Taking Jesus at His Word: What Jesus Really Said in the Sermon on the Mount

by Addison Hodges Hart

Jesus’ message is about a way of life, a way of being and thinking and doing. It guides both actions and reactions. It finds its strength in an inner life, and the peace and compassion that that interior discipline engenders are meant to be visible to others. The kingdom of the Romans was external, imposed from above, ruled from the top down, hierarchical, militant, cruel, legalistic, moralistic, and oppressive. The kingdom of heaven, in contrast, is internal (and thus hidden from plain sight), received through a listening ear, guided from within, egalitarian, pacifistic, kind, generous, loving, and freeing. It is an invisible empire, one in which God flows through the veins and lives of human beings, and reaches ever further and further out through them to others. The kingdom of Rome and all other worldly powers are merely organizations. The kingdom of heaven is, if lived rightly, organic and an organism. It is personal, multifaceted, and — to the frustration of all would-be supreme organizers of it, both ecclesiastical and political — ultimately guided by no single organizing power. It moves through individuals, binds them into relationships, and passes on in some indefinable way from generation to generation. It has never been fully harnessed, and no church or nation can control its internal life. It remains, it would seem, working as it does from within the human person, what we might well think of as God’s domain.

We should heed the advice of Shunryu Suzuki. In Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind, he said, “The goal of practice is always to keep our beginner’s mind.… When we have no thought of achievement, no thought of self, we are true beginners. Then we can really learn something. The beginner’s mind is the mind of compassion.” If one can learn patience with oneself, one can learn, perhaps, to have compassion and non-judgment towards others.

No baptized disciple during the first three centuries of Christian history was supposed to be either a soldier or a magistrate. Either one did things the world’s way, or one did things Jesus’ way. Intentionally distancing oneself from legal and military service to the world was one of the hard choices one was expected to make when choosing citizenship in the kingdom of heaven. Is it any wonder, then, that early Christians were soon distrusted and persecuted by the authorities of the Roman Empire? Peacemaking means working for other solutions in the affairs of the world than that of resorting to hostilities. The follower of Jesus is a practitioner and promoter of nonviolence, and normally should be uncooperative with every form of a nation’s “war effort.” If the cost to oneself is to be accused of lack of patriotism, so be it. Following Jesus means choosing his way without concession.

The objection that most people have to Jesus’ exhortation to love all — as also the objection many have to “forgiveness” — is often based on the false idea that Jesus is saying that one must feel love for all. And, of course, that is impossible for us to do. But we can be prepared to do good to all who cross our path or come within the sphere of our influence, regardless of how we might feel about them. Indeed, the point of the passage, and its parallel in Luke, is precisely that we should work against our prejudices, anger, dislikes, hatreds, and maybe even our desires for revenge, and do good anyway. “Love” is “doing good,” pure and simple, and doing it to all — “the evil and the good,” “the just and the unjust,” or, in Luke’s terms, “sinners.” Frankly, we can do it. We just choose not to do so time and time again. Jesus tells us to change our behavior. He says nothing about our feelings.

Almsgiving was a means of sharing, establishing equality, and distributing to those in need. This was meant to be reciprocal, and all were called upon — even the poor — to contribute to the common good. In this way, the dignity of all was meant to be upheld, and no one person’s ego was allowed to rise above the equality shared by all. Every gift was expected to be appreciated, every member loved, but none unduly revered or indulged. No one community or church was intended to dominate another, but all were to help other Christian communities stay afloat in goods and finances.

Nonetheless, we should be suspicious of those who tell us that Jesus’ way is not doable, especially if they call themselves Christians. What underlies such cynicism? The big question really is, What do they fear to lose? Don’t they realize that Jesus had a lot to say about finances, and none of it had to do with financial security or the accumulation of personal wealth?

Mysticism tends to overthrow whole worlds, both within our selves and outside us. It uproots the status quo, overturns the moneychangers’ tables, rearranges our mental furniture, disturbs our complacency, alters our consciousness, and forces us to be true to ourselves and to all things just when we were feeling that being false felt just fine. It disrupts us to the foundations, to the roots of our mental and emotional mountains, when we take contemplative practice seriously.

