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readoldthingsI probably need to return the title of these posts to "Daily Reflection," as I'm now tempted to post less regularly without that prompting. On the other hand, last week was one of the busiest that I have ever lived-- that Mars-Venus conjunction aspected my natal chart in a rather direct way-- so maybe I can be forgiven for the light posting. But, as I like to say, you can have the best excuse in the world for failing to water your plants, and they still won't grow, so let's get back into it.
The Gospel of Matthew 5:4
Why they that mourn?
After praising the "poor in spirit," Jesus turns his attention to those that mourn. They too are "blessed"-- happy, blissful-- for "they shall be comforted."
This saying is very simple, and, to my mind, at least, it feels both straightforward and somewhat emotional and saccharine. I am, if I'm being honest, tempted to skim quickly over this verse, in the hopes of coming quickly to something that feels a little meatier, maybe even a little manlier. (You know, because tough guys like me don't cry.)
To do so would be to miss something vital. To understand what that is, let's consider what it means to mourn, and what can come of it.
The Vale of Tears
Life on Earth isn't easy. There is a reason that this world is referred to as the "Vale of Tears" in traditional Christian and Jewish literature. In the modern world, with the enormous range of material comforts we have available to us, it can be easy to forget this. Indeed, we put a great deal of energy into ignoring, suppressing, or downright denying both death and pain. The very idea that we have to die seems almost insulting to us, as though the universe ought to have made an exception to its general rule for people who have air conditioning, television, and smart phones.
Indeed, I thought at the time, and think now, that much of the complete insanity that we saw in the response to the Covid-19 pandemic had to do with exactly this realization: Despite our technology, despite our wealth, and despite the fact that we really, really don't want to, even we have to die. And so a viral pandemic that would not even have been noticed in earlier times caused us to lose our collective minds and shut ourselves in our houses for more than a year.
We all die. But, what's worse, everyone we love dies, too. Sometimes they die before we do, even when they're younger than we are. Even when they're our children. And then we stuff down the grief like some people do, so that it explodes later on, often in the form of anger; or we go crazy, like modern Americans facing a modern pandemic--
Or we allow ourselves to mourn.
I want to talk about mourning from three different angles, and then bring it back to the Beatitude.
Kisa Gotami
Once there was a woman named Gotami. She grew up in a poor family and was very thin as a consequence, and so people called her Kisa-- that is, "skinny"-- Gotami. Over time, Gotami's fortunes changed for the better. She married into a wealthy family, and soon became pregnant with a child. When her son was born she was overjoyed, as any mother would be-- and more, because in her place and in her time, bearing a male heir solidified her social status.
But then, when the boy was 2 or 3 years old, he took sick and died. Such things were not uncommon, then-- and, in truth, they are not uncommon now, though we do our best to look the other way. Gotami was distraught. She wept, she held the dead child to her breast, she demanded that someone find a doctor who could bring him back to life. Anything but face the truth.
Finally, someone told her that a man was in the area who was known as a great healer and even a miracle worker. That man was Gautama Buddha. Filled with hope, Gotami went to the Buddha and begged him to restore her child to life.
The Buddha said, "Go into the city and talk to people until you find a house where no one has died. When you find this house, bring me a pinch of mustard seeds from it, and we will see what we can do.
You can imagine how Gotami felt when she went into town. The Buddha was a magician, a miracle worker-- all he needed was a bit of mustard-- he would restore her son to life! And so she went from house to house. At every house, they had mustard-- but everywhere someone had died. "I'm sorry, but my mother died last month." "My brother died last year of the plague." "My son was killed in the war." "My father is very old, he is lying ill this very minute, he is breathing his last, he is dead."
House after house, everyone had lost somebody. Gotami never found a house where no one had died. But she found something else-- or, I think, she found something, and she lost something. She gave up her hope of bringing her son back to life, and, indeed, she gave up her attachment to the material world, and all its joys and miseries. But I think that she also found a new sort of connection with her fellow human beings, as she sat in their homes and shared their stories of loss and grief. Grief is the great leveler, death is the great uniter; when people share a death, very often they weep and hurt and lean on one another, and differences in status are forgotten.
Gotami went back to the Buddha and became a nun, and is today honored as a great saint.
The God of the Golden Age
In an earlier post in this series, I discussed the nature of Saturn in mythology and astrology:
Saturn is the God of Death, and the God of Sorrow. All those that mourn are ruled by Saturn, in their mourning. And yet, Saturn was the High God of the Golden Age, and at Saturn's feast, the Golden Age returns, and all normal social hierarchies are abrogated-- for a time.
Consider this in light of what I said about, about the way that grief and mourning brings people together, often regardless of station, and suddenly it makes sense. In tragedy, we are forced to turn to one another, and to lean on one another-- and on God.
They Shall Be Comforted
The people I know who are the most joyful, and the most serene-- the calmest, the least prone to overreaction-- are also the people who have suffered most. It's not that everyone who suffers much learns joy and serenity. Many don't. Some go mad, sometimes in very large numbers. But it is the case that nearly everyone who attains personal serenity does it by facing and overcoming serious hardships.
If you've ever spent any time around people who've done work to recover from drug or alcohol abuse, you know that they very often have two things in common: a reliance on their fellow addicts, and a reliance on God. But it's not just that community or spirituality leads them to kick the habit or whathaveyou. It is, rather, that by going through the pain and terror of addiction, they find a level of community and a commitment to spirituality that they would not have otherwise, and that is often well in advance of people who have never dealt with addiction.
Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.
By whom?
By one another, and by God. And in this way, too, they begin to lose their attachment to the material world, seeing that the things of the Earth are born only to pass away, and begin to turn their eyes toward permanent things.
