when there is a Cross in our own life, we unite it to His, knowing that in so doing, He is using it to make present the reality of God’s Kingdom. When we offer Him our hunger and grief, our persecutions and poverty, then we share in His very Heart, a Heart which has experienced these very same things.
Our own hearts are shaped through these moments in His image. We then live in his joy. It’s what we are made for.
Please don’t misunderstand: God did not make us to suffer, but has invited us to share in His. He loves and trusts us enough to invite us into that un-bubbled space of Calvary, where He is making His Kingdom present on earth as it is in heaven. When we are willing to Cross-carry here, God’s reign is among us. When we unite our passion to His, the Kingdom of God is at hand.
Woe to us if we fail to live this way. Woe to us if we stay in the bubble of cheap and dishonest wealth and false accolades and appetites filled by sinful and unimportant desires. Woe if selfishness keeps us close-hearted. Woe to me if I choose to hunger only after my own wants in a world of so many hurts and needs … a world where crosses are heavy. For when I live in the bubble, I miss out on the makarios that Jesus offers.
Just last week, a priest from New England shared with me a story of a parishioner who made her home within the pews and side altars of his century-old Gothic church. Her name is Selma, a well-to-do Jewish woman who, according to those who knew her in her younger years, had a nervous breakdown following the sudden death of her only child. Leaving her comfortable lifestyle behind, she came to Holy Cross Church with a shopping cart filled with her items, knowing that in Church she – and her precious few belongings – were safe. Sometimes, she could be disruptive during Mass; other times, she sat quietly, wiping tears from her eyes as those around her worshipped publicly. At nights, when the church was locked, she lived in the alleyways of the city, but would return the next morning when early Mass was celebrated.
One particular afternoon a few years back, the pastor of Holy Cross noticed that all the altar linens from his church had been taken from their hangers. These were expensive and heavy tapestries, some having been used since the 1920s to cover marble altars and other shrines during solemnities and parish celebrations. Nothing else was taken from within the sacristy, so the priest and his staff were flummoxed: who would need so many altar cloths … and why?
The next morning, Father happened to notice Selma pushing her cart into the back of Church, with one of the powder-blue Marian altar linens hanging over the side. “Selma, where did you get this?” the pastor asked, with much gentleness.
Without missing a beat, Selma pointed to the closet in the back and then explained herself: “Last week, my friend Mark died on the street because of the bitter cold. I tried but couldn’t save him.” Selma began to cry: “I knew you had warm blankets here at the Church, so I took them and gave them to everyone I saw on the streets so they would live through the night.”
As he shared the story, Father himself began to get emotional knowing that this eccentric Jewish woman who suffered much had the heart to see others who needed her compassion, and she turned to the Church to provide exactly what was needed. “Imagine,” said the priest: “Over 40 homeless men and women sleeping beneath the beautiful and warm tapestries of Holy Cross Catholic Church in Worcester, Massachusetts. It’s exactly where the Church should be.”
Makarios – God-like joy in the face of the Cross.
Woe to us if we fail in the mission.