3/27/55

Scripture: John 16: 16-23

Text: Matthew 5: 4; “Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.”

“Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.” You and I have our doubts about that, at least until we have considered it quite carefully. Mourning is a “blessedness” that probably no “normal” citizen would seek or desire. Common sense would reason that not all sorrow is a blessing -- even in disguise. Not all tears are profitable. If one has followed the dictates of his own ambition, has seen it come to defeat, and has come to the blind alley of remorse, there is little consolation there. Napoleon on Saint Helena, disappointed over his failure in conquest, is hardly a blessed man.

There are differing kinds, and causes, of sorrow. If we seek to know sources of comfort, we need to consider the causes of our sorrow. Do we have real grief or only a grievance? Are we crying over spilt milk or hurt pride? Do our sorrows stem from the suffering of others, or are they rooted in our own self-centeredness? Are we bemoaning penalties, or are we painfully penitent for our sins?

Some sorrow is only self-pity. If its story of trouble is oft-repeated to others it only bores them, and one is left to simply pour his troubles back upon himself. It may be significant that the second beatitude follows the first with its blessing upon the poor in spirit -- the humble.

Sorrow which is due to injured pride, threatened prestige, thwarted possessiveness, does not receive the promise of divine comfort. But the poor in spirit who mourn for their sins, who weep over love’s losses, and who feel the sufferings of others -- they shall be comforted.

And even if we have our mental reservations over “Blessed are they that mourn,” we can not jump to the opposite extreme and say: “Blessed are they who never mourn.” For that can hardly be true either. The eye that has never known tears may lack essential tenderness. The mind or heart that has never mourned lacks a mellowness that is needed for friendship or love.

Arabs have a saying that “All sunshine makes a desert.” Would our world be better if there were no difficulties to encounter? Would safety be sweet if we knew no dangers? Could life be better than a desert, if there were no pain to prick our ease?

Some biologists rank living creatures on a scale of capacity for pain. An earth worm or an oyster have relatively simple nervous mechanisms, with low capacity for feeling. Even the most tenderhearted seldom feel it cruel to put a worm on a fish hook or to bite into an oyster. A turtle is higher on the scale of life, but his sensitivity does not evoke much sympathy. But when one goes on up the scale to find a dog or a horse he finds a much higher capacity for pain. A well-bred dog is sensitive to pain of body and to the slightest disapproval of his master. A thoroughbred horse is sensitive to bodily pain and even to the mood of its rider. Among beasts, the horse is a mourner.

When one arrives, on the biologists’ scale, to mankind, see how the range of suffering is increased. Man has a conscience to gnaw at him, sensitive feelings to get hurt, memories that may torture him, anxieties to fret him ---- all these are possible to people. And the more highly developed the person, the more acute may be his suffering. The ear that is most sensitive to harmony is most hurt by discord. The conscience that is most responsive to goodness is most shocked by the evils around it.

Among old Greek legends is that of a woman who came down to the River Styx to be ferried across to the region of the departed spirits. Charon, the kindly ferryman, reminded her that she was permitted to drink of the waters of Lethe, if she wished, and thus to forget the life she was leaving. Eagerly she said, “I will forget how I have suffered.” “And,” added Charon, “you will forget how you have rejoiced.” She said, “I will forget my failures.” And the old ferryman added, “also your victories.” She continued, “I will forget how I have been hated.” “And also,” he reminded her, “how you have been loved.” Then she paused to consider the whole matter, and the end of the story is that she left the waters of Lethe untasted, preferring to retain the memories even of her sorrows rather than give up the remembrance of life’s loves, joys, beauties.

One French proverb may be translated thus: “To suffer passes away; but to have suffered never passes.” Immediate sorrow and suffering do pass. Time sees to that. But sorrow and suffering bravely borne beget a clarity of vision and a depth of understanding which are an abiding source of comfort.

Madame Schuman Heink, before the end of her career as a truly great singer, remarked that one can sing with more genuine life and artistry having been a mother, as she was, than having never known the pain and burden and satisfaction and joy of motherhood.

Great artists know that great art comes out of honest experience. And some of the greatest in art has come through pain and sorrow. This is particularly true of the art of living. Sorrow is not only the test of reality; it is also a spur to the discovery of reality. Too often it takes some dark experience to drive us to a search for truth. Mystery and grandeur lie all around us. But most of us discover little enough of it until trouble or suffering or deep perplexity drive us to explore the shell in which we have encased ourselves.

A woman who is passing middle age spoke with some regret of one phase of college experience. She had been a student in a school where there was excellent curriculum, exceptional faculty, stimulating student fellowship. The school also provided splendid extracurricular opportunities. Music was available in abundance, since the school had an excellent conservatory. Visiting lecturers and preachers were brought to the campus to share the best that they had to give of knowledge and philosophy and experience. But, splendid as were these opportunities, she admits that it seemed more important to go to some motion picture show to relax than to take the time to go over and hear the finest preacher that was ever brought to the campus, or the most exquisite music. Now she regrets the lack of experience that made her then so thoughtless of opportunity.

But even the experience of sorrow, if it be not the unforgiven remorse for our own evil ways, has its contribution to the mature worth of our living.

