Blessed Are Those Who Mourn

A crowd has gathered to hear him teach.

Their eyes are swollen. Their cheeks red. They are grief-exhausted. They’re waiting for him to speak. Everyone who has ever suffered a heartbreaking loss or backbreaking disappointment or has come out on the short end of the stick in a battle with darkness is there.

Adam and Eve are there. They were once a happily married couple, living in a garden paradise where they would walk and talk with God. Then they lost it all: the garden, God, their first two sons. One was murdered by the other and the other was sent away to roam the earth. They now realize they have only themselves to blame for the mess they made of their lives. Now they spend their days, in their old age, thinking about the garden and what they lost and wondering what might have been.

Moses is there. He lost a comfortable life in Egypt. He lost a quiet life in Midian. Then he lost his chance to cross over into the Promised Land because he couldn’t control his temper. Catch him in the right mood on the right day and he’ll tell you he’s never really gotten over that disappointment and that he doesn’t understand why he was punished so severely.

Job is there. He lost his livestock, his servants, his children and his health. He was reduced to a broken man sitting in ashes, scraping his sores with pottery, and wishing he had never been born. He’s heard rumors that it all happened because God made a bet with Satan, but he can’t believe it. He’s still looking for an explanation for his suffering.

King David is there. He lost his infant son because he slept with another man’s wife and then murdered the man. Later, he lost his son Amnon because Amnon, like his father, couldn’t control his sexual urges. He lost his son, Absalom, after he rebelled against him. It happened a long time ago, but he still breaks down at awkward moments and whispers to no one in particular: “O my son Absalom! My son, my son Absalom! If only I had died instead of you-O Absalom, my son, my son!”

Heman the Ezrahite is there: We don’t recognize his name, but we know his pain. He’s the tortured soul who wrote these words in psalm 88:

. . . I am overwhelmed with troubles and my life draws near to death. I am counted among those who go down to the pit; I am like one without strength. I am set apart with the dead, like the slain who lie in the grave, whom you remember no more, who are cut off from your care. You have put me in the lowest pit, in the darkest depths. Your wrath lies heavily on me; you have overwhelmed me with all your waves. You have taken from me my closest friends and have made me repulsive to them. I am confined and cannot escape; my eyes are dim with grief. I call to you, LORD, every day; I spread out my hands to you. . . .But I cry to you for help, LORD; in the morning my prayer comes before you. Why, LORD, do you reject me and hide your face from me? From my youth I have suffered and been close to death; I have borne your terrors and am in despair. Your wrath has swept over me; your terrors have destroyed me. All day long they surround me like a flood; they have completely engulfed me. You have taken from me friend and neighbor. Darkness is my closest friend.

Those who lived in Judah and were exiled to Babylon are there. They lost their promised land, their glorious temple, their honor before God. Their grief is expressed in Psalm 137:

By the rivers of Babylon we sat and wept when we remembered Zion. There on the poplars we hung our harps, for there our captors asked us for songs, our tormentors demanded songs of joy; they said, “Sing us one of the songs of Zion!” How can we sing the songs of the LORD while in a foreign land? If I forget you, Jerusalem, may my right hand forget its skill. May my tongue cling to the roof of my mouth if I do not remember you, if I do not consider Jerusalem my highest joy. Remember, LORD, what the Edomites did on the day Jerusalem fell. “Tear it down,” they cried, “tear it down to its foundations!” Daughter Babylon, doomed to destruction, happy are those who repay you according to what you have done to us. Happy are those who seize your infants and dash them against the rocks.

(Sometimes grief causes us to say angry, ugly things like wishing our enemies’ babies would be thrown against rocks.)

The Galilean peasants are there. They’re living back in the Promised Land, but they’re not really free. They keep praying and offering their sacrifices, trying to do what is right, but they’re oppressed by outsiders who do not honor their God. They’re at the mercy of kings who tax them to pay for their luxuries and order the execution of their babies on a whim. Among them are the mothers of Bethlehem who had their baby boys slaughtered by Herod. They are there, front and center.

To be human is to suffer loss. To be human is to carry the burden of accumulated losses suffered over the course of a lifetime. All of humanity has gathered to hear what this young teacher has to say about life as they’ve experienced it.

A 65 year old man who has just been diagnosed with Alzheimers and is losing his memory, and along with it a lifetime worth of memories, is there.

A father of a 16 year old daughter who ran away from home a year ago and has disappeared is there.

A 32 year old woman who is still coming to grips with the fact that her father molested her as child and forever stole her innocence is there.

A young man whose body is covered with scars from the torture he’s endured because he will not stop talking about his God is there.

A 54 year old man who has wasted the better part of his life chasing after meaningless pleasure is there.

A mother who grieves the loss of her brave young son in a war she never really believed in is there.

An boy whose parents were killed in a terrorist attack are there. Standing beside him is a little girl whose parents were killed by a stray missile meant for the terrorists who killed the little boy’s parents.

A middle aged woman who is trying to start her life over again after a painful divorce is there.

A five year old African boy who has been sold into slavery by his parents to help pay for food is there. His parents–who had to do an unthinkable thing so their family could survive–are there as well.

The teacher surveys the crowd and feels the weight of their pain in his gut. His heart breaks for them as the burden of their grief settles on his shoulders.

Finally he speaks: Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted (Matt. 5:4).

His words are absorbed by the silence of the crowd. They’re listening as they’ve never listened before. For a moment, they’re shocked. He didn’t offer them pity. He didn’t remind them of their mistakes. He didn’t blame them for their pain. He simply blessed them and promised them a comfort they have yet to experience.

Those who know their Bible start thinking about the passages where God has promised to comfort his hurting people.

They think of Isaiah 40:1-2:

Comfort, comfort my people, says your God. Speak tenderly to Jerusalem, and proclaim to her that her hard service has been completed, that her sin has been paid for, that she has received from the Lord’s hand double for all her sins.

They think of Revelation 21:3-4:

And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, “Look! God’s dwelling place is now among the people, and he will dwell with them. They will be his people, and God himself will be with them and be their God. He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.”

They think of Isaiah 61:1-3:

The Spirit of the Sovereign Lord is on me, because the Lord has anointed me to proclaim good news to the poor. He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim freedom for the captives and release from darkness for the prisoners, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor and the day of vengeance of our God, to comfort all who mourn, and provide for those who grieve in Zion, to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of joy instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair. They will be called mighty oaks, a planting of the Lord for the display of his splendor.

They remember these passages and they wonder about this young teacher. Could he be the one who can deliver us from our grief? Is he the one who will raise our dead? Is he the one who will vanquish evil and rid the world of darkness once and for all? Is he the one who has the creative power to restore what we have lost? Is he the hand of God sent from heaven to wipe the tears from our eyes? Could he be the anointed one of God that we’ve been waiting for?

Some just can’t believe it. It sounds too good to be true. They’ve been burned before by false messiahs and empty campaign promises. They shake their heads and walk away, opting for the despair they know rather than the uncertainty of following this young teacher into an unknown future, no matter how hopeful he makes it sound.

But others, and it’s really just a few, take hold of the hope he offers. Even though they can’t be absolutely sure that he can deliver what he has promised, they trust him with their pain, their grief, and their disappointments and they begin to follow him–hoping, praying, believing–that he is the one, perhaps the only one, who can give ultimate comfort to those who mourn.