However, if we are willing to practice contemplation habitually, going step by step, we will over time (and it will take time and constant practice) lose the fear of insecurity, and come to a secure point of operating out of a center deep within our selves. We will find we can dispense with getting our sense of security and safety and certainty from outside, and discover it instead flowing from within as from an interior reservoir. More and more we will come to view the world with a freer, calmer, and more confident mind — one that knows, for example, that government leaders can’t manipulate us any longer with ideologies and incitements to sham patriotism; that worldly bureaucracies may bully us sometimes, but that they can’t really undermine our ability to think or live independently of them; and that occasional overweening religious officials have no real power to distance us from God despite imperious claims to be his indispensable brokers.

There is another reason that the mystical dimension is resisted. Contemplation is not entertaining, and we have taught ourselves — or allowed ourselves to be propagandized into believing — that unless we are entertained by or at least preoccupied with something, we will almost immediately become bored. We unconsciously dread boredom because it throws us back upon our inner resources, and we’re often unaware that we have any. Actually, we all need to be bored sometimes just to develop some genuine inner resources — just to be creative and imaginative and fully human. Boredom, it can be argued, has had a vital role to play in the history of civilization. Practicing contemplation will involve stretches of silence that are simply dry and dull. Teachers of the spiritual life have always seen such times as beneficial, motivating us to develop habits that go beyond the realm of seeking good feelings. Dry times force us to look for God beyond “god” — that is, to go deeper than our ideas about God, our concepts and images. If we get stuck on any concept, we have a potential idol on our hands, because the mystery of God is infinite in meaning and scope. Boredom tests our resolve to stay serious and sober-minded. If we stick with the practice, boredom will in time dissipate. We will gain something better than experiencing occasional good feelings — we will learn contentment and serenity.

The “way of the heart” is a term that has often been used for Christian mysticism in its purest sense, and it’s a good one. The heart is, as anatomists can confirm, a “thinking organ.” Neurologically speaking, it is directly connected to the brain, and so we can say that it has always been an appropriate symbol for the very center of our consciousness. In the mystical practice of the Christian East, contemplative discipline has long been referred to as “the bringing of the mind into the heart” and accompanied with a bodily posture conducive to this end — a deliberate focus on one’s core. Another, less widely known phrase, speaks of “imprisoning” one’s mind in prayer and keeping it there. This may sound rather negative to our modern ears, but the idea is much the same as going to one’s center and abiding there, blocking out other thoughts and intentions for a time. Speaking of the heart as a “way” of the disciple’s mind is to use an ancient metaphor that is ever valid.

God is transcendent of all creation, joined inextricably to the creation, simultaneously known and unknowable. He is the mystery within, beside, and above all things, dwelling beyond the ineffable and closer to us than our own souls. Sometimes, in our contemplation, we are very nearly pantheists (God is everything), panentheists (God is in everything), and transcendentalists (God is beyond everything) all at once — and does it matter? No, it emphatically doesn’t matter in the least. Prayer is experiential, and God can be trusted to guide our thinking about our experiences later. He is beyond all our categories of thought; and our prayer should not immediately be preoccupied with sorting out the “correct” concepts. We should just get on with prayer itself. Concepts can obscure; but contemplation goes through the curtain — at least it goes far enough so that we can perceive that there is a curtain and also a reality on the other side just beyond our sight.

Needless to say, the more our minds are dulled by the glitz and glamour, the sensational and shallow, and the diseased and deadening aspects of our contemporary culture in our non-contemplative hours, the less wonder and peace we can hope to enjoy in our contemplative moments.

