The more I read the Beatitudes, the more questions I have. Why is Jesus so cryptic? How are the poor and the persecuted fortunate? Why should mourners be happy, the meek have hope? Who of us is ever pure in heart? Is it really worth thirsting and hungering for justice in a world that rarely delivers? I am left unsure, even disturbed.
Honestly, the Beatitudes often baffle me. I feel drawn to them; I want to experience their truth. But I can’t tell my refugee neighbor, about to be evicted with her three children: “Blessed are the poor!” I can’t tell a black colleague who’s gotten redlined, denied a mortgage in a white neighborhood: “Get over it, remain meek and mild, and you’ll eventually inherit a house and land.”
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