Dear Faith Family, 

“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven, (Matthew 5:3). 

A celebration.  An unexpected encounter.  The words of my sweet wife captured the weight of the moment.  Here’s what she wrote: 

I gazed upon a living icon (portrait) today. What made it so? She was void of gold foil or bright paint. Yet, like an icon she pointed to something and someone greater than herself. She was a reminder of a reality that is rarely visible, the poor in spirit.  The experience is a haunting with no clear sharp edges but only essences of things. So startling and sacred, prose seems inadequate to bear the weight of such an encounter.  

After dining at a nice restaurant worthy of an anniversary celebration, we ducked into an ice cream parlor while strolling down main street. I might have looked a little out of place in my lace dress that hung to the floor, but I didn’t care.  Celebrating another year of marriage is a special occasion after all.  As we waited in line for our frozen treat, there she stood in front of us, pointing heavenward.   While I was debating which flavor and how many scoops I could eat without feeling guilty, I noticed her frail frame.  Her dingy scarf wrapped tightly around her crown and hung almost majestically down her back. Heaven and Earth were meeting where she stood. She shuffled nervously in her shower shoes as her hands fidgeted with a worn gift card.  It dawned on me that she was uncertain of the card’s value.  Had she found it on the ground outside the shop?  My suspicions were confirmed as the young clerk verified the lack of funds.  “Nikki” was apologetic and tried to comfort the young teen employee. “It’s ok,” she spoke in an embarrassed whisper. She seemed completely free of expectation that she would receive anything. “Blessed are the poor in spirit.”   

      I was drawn to her. Why? There was both extreme contrast and deep connection.  The contrast was glaring. She was a brilliant diamond set upon black velvet, impossible to ignore. She stood apart in the throng of waiting customers. She stood apart from me. I was self-assured while she was completely dependent. I, though unconsciously, was proud while she was beautifully humble. This beauty drew me. “…for they shall inherit the kingdom of God.” 

There was also an unmistakable connection.  What about her seemed familiar? What did I recognize in her?  Could it be loss?  My loss was so different from hers. She physically radiated loss.  It was open and vulnerable for all to see. However, my loss, the loss of the others in that crowded space in front of the counter or behind was neatly hidden from sight, but still there. We all share in this human infirmity in its multitudinous forms. Loss of a loved one, loss of family, loss of job, loss of health, loss of friends, loss of reputation, loss of independence, loss of dignity, loss of home and belonging, loss of what we thought life would be like. We are all one in loss and suffering. In loss, “Nikki” and I were connected. 

       I touched her arm; she startled, completely surprised by my gesture. “Choose whatever you like.” I quietly offered not wanting to call attention to her plight. With grateful surprise, she thanked me and tried to offer a few coins to express her gratitude.  Then with surprising childlikeness, she confessed, “I’m so scared.”  Maybe she thought she would be reprimanded for trying to use the empty card.  She must have felt completely out of place around the clean evening shoppers gathered with their families. She was visibly uncomfortable—without comfort—without.  Yet here was the kingdom of God, this image bearer in a dingy scarf and blue shower shoes. Beautiful “Nikki”, pointing to Christ. Christ, the one who possessed nothing in his appearance that we should desire him. He was despised and rejected by mankind, a man of suffering, and familiar with pain. Like one from whom people hide their faces he was despised, and we held him in low esteem, (Isaiah 53:2) She looked at me uncertain of what came next. “I don’t know where to go,” she whimpered. Like the Son of Man, who had no place. No home. No belonging, (Matthew 8:20).  Looking into her shifting eyes, I placed my arm around her and pulled her close.  I turned towards her and asked her name. “Do not be afraid, “Nikki”.  You are not alone.  You are with us.”  You have a place. And these are also God’s words to me. “You are not alone. I am with you. You belong.” I realized in that moment, I, too, was completely without—poor in body and spirit. My small efforts to comfort “Nikki” felt lost in the vastness of her need. I had nothing; nothing to offer on my own.  Yet, nothing is exactly what God requires.  I come to him empty, and he fills me with himself. I give him nothing and he offers me an inheritance of everything.   

What if I had missed it? What if I had failed to see her as an image bearer and living icon, drawing my focus to Christ? Then I would have seen myself above her instead of being like her as we gazed upon Christ together.  Like “Nikki”, I am impoverished, a beggar.  I would have failed to see my own neediness before God instead of desiring to be poor in spirit like “Nikki”.  C.S. Lewis reminds us in The Four Loves that we can only bring “need love”, to God. This is what drew me to “Nikki”. In her stunning humility, she was aware of her need. She was a beautiful icon of what it means to be poor in spirit.  And this poverty is strikingly beautiful to God. 

Learning to be poor in spirit, 
Pastor Karl