(Matthew 5:1-12) – 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."

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Some of you can remember the year 1955. That's exactly 50 years ago. Compared to 1955, Americans are on average twice as rich, far healthier, far more youthful, and far safer than we were 50 years ago. And yet the percentage of people who describe themselves as "very unhappy" has risen about 20 percent. By some estimates, rates of depression are 10 times higher than they were in the 1950's.

These are some conclusions from a book called "The Progress Paradox," by Gregg Easterbrook. Easterbrook doesn't say that there is no relationship between happiness and money. Poor people are consistently less happy than the non-poor, research shows. But once people reach a relatively modest level of middle class affluence, say around $40,000 income a year, the relationship between wealth and happiness disappears. People who make $400,000 or even $4,000,000 a year are not measurably happier than people who make $40,000.¹ And as a society overall, we are less happy today than we were in 1955 when we were poorer, less healthy, less safe, according to those who study these things.

You could think of the Beatitudes as Jesus' commentary on happiness. The word that is traditionally translated "Blessed" could just as accurately be translated "How happy are." How happy are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. How happy are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. But that sounds so strange, so counter-intuitive. I don't think of those who mourn as being happy. I worry for the poor in spirit.

What is it that makes for happiness? That's one of those questions that has been debated for centuries. Five hundred years before Jesus, the Greek historian Herodotus chronicled a dialogue between Croesus and Solon. Croesus was so wealthy that his name became a metaphor. To say someone is "rich as Croesus" is like saying he's got "more money than God." And Solon was widely regarded as the wisest man of his generation.

According to the story, Croesus asked the wise Solon "Who is the happiest of mortals." Just so we'll understand, the writer Herodotus adds, "This he asked because he thought himself to be the happiest of mortals." Solon answers, almost flippantly, "Tellus of Athens, he's the happiest of mortals." No one had ever heard of Tellus of Athens. So Solon explained, that although Tellus is unknown, he lived when his country flourished, had children and grandchildren, and he died honorably in battle while routing the enemy from his beloved homeland. He was buried with his fellow citizens' highest honor.

Croesus is not satisfied with this answer, so he asks Solon for the second happiest person, expecting he would be given at least second place. "Cleobis and Biton," is the answer. Again, unknown to the world. Cleobis and Biton were two loving brothers. Their mother was a priestess and devotee to the goddess Hera. When she was unable to attend a great festival for Hera because the oxen who pulled her wagon were away in the fields, Cleobis and Biton took the yoke upon their own shoulders, ran their mother to the temple, five miles uphill in the heat of day, delivered her in time for the celebration of worship, and then took drink and went to sleep in in the temple in peaceful exhaustion. At worship their mother prayed to Hera to grant her children whatever was the best thing a human could receive. After this prayer the youths never rose again, but died in the midst of their honor, a painless and tranquil death. These, said Solon, were the happiest of mortals. The wealthy Croesus was not pleased with the wise man's story.

How happy are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. How happy are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.

No one interviewed Cleobis and Biton right before they died. One might have said to the other, "My goodness, that was an exhausting pull. I've got new empathy for oxen." And the other, "But, we got Mom here on time, and the only way she was going to get here was for us to do it. It's important to her. Thank goodness she was able to make it."²

One of the lessons we learn from the saints and heroes is that they don't live their lives self-consciously at all, but they tend to live in a way that is conscious of others, their needs, their desires, their deserts. Maybe you've heard Mother Teresa talk about her work. She just talked about doing what she was supposed to do, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. You read about the young firefighter Gregg Riley who died of cancer last week. I visited with him after he rescued our own George Presley in the dark, smoke-filled burning house where George was virtually unconscious. Gregg nearly didn't get out of that house. He was a little embarrassed by all the attention. "I was just doing my job," he said.

Yet, there must be a deep joy in Mother Teresa to meet Christ in the lowest and least. There must be a deep satisfaction for the hero who has saved a life. And there must be a deep peace in those who are so conscious of the good of others that they are almost unaware of their own suffering. There is a happy way of living that leads people to reach out intuitively on behalf of the good of others while being simply un-self-conscious about one's own needs.

Thomas Keating wrote this: The journey, or process itself, is what Jesus called the Kingdom of God. ...To accept our illness and whatever damage was done to us in life by people or circumstances is to participate in the cross of Christ and in our own redemption. ...It is in bearing our weakness with compassion, patience, and without expecting all our ills to go away that we function best in a Kingdom where the insignificant, the outcasts, and everyday life are the basic coordinates. The Kingdom is in our midst.

Today we baptize people into this Kingdom. It is a drowning ritual of death. The baptized will die to that old self-conscious way of life that never brings happiness. And they will be raised to a humble yet confident new way of life that is focused on seeing and serving Christ everywhere and in everyone -- a holy and happy life.

On All Saints Sunday, I usually think of Virginia Saway. Virginia was a widow who attended my church in Jackson. She came nearly every week, but as far as I knew that was about it. She didn't have a visible ministry in that place. She was quiet and appeared shy. I didn't know her name for a couple of years, and that's in a small congregation. Finally, I began to get to know her through a book study, and I learned, she was one of those unselfconscious people who does invisible little things for neighbors and friends, people and animals, and who has a simple and natural union with God as well as a totally un-judgmental nature. I only learned about her cancer treatments in an aside about her not being able to deliver a meal to a next-door shut-in. She was as invisible and virtuous as Tellus of Athens or Cleobis and Biton. Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth. Virginia was meek, and she lived a kind of life that fulfills our deepest earthly inheritance. Virginia was happy; she was sane; she was good; she was a saint. There are lots of them, you know.

You can meet them in school, or in lanes, or at sea, in church, or in trains, or in shops, or at tea, for the saints of God are just folk like me, and I mean to be one too.