To exist is to dwell in mystery; to live is — all by itself — a miracle of incalculable worth. To see, to hear, to touch, to taste, to inhale and smell this earth, to come from nothing and pass into infinity, to possess consciousness and the awareness of consciousness (a human quality), to be able to love, to feel, to grieve, to laugh, to know sorrow, to know joy, to praise and feel gratitude to God for the reality in which we are privileged to participate — to be human — is to begin to pray. It is, in fact, to be both potentially and actually a mystic and a contemplative. As we are able, with our mind in our hearts, we dwell in stillness with God, even while living in a world of insane activities; and there we find the free and stable center where nothing — not man or the devil — can ever overthrow us. “God is our refuge and strength” (Ps. 46:1a).

As was the case in most of the civilized ages but our own, pardoning debts was regarded as an act of virtue and righteousness. Jesus underscores this here. It is possible that this refers to forgiving sins (see below), as it appears in Luke’s shorter version of the prayer. However, it is interesting to note how Luke renders it: “And forgive us our sins [hamartias = ‘strayings’], for we ourselves forgive every one who is indebted [opheilonti] to us” (Luke 11:4, emphasis mine). In Luke it appears that our willingness to forgive others’ debts to us invites God’s forgiveness of our sins. Our acts of lifting the material burden off the shoulders of those who owe us some kind of payback in turn invites God’s lifting of spiritual burdens from our conscience. That such concern for the material welfare of others wins a spiritual reward is something that early Christians accepted as true to the nature of God. It is seen, for instance, in the passages about Cornelius, the Gentile centurion, whose prayers and contributions to the poor won for him a deeper knowledge of Jesus and his kingdom: “About the ninth hour of the day [three P.M.] he saw clearly in a vision an angel [‘messenger’] of God coming in and saying to him, ‘Cornelius … Your prayers and your alms have ascended as a memorial before God’” (Acts 10:3-4, emphasis mine; see also 10:30-33). Cornelius is then told to call for Peter, who will tell him about the way of Jesus. Pardoning others their debts to us and giving freely to...

Again, let us recall what Jesus says we see the Father doing: “He makes his sun rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the just and on the unjust.… You, therefore, must be perfect [in your love], as your heavenly Father is [in his]” (5:45, 48). In biblical thinking, forgiveness, like love, is not a feeling but an action. It is a mark of impartiality, and of refusing to allow our feelings or passions to bully us into straying from the way of righteousness. It is one aspect of doing good, and it means — quite simply — “to let go” of something. In this case, it means to let go of any intention of retaliation, of getting even, or of getting back what one thinks one is owed by another. It is letting go of anger, not letting it dominate one’s heart and behavior. Even if one has sustained grave hurt from another, even abuse or injury to one’s self or someone else whom one loves, the right thing to do is seek to let go of seeking vengeance.

Forgiveness, therefore, may be an attempt to mend fences or build bridges, to make some sort of overture to another to restore a strained or broken relationship. Sometimes, maybe often, that will work beautifully. But, just as often perhaps, it may not include any such attempt. The best way to love one’s “enemies” in some specific instances may, in fact, be to leave them alone entirely, get distance from them, and simply do no harm to them either by word or deed. Forgiveness of a psychological or physical abuser may precisely be to escape further harm at his or her hands and tongue. One can pray for such a person from a safe distance, and over time the pain and resentment may subside somewhat or — sometimes — subside completely. But, if one avoids doing direct harm (even though litigation may still be advisable in some exceptional circumstances) one has “let go” — one has “forgiven” another.

Real fasting means we give from what we have and learn to curb our appetites. Real fasting may mean eating less expensive food, not going to the swankest restaurants, and not being a practical narcissist. It may mean not buying the most elaborate cell phone on the market, the biggest car, the best entertainment system — maybe going without some of these altogether. Real fasting, especially in our consumerist culture, means to stand apart from the unthinking point of view that we are what we buy. We may need to reduce our time given over to entertainment and self-gratification in order to have time for others’ needs.

Fasting is not strictly a matter of food and drink. It has to do with how we eat, certainly; but also with how we travel, dress, furnish our homes, shop, are entertained, and otherwise pamper ourselves. What we save from cutting corners — from the practice of mindful fasting — may amaze us. From those saved resources we might find we can give more generously than we ever could before for the sake of those whose poverty would also amaze us, if we were to notice it.

