Beatitude #1: Blessed are the poor in spirit

When Jesus stood up to declare what some commentators have called the "constitution" of his kingdom, he began with these famous words:

Blessed are the poor in spirit,

for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Scholars and writers differ on what the word "blessed" here really means. I remember Philip Yancey saying that the word in the Greek is more along the lines of "Oh you happy person!" I'm not sure about how reliable this rendering is, but it certainly draws attention to the fact that Jesus is saying something extremely irregular and counter-intuitive here: those who seem most downcast and weak are in fact the most blessed. How? And why?

A sermon at my church on the Beatitudes on Sunday got me thinking about this passage, and re-watching Lars von Trier's masterful Melancholia got me thinking even more. The film concerns two sisters, Justine (Kirsten Dunst) and Claire (Charlotte Gainsbourg) and their relationship as it plays out during Justine's increasingly problematic wedding celebration (Part 1) and the arrival of a threatening planet, Melancholia, which is moving ever closer to earth (Part 2). For much of the film, Claire fails to understand Justine's evident depression, and Justine is cautioned to "not say a word" to her husband about the ache that fills every moment of her life. Yet as the film unfolds Justine's depression is shown to be a valid response to the world around her, while Claire and her husband (brilliantly portrayed by an understated Kiefer Sutherland) are shown to be much more naive than you would have thought at the start.

So what is the message of all this? The film suggests at one point that the "poor in spirit" may in fact be gifted. Justine is shown to have almost mystical knowledge that others lack. I'm not so convinced. Justine's knowledge is that the universe is empty and meaningless; this is a fairly common thought for someone with depression, but I'm not convinced that it is the truth. Depression can lead us to feel and think things like this - and I've had my fair share of such thoughts - but we need to remember that, in times like those, it is the depression speaking, not some profound revelation.

But the film does offer something quite interesting in terms of how to deal with "Melancholia". The truth of Justine's condition, like the truth of the planet, is something that characters continually avoid. When John (Kiefer Sutherland) declares that "Melancholia [the planet] will just pass us by" and "will be the most beautiful sight" ever, he is shown to be devastatingly, emphatically wrong. Claire, who is always the strong one, is unable to confront heartbreak when it arrives. Neither is John. And Michael, Justine's erstwhile husband, is never seen again. So much for being strong. So much for "not breathing a word".

If the poor in spirit are blessed, it is not because they have a mystical awareness that life means nothing. It is that they are sometimes forced, in their brokenness, to confront the pain of human existence and, by God's grace, to move closer to Him and find their answer there. The truth is that all of us should recognise ourselves to be poor in spirit, because before God we all are. The answer is not to deny this or try to be strong in ourselves. The answer is to bring all our brokenness to Jesus Christ who was broken for us, and let Him heal us and give us hope.

I pray that Lars von Trier can realise this truth. He has come so close to it, but sadly remains so far.

Of all the crowns Jehovah bears (Christmas Day)

Having said that I would not have time to write anything on Christmas Day, I find myself in the lull period after lots of food and before we have energy enough to do anything else, and am able to post something wonderful that I read last night. It's by my favourite eighteenth-century poet and hymnist, William Cowper, a man who deep depression forced to cling more closely to the truth than more stable minds might have done. This is the last in a sequence of hymns about the names of God, and is wonderfully appropriate for Christmas Day.

Jehovah-Jesus

My song shall bless the LORD of all,
My praise shall climb to his abode;
Thee, Saviour, by that name I call,
The great Supreme, the mighty GOD.

Without beginning, or decline,
Object of faith, and not of sense;
Eternal ages saw him shine,
He shines eternal ages hence.

As much, when in the manger laid,
Almighty ruler of the sky;
As when the six days' works he made
Fill'd all the morning-stars with joy.

Of all the crowns JEHOVAH bears,
Salvation is his dearest claim;
That gracious sound well-pleas'd he hears,
And owns EMMANUEL for his name.

A cheerful confidence I feel,
My well-plac'd hopes with joy I see;
My bosom glows with heav'nly zeal,
To worship him who died for me.

As man, he pities my complaint,
His pow'r and truth are all divine;
He will not fail, he cannot faint,
Salvation's sure. and must be mine.