This is another way of saying that they begin to attain the Kingdom of Heaven.
The Gospel of Matthew 5:4
4 Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.
After praising the "poor in spirit," Jesus turns his attention to those that mourn. They too are "blessed"-- happy, blissful-- for "they shall be comforted."
This saying is very simple, and, to my mind, at least, it feels both straightforward and somewhat emotional and saccharine. I am, if I'm being honest, tempted to skim quickly over this verse, in the hopes of coming quickly to something that feels a little meatier, maybe even a little manlier. (You know, because tough guys like me don't cry.)
To do so would be to miss something vital. To understand what that is, let's consider what it means to mourn, and what can come of it.
The Vale of Tears
Life on Earth isn't easy. There is a reason that this world is referred to as the "Vale of Tears" in traditional Christian and Jewish literature. In the modern world, with the enormous range of material comforts we have available to us, it can be easy to forget this. Indeed, we put a great deal of energy into ignoring, suppressing, or downright denying both death and pain. The very idea that we have to die seems almost insulting to us, as though the universe ought to have made an exception to its general rule for people who have air conditioning, television, and smart phones.
Indeed, I thought at the time, and think now, that much of the complete insanity that we saw in the response to the Covid-19 pandemic had to do with exactly this realization: Despite our technology, despite our wealth, and despite the fact that we really, really don't want to, even we have to die. And so a viral pandemic that would not even have been noticed in earlier times caused us to lose our collective minds and shut ourselves in our houses for more than a year.
We all die. But, what's worse, everyone we love dies, too. Sometimes they die before we do, even when they're younger than we are. Even when they're our children. And then we stuff down the grief like some people do, so that it explodes later on, often in the form of anger; or we go crazy, like modern Americans facing a modern pandemic--
Or we allow ourselves to mourn.
I want to talk about mourning from three different angles, and then bring it back to the Beatitude.
Kisa Gotami
Once there was a woman named Gotami. She grew up in a poor family and was very thin as a consequence, and so people called her Kisa-- that is, "skinny"-- Gotami. Over time, Gotami's fortunes changed for the better. She married into a wealthy family, and soon became pregnant with a child. When her son was born she was overjoyed, as any mother would be-- and more, because in her place and in her time, bearing a male heir solidified her social status.
But then, when the boy was 2 or 3 years old, he took sick and died. Such things were not uncommon, then-- and, in truth, they are not uncommon now, though we do our best to look the other way. Gotami was distraught. She wept, she held the dead child to her breast, she demanded that someone find a doctor who could bring him back to life. Anything but face the truth.
Finally, someone told her that a man was in the area who was known as a great healer and even a miracle worker. That man was Gautama Buddha. Filled with hope, Gotami went to the Buddha and begged him to restore her child to life.
The Buddha said, "Go into the city and talk to people until you find a house where no one has died. When you find this house, bring me a pinch of mustard seeds from it, and we will see what we can do.
You can imagine how Gotami felt when she went into town. The Buddha was a magician, a miracle worker-- all he needed was a bit of mustard-- he would restore her son to life! And so she went from house to house. At every house, they had mustard-- but everywhere someone had died. "I'm sorry, but my mother died last month." "My brother died last year of the plague." "My son was killed in the war." "My father is very old, he is lying ill this very minute, he is breathing his last, he is dead."
House after house, everyone had lost somebody. Gotami never found a house where no one had died. But she found something else-- or, I think, she found something, and she lost something. She gave up her hope of bringing her son back to life, and, indeed, she gave up her attachment to the material world, and all its joys and miseries. But I think that she also found a new sort of connection with her fellow human beings, as she sat in their homes and shared their stories of loss and grief. Grief is the great leveler, death is the great uniter; when people share a death, very often they weep and hurt and lean on one another, and differences in status are forgotten.
Gotami went back to the Buddha and became a nun, and is today honored as a great saint.
The God of the Golden Age
In an earlier post in this series, I discussed the nature of Saturn in mythology and astrology:
The planet Saturn signifies time, limitation, sorrow, and death. Despite these very difficult associations, Saturn's feast at Rome was a very joyful time. Not a time of mourning at all, Saturnalia was a weeklong holiday in which all the ordinary social customs were suspended, masters served their slaves at their table, lords dined with peasants and so on.
Saturn is the God of Death, and the God of Sorrow. All those that mourn are ruled by Saturn, in their mourning. And yet, Saturn was the High God of the Golden Age, and at Saturn's feast, the Golden Age returns, and all normal social hierarchies are abrogated-- for a time.
Consider this in light of what I said about, about the way that grief and mourning brings people together, often regardless of station, and suddenly it makes sense. In tragedy, we are forced to turn to one another, and to lean on one another-- and on God.
They Shall Be Comforted
The people I know who are the most joyful, and the most serene-- the calmest, the least prone to overreaction-- are also the people who have suffered most. It's not that everyone who suffers much learns joy and serenity. Many don't. Some go mad, sometimes in very large numbers. But it is the case that nearly everyone who attains personal serenity does it by facing and overcoming serious hardships.
If you've ever spent any time around people who've done work to recover from drug or alcohol abuse, you know that they very often have two things in common: a reliance on their fellow addicts, and a reliance on God. But it's not just that community or spirituality leads them to kick the habit or whathaveyou. It is, rather, that by going through the pain and terror of addiction, they find a level of community and a commitment to spirituality that they would not have otherwise, and that is often well in advance of people who have never dealt with addiction.
Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.
By whom?
By one another, and by God. And in this way, too, they begin to lose their attachment to the material world, seeing that the things of the Earth are born only to pass away, and begin to turn their eyes toward permanent things.
This is another way of saying that they begin to attain the Kingdom of Heaven.