First, we can choose where we will put our focus in life. We can choose either the light of the kingdom and of God, or the relative darkness of lesser pursuits. • Second, God should be the master of our life’s direction, and we should follow him with undivided mind, or “purity of heart” (5:8). To do this is to “see” clearly and thus to be filled with the “light” mentioned in verses 22-23. • Third, if we have an unhealthy obsession with lesser concerns, which is the temptation whenever we aren’t satisfied with what we need and already have in sufficiency, it will make us anxious, worried, and stressed. Anxiety is the counterproductive expenditure of our energy and inner peace, and it is the antithesis of faith. To be anxious is, in other words, one of the things that fills us with the interior “darkness” of the analogy above, and is what is meant by “serving Mammon.” • Fourth, therefore, our priority in life should be clear to us: it is to seek first God’s kingdom and righteousness (the “light”), to serve him instead of “Mammon,” and to let this kingdom and righteousness satisfy us and banish our anxieties.

Westerners live in a culture of consumerism. We are inundated by it. Almost every component of modern culture is geared to sell us something, from sedans to soap to sound systems to sex. If we want it, it can be bought; if we don’t want it, the media will still try to sell us on the line that we can’t live without it. Our eyes and ears are stuffed with advertising, our lust for possessions is kept artificially stimulated to fever pitch, and we go through our lives wanting more, more, more.

Jesus was not a capitalist. He didn’t promote competition or getting rich at the expense of others. Any creation of wealth should be for the common good — not merely for individual, familial, or commercial gain. When describing the common life of the first Christians, the book of Acts puts it this way: “Now the company of those who believed were of one heart and soul, and no one said that any of the things which he possessed was his own, but they had everything in common [koina]” (Acts 4:32). Paul expressed this same principle of mutuality: “Bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ” (Gal. 6:2).

God may not directly judge us with harshness if we judge others harshly ourselves. Nonetheless, indirectly his judgment may be felt in how others react to us. Notice the imprecision of Jesus’ words, his avoidance of saying anything about God’s direct judgment: “Judge not, that you be not judged. For with the judgment you pronounce you will be judged, and the measure you give will be the measure you get.” There is something subtle here in how Jesus speaks of the judgment we get back for judging others — whether through gossip, criticism, or condemnation. It might be the sort of judgment in which “what goes around comes around” — others may treat us as we have treated them. Possibly this lies behind the warning in the Epistle to the Hebrews that the community should “see to it … that no ‘root of bitterness’ spring up and cause trouble, and by it the many become defiled” (Heb. 12:15). When we speak judgmentally of others, critically or disdainfully, it is often only a matter of time before we find the same coming back in our direction. Bitterness can very easily and quickly take root in a community, and it rapidly defiles “the many.” Whole communities suffer and sometimes dissolve precisely because of such undisciplined internal criticism between members.

If ever there were a saying of Jesus long disused and neglected, this is certainly it. All we need to do is consider how so much that is sacred in Christianity has become openly known, ridiculed, and only partially understood at best by those most likely to dismiss it out of hand. It is true that Christians are most to blame for this situation. Because they were unable to restrict their teachings to those most ready to receive them earnestly, these teachings have been bandied about publicly for centuries. What were words of wisdom to be pondered and translated into contemplation and action were turned into theological formulas and anathemas. What had been mysteries that worked deeply and transformatively in the hearers were reduced to dry systems, with ever more technical and philosophical language heaped on for good measure. From systems came arguments, confusion, greater fine-tuning, condemnations of those who didn’t subscribe to the “correct” interpretations of these dry concepts, and eventually persecution of those individuals. And, as the power of the institutions that wielded these systems eventually waned, the ridicule of such abuse of intellect and the spirit grew stronger, and those wanting to escape from it multiplied. What was rejected was not Jesus himself; but those doing the rejecting didn’t always know that. They were fleeing something massive, oppressive, repressive, and largely unrecognizable as reflective of Jesus himself. They left behind what had become...

