This life is a thump-ripe melon, so sweet and such a mess.
For several years, I kept these words written on a post-it note in the front of my calendar, with “‘dash’ Joan Baez” (–Joan Baez) written after them, until a singer/songwriter friend corrected me – it was actually Greg Brown who wrote those lyrics. Poet, folk singer and activist Joan Baez sang them, and her voices was the first voice I heard sing them.
This life is a thump-ripe melon, so sweet and such a mess.
Some days we taste the sweetness, and some days we can only see the mess.
Some years ago, I had the opportunity to interview Joan Baez for the public radio station in Roanoke, where I worked part-time. She was in town for a concert, and I met her on her tour bus – she was gracious and funny and we had a good conversation. And one of the questions I asked her was, what music are you listening to? It’s always interesting to know what performers are interested in beyond what they are creating – what it is that is inspiring or informing their work. She answered, “Lately, I’ve been listening a lot to rap music. Because it has stories to tell.”
Her answer has always stayed with me. She was listening to rap music, a genre very different from the one she’d built her career in, voices very different from her own, because it has stories to tell. Stories that she knew were important to hear. Joan Baez got that stories are what connect us – listening to voices that are not our own, music that is not our own.
In today’s Gospel, we read Luke’s version of the Beatitudes. Out of all the texts in the Bible, the Beatitudes – which are also told in the Gospel of Matthew – are some that I hold closest, and this year, they are hitting a little harder than usual, especially reading Luke’s version.
We may be more familiar with the Matthew telling, whether we realize it or not. We often call it the Sermon on the Mount – “When Jesus saw the crowds, he went up on the mountain; and after he sat down, his disciples came to him. Then he began to speak, and he taught them, saying:
“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
“Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.
“Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.”
It is a long string of blessing after blessing – inspiring, comforting reminders that we are all blessed in our brokenness, that we all are loved by God.
But Luke – Luke is a little different. He adds a bit more. Luke’s telling recounts not just
Blessings, but Woes. As Diana Butler Bass writes this week in her column, Luke is “blunter.” Jesus, in Luke’s account, has come down from the mountain peak – this version we call the Sermon on the Plain. And we are seeing him, she points out, face to face, on level ground. We are all on level ground. And that’s the point of Jesus’s sermon, of Luke’s Beatitudes.
Jesus says: “Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God.”
Jesus says: “Blessed are you who are hungry now, for you will be filled.”
Jesus says: “Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh.”
“But,” Jesus says: “woe to you who are rich, for you have received your consolation.”
Jesus says: “Woe to you who are full now, for you will be hungry.”
Jesus says: “Woe to you who are laughing now, for you will mourn and weep.”
Jesus turns every one of those blessings upside-down – poverty and palace, hunger and feasting, laughter and weeping. He’s reminding us, bluntly, that we are not blessed because we are poor, and we are not blessed because we are rich. We are not blessed because we grieve, and we are not blessed because we rejoice. We are all, simply, blessed, beloved, the richest to the poorest, the powerful and the marginalized.
Jesus is preaching what theologian Joel B. Green calls a “paradigm shift of colossal
proportions.” In his day and age, and in our day and age, Jesus is saying to those living in palaces, yes, you may be wealthy, you may hold power, and you may never have to worry about having enough food or money or safe shelter or health care, but those are earthly comforts. If you are not sharing your good fortune, if you are not loving your neighbors as yourself, if you are living only for yourselves, then woe to you.
Jesus is saying to those on the other hand, those who are poor, those living at the margins – blessed are you. Beloved are you. You are just as important. You are not lesser than.
Then and now, Jesus is telling us, this is what the kingdom of God is to be. This is the world we’re meant to be building.
So it’s important, especially now, to listen to voices other than our own, to understand better how to live in this place together, how to take care of each other, how to truly, truly love our neighbor. When we ignore those stories, when we stifle or erase them, when we turn away strangers whose music is different from ours, we move farther away from each other – we move farther away from God.
A week and a half ago, at least 100 or so folks gathered at the Visulite – some of you were there – to watch A Case for Love, the documentary inspired by former Presiding Bishop Michael Curry. It’s a documentary made up of stories and conversations. Stories from across the country, from veterans, from parents, from foster children, politicians, rabbis, prostitutes, refugees, people on the street, those who are sick, those who mourn, those who are poor in spirit or poor in material wealth, people living on farms or in neighborhoods with gangs shooting at each other, or in waterfront houses. They shared their stories about how love transforms, how love heals, how love is hard, how love helps us see each other, hear each other. Love is patient, love is kind, love holds no
account of wrongs, they said – love sees past differences, love forgives, love is open to change, love listens. Because we all have stories to tell, and those stories connect us and remind us that we all are connected at the deepest levels, in the ways that matter most. Stories show us where our common ground, our shared experience, is. They help us think of “all of us” instead of “us and them.”
In a sense, the Beatitudes – the blessings and the woes – are reminders of our stories. Earlier this week, a parishioner sent me a poem she had written. Part of it jumped off the screen at me as I was thinking about today’s sermon. In it, she asks the reader:
do turn towards the unknown –
or lean in as they say now –
with anticipation
not trepidation.
Take a breath of welcome
Take a breath of hope.
That is the invitation we have now. Turn towards the unknown. Take a breath of welcome. Because life is sweet as well as messy. Sometimes it’s sweeter because it’s messy. It’s always sweeter because of the many voices and stories that make us together a family of God.
Blessed are the poor.
Blessed are those who mourn.
Blessed are those who seek.
Blessed are the children.
Blessed are the sick.
Blessed are the healers.
Blessed are the teachers.
Blessed are the grandparents.
Blessed are the social workers.
Blessed are the rich.
Blessed are the lost.
Blessed are those who seek refuge.
Blessed are those who welcome them in.
Blessed are all our stories, and blessed are those who tell them.
And blessed are those who listen, because they move us closer to the kingdom of God.
Amen.
Sermon by The Rev. Cara Ellen Modisett at Trinity Episcopal Church, Staunton, Virginia, on February 16, 2025.