Over the Hills and Everywhere (Advent #14)

As Jesus was sitting on the Mount of Olives, the disciples came to him privately. “Tell us,” they said, “when will this happen, and what will be the sign of your coming and of the end of the age?” (Matthew 24:3)

Towards the end of the school year, one of our senior teachers led a devotion in which he considered what it might have been like for Jesus to be born into our age in history. The shepherds, he suggested, would have posted pictures on Facebook of themselves with Mary and baby; they would have updated their statuses to make everyone else wish they were there and be envious because they weren't.

I wasn't entirely sure of his assessment of our generation, but it got me thinking. When Christopher Hitchens and Kim Jong Il died in the last few days, I heard as soon as the New York Times posted the newsflash: my iPad said "ding" to notify me of the update. But when Jesus was born the news was only broadcast locally. Only shepherds heard the angels singing; only the Magi paid attention to the herald in the stars. The news was there for those with eyes to see and ears to hear, but few saw it and fewer still heard it. The teachers of the law whom Herod consulted gave the doctrinally correct answer about where the Messiah would be born and showed not the remotest interest in finding out for themselves if this had indeed happened. Would it have been any different if the media were there to broadcast it? Would we be any more attentive?

Then last night I watched Lars von Trier's latest offering, the visceral masterpiece, Melancholia. Though beginning with a detailed and rich depiction of a wedding going slowly, subtly wrong, von Trier gradually introduces the pivotal plot device of the mysterious planet Melancholia which, some say, is hurtling towards the earth. Kiefer Sutherland's John insists that no, it isn't, that the real scientists know what the alarmists deny: that the planet will only pass us by, not hit us. But Charlotte Gainsbourg's Claire does not believe him and regularly goes online to see what the "alarmists" are saying. Which of them is right is adjudicated by the film's devastating denouement, already foreshadowed in the spectacularly understated prologue - a series of extended single shots set to Wagner's "Tristan and Isolde" showing the varied forms of emotional and physical desolation the characters encounter.

The film, in the end, offers decisively little hope, seemingly presenting annihilation as the only answer; and perhaps von Trier is right, though not quite in the form that he has shown. One of the more interesting elements of the film, however, is the way in which characters wrestle with crisis. Kirsten Dunst portrays Justine, the deeply depressed heroine whose "melancholy" paradoxically dissipates as the crisis approaches. Only she seems equipped to deal with what comes. John, on the other hand, represents the laissez-faire attitude so many of us have towards the idea of an apocalypse. A Christianity Today review of the film cites media analyst Neil Postman as noting "that it is impossible to look at the world as a serious place when a newscaster can solemnly inform viewers about a military study touting the inevitability of nuclear war and be followed by a commercial for Burger King". Or, in simpler terms, Susan Sontag once noted that a typical scenario for the past century is that an apocalypse is predicted and then nothing happens.

But the world is a much more alarming place than we can quite grasp. The creator of the universe was born into a manger and only a few people noticed. When the end comes, will we be as indifferent, as able to ignore it? Jesus, who would know, suggested it would be otherwise:

“So if anyone tells you, ‘There he is, out in the wilderness,’ do not go out; or, ‘Here he is, in the inner rooms,’ do not believe it. For as lightning that comes from the east is visible even in the west, so will be the coming of the Son of Man. Wherever there is a carcass, there the vultures will gather." (Matthew 24:26-28)

Perhaps this Advent we would do well to pray that our eyes might be open and our ears attentive. When the newsflash arrives, we won't be able to ignore it, but we also may not have time to respond.

Joy, joy (Advent #11)

There is much talk about joy at Christmas. One of the most famous carols that we sing at this time of year is, of course, "Joy to the World", and for many, I suppose, Christmas is a joyful time.

But it's widely accepted that, for many, it also isn't joyful. Families come together to share food, but they do not always come together in spirit. Christmas can be more a time of squabbling than reconciliation. And for some Christmas does not bring them closer to their families because, for whatever reason, they no longer have a family. When a tragedy occurs this time of year the newsreaders bemoan its happening "this close to Christmas", a statement that is, on one hand, meaningless (a tragedy is terrible at any time of year) but also reveals the fact that the Universe does not instantly conspire to bring about happiness simply because it is Christmas.

