I wrote Blessed, beloved in my Bible class this semester, a poetic response to my first Ignatian practice. If you don’t know what that is (I didn’t), Ignatian contemplation is a means of “entering into” Scripture through a posture of imagination. Essentially, the reader places him or herself into a passage, not as a particular character or point of view, but more as a third party or fly on the wall, imagining what that event might’ve felt like, smelled like, tasted like, etc. Of course, we can’t know for sure what went on between the black and white words of the Bible, but this practice allows the Spirit to shape our imagination as we sit to learn with God and his good stories.
I often joke “I don’t have an imagination” which usually feels true. But with eight weeks to memorize a sample of the Sermon on the Mount, I found this poem to be a helpful exploratory exercise as I wondered what this moment might’ve felt, especially for those listening at the margins.
Blessed, beloved
"Blessed are those in need For their hunger pains build bridges to better freedom Their thirst harvests home with better honey." I perch to hear the preacher on a grassy knoll The sun is tucked behind a few shy clouds and the salt air paints my lips I wait on pins and needles To hear what the teacher has to say If I’m hungry, I don’t notice I want whatever this is. "Blessed are those whose bodily strength is gone." Like many in this crowd I’ve heard of this man's habits and healings I, too, have been impressed by his wise words and winsome touch But I’m curious where he comes from and more importantly, where he’s going He seems to say he wants to take me with him – me! Could you imagine? It's laughable, in part A woman with my ills and infirmities. "Blessed are those who wail and worry." He seems to know me, somehow in my less-than-astute status He seems to know that I am widowed and wanting Blistered with burdens I didn't ask for and promises to myself That I would not or could not keep. "Blessed are those resolute and long-suffering." Truth be told I have never been as practiced or as prayerful or as pleasant as they wanted me to be In another world I would be more pious or perhaps, more perfect For they say it would lead to less impoverishment But my cries are not for nothing, you know This life has not been kind to people and prophets like me. "Blessed are those who shriek for justice." He seems to offer something different than the priests and their hefty prices A king with kind eyes and peace beyond prosperity He seems to know there is something sweet ensnared within the bitter taste suffering Like me, in fact he knows as if by his own accord. "Blessed are those who seek a new home." Can his tellings be true, do you think? This kingdom for outcasts? I'm sure he can tell by now I do not come with great clothes And I wail and walk with a slant But this, I can share That his eyes captured mine and he called me Beloved Somewhere far across the crowd His kind eyes knew me And his truth took home in me This blessing, not given to men of much but me. How can it be?
"Can his tellings be true, do you think?
This kingdom for outcasts?
I'm sure he can tell by now
I do not come with great clothes
And I wail and walk with a slant
But this, I can share
That his eyes captured mine
and he called me Beloved
Somewhere far across the crowd
His kind eyes knew me
And his truth took home in me"
This part made me tear up. This is so beautiful!
So beautiful Paige