Christianity and the Poor, part 2

There are at least two ways to understand the dictum, "blessed are the poor."

The first is to understand it as a proclamation of the universal scope of beatitude. When composed by early Jewish polytheists, the Scriptures extol the God of Abraham over the other gods who, though no less real, are less powerful or beneficent; when composed by a conquering kingdom, the Scriptures speak of a God of war and conquest whose banner is victory and strength; when composed by a people in exile, the Scriptures speak of a God who will one day wield justice against oppressors, giving hope to the downtrodden; when composed by first century peasants living under imperial Rome, the Scriptures speak of a God who blessed the poor and weak. That is to say, God meets us where we currently are, bringing divine love into whatever the situation in which we find ourselves. "To the poor I say, 'yes, you also, even you, are blessed.'"

The second is to understand it as a preferential and exclusive manifestation of God's nature. The conquering Israelites were simply wrong, because God is not on the side of the strong, but of the weak (or, more subtly, the conquering Israelites were "really" weak in some hidden way). God despises those of strong, noble, and abundant life, or at least has little care for them. Rather, it is those who are beaten and downtrodden who have a monopoly on God's favor. "To the poor I say, 'though you seem on the losing end now, in the end you will be the only winners.'"

Despite its flaws, it is not difficult to see how the second interpretation prevails. To those who suffer long under oppressive condition, there is a pervasive feeling of impotence, of the inability to command and order one's life how one wishes, of powerlessness to throw off one's enemy. The words, "blessed are the poor," however, hold promise: the resentment of the oppressed finds a foothold, a weapon to wield against the foe. The one whose desire to seize control and turn the tables cannot find expression resorts to the threat of an eternal table-turning: "I suffer under you now, but God is on my side, not yours; you will suffer and I will be exalted for eternity." The beatitude of the poor, understood exclusively, becomes the last, ultimate, and sweetest revenge of the impotent.

As this interpretation becomes increasingly popular, however, it gradually infects others. For the poor, the doctrine satiates the frustrated desire for revenge and thus offers kind of comfort, but for those who strive for excellence and enjoy an abundance of life, the doctrine becomes outright poisonous. If divine beatitude rests upon the poor alone, then one must become impoverished, one must impoverish oneself.

The doctrine also perpetuates itself with a kind of self-feedback loop. Those who are misled into believing that Christianity demands sickliness and abasement and respond by rejecting Christianity rather than the richness of life are taken as proof that Christianity cannot be embraced by anyone but the poor.

Thus, the resentment of the sick triumphs over the healthy. If you are not among the impoverished, there exists a whole repertoire of techniques you can employ to enfeeble yourself. People will tell you grateful stories about how life was stripped from them, making them poor and finally, therefore, blessed by God. You will sing songs about how much you desire to be brought low and made miserable. You will begin to feel guilty for your strength.

To those who are healthy, this doctrine is pernicious, for it demands one face the impossible alternative of forsaking God and damning oneself or forsaking life and sickening oneself. To those who are poor, too, this doctrine is pernicious, for it replaces the hope of redemption with an affirmation of perpetual misery.

Ultimately, what begins as a proclamation of universality, that the love of God is so extravagant that it reaches even to those who are suffering and downtrodden, is transformed into its precise opposite: the love of God is so restricted that it extends only to the poor.