Blessed, beloved: a poem

Birthed from an Ignatian contemplation.

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.

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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?