That these “good things” are of a spiritual order, meant to transform our characters and minds — and not, for instance, requests for material acquisitions — is suggested by how Luke translates the same statement in his version. Matthew has “how much more will your Father who is in heaven give good things to those who ask him!”; Luke has “how much more will the heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him!” (Luke 11:13, emphasis mine). For Luke, all good things come by way of the gift of the Holy Spirit (literally, “Holy Breath”) of God. Prayer, then, is for acquiring what helps us become a city set on a hill, the salt of the earth, the light of the world. It is always an opening up of our selves to God, a broadening of mind and heart, a transfiguration of our souls, a deepening of understanding and peace with God and all things and all people.

“Repentance,” we may recall, means “changing one’s mind” — an inner confrontation with one’s self and, in some greater way, with God. (Even if we wish to call “God” by another name, whether personal or impersonal, we can’t evade the truth of a reality that transcends our selves, and which has on occasion throughout our lives had some sort of draw on us.) However, once we have opted to change, to rearrange our insides, to let God work on us, and to be disciples of Jesus and embrace his kingdom, we discover that his “yoke” and his “burden” not only do not crush us; they cause us to become fully and deeply human. We grow up, we learn to love, we learn to act and believe and live freely and meaningfully. It’s “hard and narrow” to remove from ourselves those aspects of our lives that are addictive, selfish, and petty, not to mention malicious and even evil; but we are better off for it as we go on, and stick to the road, and continue to come back to Jesus whenever we stray, no matter what. And after a while most of us will have no real desire ever to go back to the wide and easy (and flat and dull and terminally stupid) way of destruction. Its appeal will gradually fade away, and we will see it as the great and wide sham it is and always was and always will prove to be.

The foundation of the house we are meant to be building within and among us is, finally, a matter of living the Sermon on the Mount. Either we take Jesus at his word in this instance, or we do not. But — if we take him at his word — then our “salvation” rests on whether or not we are prepared at least to attempt daily to live according to the teachings we have been exploring together in this book. Jesus says nothing here that is not aimed at our way of living life. He is not, it seems, overly concerned that we get every jot and tittle of our theology correct (whatever being theologically “correct” might mean among the multitude of divergent and conflicting theologies). He is not concerned that we comprehend some system of dogmas or abstract doctrines, or can adequately define the theory of “atonement,” or can speak eloquently about “the economic Trinity,” or have some precisely defined theory of his presence in the Holy Communion. All that may be quite interesting and even enlightening for those of us with theological leanings and/or credentials. But Jesus isn’t concerned about any of that. He is concerned that we be humble, makers of peace, as inclusively loving as the heavenly Father, ready to care for the poor, ready to forgive all, rooting out of our selves lust and anger and other twisting passions that distort our lives and relationships, and developing a host of other practical qualities that characterize those who wish to seek first the kingdom of God and his right...

the Sermon on the Mount calls us as individuals to examine our lives at their deepest levels and to work strenuously on our own, ongoing transformation. It is a handbook for disciples who wish to shape their interior lives in such a way that, no matter what the practical daily functions of a community of disciples may look like, the disciple’s personal ethic and behavior remains consistent with the character of God’s kingdom and righteousness. Jesus may not teach anything like an Emersonian version of self-reliance, but he does teach us to take responsibility for our individual lives before God. We are to stand on our own two feet, be the owners of our own faith, and be Jesus’ disciples before any other allegiance we may legitimately claim.

The highest expression of our imitation of Jesus, both collectively and individually, is in our concrete actions of love. First, we are to love those who, like us, are imperfect disciples gathered in some form of communal life. Then, second, we are to exhibit our love as a community dedicated to the kingdom of heaven outward into the world around us. Everything Jesus teaches us has some relation to this theme, whether it’s a matter of economics and ownership, of sexuality and married life, of humility and integrity, of not judging and criticizing others, of peacemaking, or of good deeds done for the poor. It all has to do with love for others, which is the purest expression of our love of God. If Jesus has a theology, it is a “theology of humanism” — we love God through love of the humanity made in his image.