I call bull*.

Tell me, Jesus, what good is the kingdom of God to those who are barely scraping by, living paycheck-to-paycheck (or not even!) without a moment of relief to separate the hours of haunting stress?

What good is a heavenly feast to someone who’s not had the luxury of sitting down to a hot meal for days, feet weary, back sore, soul pricked and admonished and scattered by the gatekeepers of respectability?

Bull* on your beatitudes.

The blessing of laughter is an empty promise to those who have lost their breath at the hands of another, and an insult to those whose tears have become the fuel of protest; laughing tomorrow does not create justice today.

How tolerant of hatred, of slander or exclusion, of defamation, of bias do your children need to be before they are guaranteed to dance on streets of gold, and why — in the name of Holy Life — would you see us put up with that?

Bull*, Jesus.

And about those woes: it should be said that I can’t be trusted to abstain from pursuing satisfaction and satiation in this life just so I won’t be hungry in the next; really, I don’t think you should trust me with that kind of decision.

Truth be told, I don’t only want joy and justice today for all of humanity and creation — I want it for me, too, preferably yesterday but I’m willing to wait until tomorrow; I don’t care if you call me “blessed,” Jesus, most of all I want to be blessed.

So in fairness: I call bull* on me, too.

on Luke 6:20-26

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