I'll be damned if I know what to do about these things.
We had a famous preacher at our Presybtery worship service this afternoon. He preached what was, I think, an outstanding sermon on the Beatitudes. I'm not entirely sure, because I missed a lot of it.
Because . . .
He started out with an illustration involving a young man who had come to see him after a lecture one day, ostensibly to ask a question about the material. A young man whose real question he didn't see or hear. A young man who a few minutes later went up to the top of the building and jumped off. He was the last person to talk with that young man.
I am the mother of that young man, or one like him; the mother who didn't hear or see.
I can't say that I feel that I am one of those who mourn who are blessed, although I am certainly one of those who mourn.
I can't say that I feel that I am one of those who are the blessed poor in spirit as a consequence of reaching out to save other lives which might easily have been lost because of the one that was, although I have poured my spirit out and all over the place to care for those others.
I can tell you that when I ponder these things, I feel as if God inhabits some other galaxy, long ago and far away, and not this one.
I don't know what you do about these sermons. I mean, I do know: Nothing. I've heard at least one that was somewhat similar and, as today, I was stuck in a visible locale in the church, so there was nothing to do but grip the armrest and hope it would end quick.
It makes me really afraid to preach, as I wonder when I am the unwitting spear thrower.