To an atheist, this is further evidence that there is no God ordering things. To an agnostic, it might be further reason to withhold judgement. But to a believer, it need not be troubling, though for many it will be. We think that "joy to the world" means that we should somehow all be happy, all the time. I remember the first time I was unhappy on Christmas day, and I didn't know what to do with the feeling; it did not fit what we consider to be the purpose of the season. But the joy that the Gospel proclaims is a deep joy: one that transcends circumstances, one even that transcends emotions. I am naturally a fairly melancholy person. Over the past year I have been more melancholy than usual. But the Gospel has not failed. The joy the Gospel brings is not one that gives quick fixes or boosts in mood. It is a Gospel that gives a joy that nothing in this world - not family squabbling, not death, not depression - can squash.

In one of Jesus' first public statements, he read a passage from Isaiah which declared what he was here to do. The passage, in its original context, is rich with this deeper, abiding joy:

He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted,

to proclaim freedom for the captives

and release from darkness for the prisoners,[a]

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. (Isaiah 61:1b-3a)

I would not say that I fully understand this. I would not say that at every moment I can physically feel the joy that Jesus' coming brings. I would not even say that I feel it terribly often at the moment. But that's okay. The joy that Jesus holds out is untouched. And one day, or night - we do not know - He will step down from the clouds, and sweep me up into His joy that He has been keeping waiting for me.

Hard questions and elephants in rooms

W.H. Auden once wrote a deliberately obscure little poem about asking hard questions: how easy they are to ask, how infinitely hard to answer. He never names the kinds of questions he is talking about but we can conclude that he means the questions that are asked flippantly, in passing, with little regard for the answer.

Questions, for instance, like "How are you?"

I commented on this a few years ago in a post that I'm linking here not because it was particularly good (it wasn't actually) but because I don't want to feel that I'm repeating myself needlessly. My point back then is similar to my point now: all too often, we ask questions like these with no particular intention of waiting for the answer. Or, more to the point, we find ourselves unable to handle complex answers to what is, in reality, a far more complex question than it seems. What if we aren't okay? Will we stop our questioner in their tracks and make them wait for the answer? Will we make do with an, "Okay," or "Good thanks"? Such answers may be the more socially acceptable, but they kind of expose the futility of the question. We might as well invent a strange gargling noise that can serve the same purpose - a form of acknowledgment that a human we know is present before us. The conversation need go no further than that.

Of course, I'm making it all sound a bit silly when I put it like that, but it really is a topic which I feel deeply about. Recent experiences of melancholy, of a kind that sometimes quite frightens me, has made it all the more important to know when an honest answer is welcome, and how it is appropriate to give it. Poorly timed honest answers can lead to the kind of vast, awkward silences in which one can distinctly hear an elephant walk into the room. Those times are certainly hard.

But here's a situation that's harder. Let's say that you are okay at a particular point in time: you've had a good day, you're talking to a person who makes you feel happy. When asked how you are - if indeed you are asked - you may find it hard to give an answer that will be meaningful. You feel fine then. You feel good, even. So how do you answer? Do you say, "Good thanks", because, for that moment, it's true? Do you then go away and, once alone, feel quite far from okay? Do you find yourself, at that moment, even further in the midst of a sinking, desperate kind of loneliness?

Auden poses no answer to the problem he raises. But he does give us a riddle, a hopeful kind of riddle which leaves us feeling as if therein, perhaps, lies something which is, if not an answer, at least a direction to walk in. Love, he suggests, might hold the solution: both the question that we really want to ask, and the answer we are too frightened to give.

Love and grace will, I pray, help me persevere through awkward silences and overcome elephants wandering into rooms. But I also pray that love may help those who ask these questions, thoughtlessly, in passing, at times and in places where no honest answer could ever be given - I pray that love might help transform those moments of awkwardness into times of true communication.

