Zephaniah 2:3, 12-13; 1 Cor 1:26-31; Matthew 5:1-12
On 31st January 1987, I was at the top of one of the smaller hills around Derwentwater. Scattered around were members of the 5th Year (Year 11 in new money) from Fisher-More High School, Colne, who were taking part in a School Leaver Course at Castlerigg Manor, the Lancaster Diocesan Youth Centre.
In the valley below, a dog could be seen chasing sheep across a field, which gave rise to the following conversation between two of the lads on the course:
“Is that a dog running after those sheep, or a rabbit?”
“Don’t be daft. Rabbits don’t run after sheep.”
“Well it would, if a dog was running after IT”.
At this point I decided that the conversation was becoming too deep for me, and I moved on.
I can’t help thinking, though, that this rather odd exchange is relevant to the Sermon on the Mount, and especially to the Beatitudes, which you have just heard. Jesus went up a hill to proclaim the Beatitudes, and from a hill top the world can turn upside down: everything looks different, proportions change, and rabbits run after sheep.
In taking the disciples up the hill, Jesus was planning to turn their world upside down. He was going to change their perspective by speaking of a Kingdom, the true Kingdom, in which it is not the powerful who are blessed, but the humble, the downtrodden, the persecuted, the simple, gentle folk.
As St. Paul writes to the Corinthians, he points out that this world, this Kingdom, is already coming to pass among them. God, he points out, has chosen them, and they are, by and large, not outstanding, powerful, or influential people. Indeed, they are the very people identified by the Beatitudes.
Think of the really good people whom you have known. Haven’t they tended to be the ordinary, workaday folk; the everyday saints who often pass through life unnoticed; the small people who actually make the world go round?
I am thinking of Winnie. Winnie was a housewife married to Harry, a retired window cleaner, who lived in that part of St. Gregory’s parish, Preston, known as the Canary Islands, where all the streets are named after birds. I don’t remember where theirs was Plover St., Kingfisher St., Dove St., or one of the other members of that grouping of terrace houses built for the millworkers of a now departed era.
Winnie was a daily Massgoer until she developed cancer, and became housebound, whereupon I would visit every Friday with Holy Communion, invariably finding Winnie seated behind her altar, a table covered by an immaculately laundered white cloth, on which stood a crucifix and two lighted candles.
One Saturday morning, the presbytery doorbell rang, and I opened the door to a rather agitated middle aged man, who introduced himself as Winnie’s and Harry’s son.
“Me Dad’s had a stroke,” he began, “and me Mum wanted you to know. They’re taking him to hospital. She doesn’t want you to come, because she knows how busy you are, but she thought you should know.”
Now, when someone says “She doesn’t want you to come,” my initial reaction is not to go, and I returned to the tasks of the day. A moment later, I was struck by a thought. “I am not really that busy, and even if I was, which is more important? At the very least, if I anoint Harry, it will save the hospital chaplain a job.”
I got my car out, and drove to the Canary Islands. An ambulance was at the door, the paramedics were working on Harry, and Winnie was sitting patiently, her altar set up, the crucifix in place, and the two candles already lit. I was overwhelmed by the realisation that here was someone far closer to God than I was, and with far more influence over Him.
As time went on, Winnie’s cancer worsened, and she went into a nursing home in a different parish. Nonetheless, I felt that I should visit her. As I entered her room, Winnie’s response was “Oh, Father, you shouldn’t have come; you’re not well” (which was actually true). “Thank you, Jesus, for sending Fr. Keefe.” Oh heck: once more I realised that I was completely out of my depth.
Eventually, Winnie died, and I conducted her funeral. Some time later, her daughter-in-law described Winnie’s death. She had been lying quietly when she suddenly said “Thank you Jesus. I’m ready now. I am sorry for all my sins”, and died. Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven.
