Thoughts on the Beatitudes, Last Part: What Have We Learned about Being Happy?

Someone once said that if we can’t attain to virtue, at least we can admire it. OK, maybe I made that up, which is something that others, especially Joanne (my wife) have accused me of doing. But that doesn’t make the saying any less true, and I feel that it especially applies to the Beatitudes. After all, these Jesus sayings are the epitome of godly character; an ideal to which disciples aspire; and a standard of moral and spiritual excellence that we glimpse in ourselves from time to time but that eludes us in its perfection.

Our incapacity to reach for the stars is a challenging and difficult, even offensive concept that gives rise to a misunderstanding of how we become happy. For example, one translation of the Beatitudes avoids the human conundrum by using the construct, “God blesses the person who is (poor in spirit, meek, etc.), for theirs is …” In other words, meet the condition, however you can, and the blessing is yours. As my Italian mother used to say, “Quando arrivi, scrivi” – write when you get there.

If such is the way with the Beatitudes, then why did Jesus bother to even set them before us? Is he just giving us some checklist of abstract principles for which we strive without concern for their substance – like telling our children to “be good,” or “just do your best.” Are we to look at them as some romantic view of the archetypical human person?  Or are they a moralistic invisible high-jump bar that God and others can use as an excuse for judgment when we fail miserably at the impossible task?

For better or worse, the Beatitudes live in the realm of every humanly unattainable biblical mandate. But it’s only for worse if we miss the dynamic of exchange, where God displays his sur- passing power in and through our frail earthen vessels. Once we take on the grace perspective – the Lord doing what we cannot do for ourselves – the full beauty, purpose, and effect of Jesus’ words begin to cause greater fruition. From this view, the fact that the Beatitudes are far out of reach becomes a key part of their glory and potency. This makes no sense to our natural way of thinking, but perfect sense in light of gospel truth, where God’s foolishness is greater than our wisdom, his weakness greater than our strength, the first are last, death brings life …

Why does the unattainability of the Beatitudes work toward their fulfillment in our lives? First of all, our incapacity itself – and our experience of it – drives us to the first blessing, which is poverty of spirit. Like many people, I have spent a great deal of time and energy making easily breakable promises to never, ever, ever commit certain habitual sins (the word “habitual” should raise the first red flag as to the likelihood of success). Over time, the essential truth of my poverty has shown itself to be unassailable. It’s not that I worked toward being poor in spirit, or prayed more, or whatevered more; there was simply a revelation of something that had always characterized me and my life, and I had no choice to accept and confess it. But that’s just the beginning.

Second, the Beatitudes draw a portrait of Jesus and the only fulfillment of their standards. As such, they drive us to him as the source of each blessing, since none exist outside of him. Not only have I discovered that I am poor in spirit by nature, I find that going to Jesus with my condition and surrendering it to him transforms it into something spiritually beneficial. So, for example, I may have come to realize that my many self-improvement plans to overcome sin never really work. But, without connecting to Jesus, such knowledge only leads to discouragement, to pride in “my” discovery of poverty, or even to renewed and redoubled efforts at bettering my record. If, on the other hand, I play my version of “Jesus, Take the Wheel,” he can supply what has been missing in my paltry attempts at following him.

Third, as a life of dependent relationship with Jesus, the Beatitudes speak of a state of being that manifests the fruit of ongoing conversion – in other words, life in the Spirit. Each time you or I receive the gift of faith to trust the Father and taste the power of his grace, he builds the habit and pattern of transformation in us. The more we are changed, the more we will want to return to the banqueting table for seconds, thirds, hundredths. If we are Jesus’ disciples, we can all recall our first experiences of his revealing himself to us. The intoxication that attends being claimed by Christ is overwhelming and persistent, sometimes for months.

Of course, the sense of initial elation invariably fades (OK, maybe in some situations that’s not the worst thing in the world) and our spiritual lives take on a sine wave contour that creates a feeling of inconsistency. During some occasionally lengthy periods of time, the image is more that of the gently undulating nearly static line that we are tempted to pass of as a hallmark of “maturity.” But while we might accept these as normal consequences of growing longer in the discipleship tooth, it has occurred to me that we/I settle for far too little of Jesus and the happiness that he offers. In fact, I sometimes think that we/I don’t want too much Jesus, given that he is prone to upset our worlds at the slightest invitation.

I have become convinced that one of our greatest enemies is the facile capitulation to the idea that “this is all there is and this is all I am,” which arises from the underlying deception that “this is all God is and all that he can or wants to do.” The Beatitudes, and other passages that explode from every book of Scripture tell an entirely different story, one of a God who can do far more than we can ask or imagine; who pours out a full measure, pressed down and overflowing; whose good pleasure it is to give us the kingdom; who fills the whole world with his goodness and his steadfast love.

Lastly, the Beatitudes are promise words, spoken by the one who is able to fulfill them. As we allow the Lord to come near to us and work his transforming grace in our lives, a strange and wonderful gift called hope takes hold. Strange because we begin with poverty of spirit, a starting point that appears to dash any expectations of good; wonderful, because God takes what looks like nowheresville and willingly applies his riches to assure us of a more than satisfying destination in his kingdom as his pure in heart, mercy-receiving, meekness-loving, peacemaking, they sure look kind of like Jesus sons and daughters.

That should make us happy just thinking about it.