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Turn for a moment from personal self-exploration to social contacts. We do not discover the hidden riches of love and friendship in the sunniest times. When things are smooth and prosperous we have fellowship in our professional societies, our clubs, and our sports groups. But when sorrow comes, our relationships run more deeply. And if we seek understanding, it may be with some friend who is willing just to sit down with us in a silence too deep for words.

Family ties are strengthened in the sharing of sorrow. The number of broken homes could be considerably reduced if they could be more comforting.

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And when we lift our attention to the larger sphere of citizenship we can discover the “hidden riches of secret places” in dark times of suffering. Many of the New England colonial forefathers of this nation had a custom, at Thanksgiving time, of putting 5 grains of corn at each place around the table. This was to remind the observers that, during the first dismal winter at Plymouth, the food of the Pilgrims was so depleted that only 5 grains of corn could be rationed to an individual at a time. At one period during that fateful winter, only seven healthy colonists remained to nurse the sick and bury the dead. Half their original number had died. The early settlers of this nation knew what it cost to be an American. And they appreciated the values of this land.

There is much about our religion, and its apparent revival at the present time, that is too shallow to be determinative. A survey conducted by a popular magazine indicated that 95% of those interviewed asserted their belief in God. But only 39% declared that their religious beliefs had any real effect on their political and business attitudes. Reviewers, summing up the situation which seems apparent from that survey, said: “The success of communism is a result of the failure of Christians who have forgotten the revolutionary demands of their faith. And this survey suggests specifically that the weakness of American’s position stems from the self-satisfaction of its people, who assume that they are quite as virtuous as anyone can be, and love their fellowman as much as anyone should.”

Well, superficial religion does not offer much of the hidden riches of comfort. But Paul had hold of something genuine, when despite the fact that his prayers for relief from a physical ailment were answered with “No” he could still recognize that God had given him grace enough to bear it. The fact of his “thorn in the flesh” remained with him, and was one kind of sorrow for him to endure. Yet he could believe, himself, that “All things work together for good to them that love God.” [Romans 8: 28].

Ralph Sockman speaks frankly about things that have happened in the last decade of his life which he can not explain, nor can he say that they were all sent of God. And Paul’s assurance that “all things work together for good to them that love God” is intelligible to him only after this analogy with a ship. Sockman says there are many parts of a ship that, by themselves, would promptly sink. The engine would sink. The propeller would sink. But when the parts of a ship are rightly built together it floats and moves. So with the events of his life. Some have been tragic. Some have been happy. But all builded together they form a craft that floats. More than that, the craft is going someplace. And with that he is comforted.

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One of the comforts that does fit into Jesus’ second beatitude is the comfort of a clean conscience. There used to be, at one time in the religious history of our country, what was called the “mourner’s bench.” It was not for those who were bereaved, or for those who had received sorrowful news, but for those whose consciences convicted them of sin and who knew themselves in need of repentance and forgiveness. They who mourn for their wrongdoing to the point of real repentance before God, and who receive His promised forgiveness, are surely blessed.

One of Jesus’ most comforting and hopeful assurances is his saying that: “These things have I spoken unto you, that my joy might remain in you, and that your joy might be full.” [John 15: 11]. But this promise follows his assertion: “Now ye are clean through the word which I have spoken unto you.” [John 15: 3]. Deep and abiding comfort and joy come only to those of clean and contrite heart.

The crowd craves the promises of God’s blessings without the pain of divine purging. To win friends and influence people, be magnetic personalities and likable companions, have peace of mind, and forget our fears; these we rush out and buy like patent medicine, for temporary value. But they are not the gospel. We do not cure sin merely by cushioning ourselves against its consequences.

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There is no virtue in pain for the sake of pain. And Jesus gave considerable attention to the alleviation of the ills of the body and of the mind. There is no virtue in mourning for the sake of mourning. But despite our precautions there remains some pain and suffering. Life begins with pain. Love brings with it the possibility of exquisite torture, aching anxiety, and even despair. The question is how to meet it. The Stoics said, “Don’t love your child too much, you may lose it.” But shall we keep to ourselves? One who avoids discomfort by keeping to self must do so because he loves himself.

Those who mourn for the sufferings of others, and enter into the sorrows of others do expose themselves to pain. The more they love, the more they may suffer. But they also find healing through their efforts to heal the hurts of others.

John Bright lost his lovely young wife. His friend Richard Cobden came to comfort him in his grief. Cobden told Bright about thousands of British homes in the shadow of hunger because of the corn laws. He challenged the brilliant statesman to go out and help relieve the suffering. In going forth to help lift the burden from others, John Bright found solace in his own sorrow.

[Professional woman in eastern city does very noble thing for helpless friend - arranges household before going to long hours of work. In evening, gives self to getting dinner and being a companion. Hardship? Quite the contrary. She is radiant at being able to help one who helped her in years past.] For we are healed by helping to heal.

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And we are strengthened through sorrow if we face it honestly.

[distress at escape. Never going to funeral. “Morbid to discuss death, -- etc.]

[Mary Walker re children and death of friend.]

[Face it - as Lincoln faced it.]

Those who mourn may remember that Christ gives us a victory over death that should remove all fear of it for our loved ones or ourselves.

“Blessed are they that mourn for they shall be comforted -- and comforters.”

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Delivered in Wisconsin Rapids, March 27, 1955.