When Jesus saw the crowds, he went up the mountain; and after he sat down, his disciples came to him. Then he began to speak, and 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 meek, for they will inherit the earth.
“Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.
“Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy.
“Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.
“Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.
“Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
“Blessed are you when people revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you."
Sermon by the Rev. Carole Horton-Howe
In 1950 a tiny hospital in the deep south, somewhere in Alabama opened its doors to patients. What was significant about this tiny hospital – it only had 9 or 10 beds - was that it was the only hospital in the state of Alabama at that time that had been created to serve the medical needs of African-Americans - in the entire state.
It actually was formed when the Catholic diocese of Alabama decided that it was long past time for there to be a hospital that would serve people of color in the state. And so, it was founded largely through the efforts of that diocese. And they named it after St. Martin de Porras, a Peruvian man, who had himself given much of his life for the care of others.
De Porras story is a complicated one: his father was a Spanish nobleman and his mother was a slave. So he belonged to no world. He didn’t belong to the world of European nobility nor did he belong to the world of enslaved people. But everywhere he went he was immediately judged and rejected based on his outward appearance that revealed that his mother was of African descent.
His heart was a heart that longed to help others even as a child. When he saw others who had even less that he had, he would feel compelled to try to help them. And by the time he was a teenager he just knew he was called to the priesthood. So he presented himself to the Dominican Order in Lima, Peru and said, “God has called me and I wish to become one of your brothers.” They looked at him with the skin and features that once again revealed that his mother had been a slave and they said “no.”
Martin was determined and continued to believe wholeheartedly that this is what God called him to do and be. He kept going back and kept going back to them. And finally they said, “okay we will make you a lay brother of this Order.” And so he lived out his life with that Dominican Order cooking and cleaning and laundering. But he was never ordained a priest.
His commitment was to those who had nothing. He saw them with eyes and a heart that made him want to help everyone he encountered them. And so he gave food to the hungry. He took care of the sick. And he took away all those distinctions around race, and ethnicity and social class. If you had a need, he was going to take care of you.
This was how he lived out his life, making visible to the church, those had been invisible to those who had been marginalized church, those who had never been known to the church. That was the way that St Martin de Porras lived out his life. So it’s no surprise that this tiny hospital in Alabama that was created to serve invisible, marginalized people was named for someone who committed his life to doing that work.
The poor, the sick, the disenfranchised are always around us. But so often they are not visible to us. We move about living our lives and far too often, the invisible among us continue to be invisible.
So for a few minutes I want us to step into the first century world of Jesus Christ. He starts his ministry by calling a few fishermen to come and join him. And the first thing he does is not to go to the temple authorities, to the elite, and schedule meetings with them and say, “I’m here, let’s get on with taking care of everyone.” No, that’s not what he does.
His first order of business is to go among the poor, and the sick and the marginalized and the disenfranchised who have been put down, pushed away and ignored – that is his first order of business.
And what an incredible message he has for them: blessed are those who are poor in spirit, blessed are those who are mourn, blessed are those who are hungry and thirsty, blessed are those are being persecuted in this oppressive society in which we live.
Blessed are you. Because if you have been living your life believing that you are invisible, if you have bought into the idea of this narrative that you are unimportant, unloved and uncared for, there is good news – the good news is that you are not invisible to God. The good news is that God sees you, God knows you, God loves you.
Jesus has delivered this incredible message that those who have believed that they are not part of God’s plan, now he tells them they are legitimate, they are part of God’s plan.
That had to be one of the most dangerous messages that the Roman empire could expect someone to deliver. Because when you have subscribed to the theory that you are no one and that your life matters to know one, you make the oppressors’ job really easy. But the oppressor’s job isn’t easy when you truly believe that you are a child of God and that your presence and your voice matters.
And Jesus has become an enemy of the state from Day I for delivering the message that no one in the empire wants to hear.
How do all these people who have been pushed aside for so long, how did they hear that good news “I am somebody, I am a child of God” when the whole of your life you have heard the opposite? What a joyful day that had to be for the throngs of people who have come to Jesus to be healed, to be made whole and to be restored to community.
The saints who have come before us have dared us to see the world with compassionate eyes. They have dared us, as the church of Jesus Christ, to see the world as a place filled with God’s beloved. To see the world as a place where we are stakeholders with our sisters and brothers and where we are called to lift the fallen, to love those who have believed that they are unlovable and to share the message of God in Christ. They have dared us to be that bold.
Are we? Are we bold enough to follow saints like Martin de Porras? Are we bold enough to look upon those who are being told they are nothing and nobody and to say to them, “your life matters. And because your life matters to God, it also matters to me and I will put myself out there.”
In light of the violence that so occupies our hearts and minds these days, the Bishops of our Episcopal church published a letter yesterday morning. It’s written to all Americans and signed by more than 150 Episcopal Bishop’s. It addresses the events happening in communities across the country but especially in Minneapolis.
Many of you have expressed concerns about what you are seeing and how, as people of faith, we are to respond. So I want to share a portion of this letter from our Bishops who ask what they believe is the core question facing America — whose dignity matters? Here’s what they say:
“What happened a week ago in Minnesota, and is happening in communities across the country, runs counter to God’s vision of justice and peace.
We cannot presume to speak for everyone or prescribe only one way to respond. For our part, we can only do as Jesus’ teaching shows us. We call on people of faith to stand by your values and act as your conscience demands.
We must keep showing up for one another. We are bound together because we are all made in the image of God. As bishops in The Episcopal Church, we promise to keep showing up — to pray, to speak, and to stand with every person working to make our communities just, safe, and whole.
Every act of courage matters. We are committed to making our communities safer and more compassionate:
So children can walk to school without fear. So families can shop, work, and worship freely. So we recognize the dignity of every neighbor — immigrant communities, military families, law enforcement officers, nurses, teachers, and essential workers alike.
In the face of fear, we choose hope. Safety built on fear is an illusion. True safety comes when we replace fear with compassion, [replace] violence with justice, and [replace] unchecked power with accountability. That’s the vision our faith calls us to live out — and the promise our country is meant to uphold.
The question before us is simple and urgent: Whose dignity matters?
Our faith gives a clear answer: Everyone’s.
Retired Bishop Steven Charleston wrote of his desire to recognize that we are living through a time when anger and blame are epidemic. And he offers something we can all do together: being Spiritual Medics.
“I have committed myself to be a Spiritual Medic in these days of chaos. I hope you will join me and become one too. If you do, here is what you will commit to for the duration of the turmoil:
To sustain the healing of creation.
To connect with others with intentionality.
To pray protection each day at noon.
To help diminish suffering.
What these four commitments mean will be up to each of you, and every other medic, to decide. There is no hierarchy. All are welcome and all needed.”
So on this day of blessing, we look upon our sisters and brothers with the teachings of Jesus in our heads and hearts, with the saints behind us cheering us on and saying “let them know how much God loves them, let them know how much God cares. We all have value, we all have worth.” Amen.