Inertia and friction

Some weeks, there are many wonderful ideas for blog posts circulating round my head, waiting for the opportune moment to be written. Then, when the time comes and I can sit at my computer to write one of them - blankness. I sit and fiddle with the keyboard, tapping out atonal compositions on the arrow keys, fingers up and down, up and down, nothing formulating, and there is only a numb sense that there must be something meaningful, somewhere, in all of this that deserves recording.

The trouble is that words don't do justice to feelings like this. If I were more clever with words, I might be able to convey it for you, but tonight there isn't much that I can do with words. I wish that I could take a photograph to show how it looks inside my mind tonight, because there might be some who would recognise that appearance and be encouraged by the recognition. But some people might be troubled by how it appeared, or confused, or disturbed. Some may not understand, and we are almost always afraid of what we don't understand. I'm afraid of it myself.

It isn't a night for blogging. Times like these expose the gaping hole in what a blog, or anything with words, can ever do. They are times when the human mind most cries out to be understood, and yet it is at its least coherent, its least expressive. On nights like tonight, I hold out my hand and wait for God to lift me again. On nights like tonight, my greatest comfort is a man crying alone in a garden, his friends asleep and ignorant, his heavenly father hearing every word.

Running for joy

I am considering retitling this blog "Matt's Running Adventures". This will be, I believe, the third post I have written about running in little over a week. It may seem a tad obsessive, until you consider a few things. Discovering a new hobby, at any age or stage of life, is an exciting thing. The older you get, the less common it is to discover a new love. I'm not old by any means, but I'm old enough to be fairly set in my ways, fairly fixed in what I think I like and don't like. It's a nice feeling to have those fixed ideas shaken up.

But there's more to it than that. You see, running has, unexpectedly, brought joy into a life that, for some time now, has not abounded in joy. On Wednesday night, for instance, I came home feeling truly terrible, the worst case of the winter commuter blues that I've had in a while. So what did I do when I got home? I ran. It was late, it was dark, I hadn't had any dinner, but I ran. As I set off down the inner-suburban streets near my house - it was too dark to run along Merri Creek - I wondered why I was doing this. It seemed ridiculous. Shouldn't I be resting? Shouldn't I be recovering from a challenging day? No. I ran. And when I came home, something had changed. It's hard to say what. None of my problems were solved. But the darkness of my head as I had driven home was gone. My head was clear.

So I was unsurprised to hear my sister tell me today that running can help combat mild depression. I'm weary of self-diagnosis, but the term "mild depression" seems to fit my state of the past 12 months or so - sometimes going beyond mild - and running has been one of the best things that I've done to combat it.

The idea is confirmed in this article from BBC News, and a few other places that appeared when I googled "running depression". And what is the reason for this link? Well, at a physiological level running releases endorphins - happy chemicals which our bodies and minds need for our well-being. Sitting in a car in the dark driving from Brunswick to Werribee and back each day, I suspect, releases fewer endorphins than running. I doubt, as a matter of fact, if it releases any. So, looking purely at the chemistry of it, it makes sense that running would make you feel better.

But there are other reasons. Biologist Professor Lewis Wolpert is quoted as crediting running with helping him overcome severe depression because it gives him "time to quietly think". For me, running does nothing of the sort. I hear my heart pounding in my ears; I struggle over each mound; I let the songs streaming into my ears help me up and down each crest and round each corner. The best thing, for me, about running is that I don't think. And that, for a chronic over-thinker like myself, is a very good thing.

I accidentally mistyped "good" as "god", and, while I corrected the mistake, I think it was more meaningful than your average typo. I think that running and not thinking is also a God thing. You see, with His creation on either side of me, His wind blowing into my sweaty face, His strength powering my weak feet (I pray before each run that His strength will sustain me), I feel Him in a way that I never will sitting anxiously behind a steering wheel. I also trust in Him in a way that I never otherwise do. It's a powerful experience, and one that I have trouble explaining. But I think that a quote from the classic film Chariots of Fire goes some way to expressing how it feels. Says Eric Liddell, the great sprinter and Christian missionary:

I believe God made me for a purpose, but He also made me fast. And when I run I feel His pleasure.

I'm not sure He made me quite so fast, but He has shown me a joy when I run that I don't feel at other times. When I run, I too feel His pleasure.