Blessed are . . .

Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.  Matthew 5:7 

I am not a very good Christian, but last week I was proud to be an Episcopalian.

If you have not seen Mariann Edgar Budde’s Inauguration Day homily at the National Cathedral, you can watch this short clip. At the nation’s traditional interfaith prayer service the Episcopal Bishop of Washington spoke directly to President Trump for only two minutes. She didn’t lecture him. She didn’t confront him. Speaking softly and from her heart, she asked only that he show mercy to those who are vulnerable and afraid. Her plea was not well received.

In my mind, there are, broadly speaking, two kinds of Christians: those who like people and those who don’t. This distinction is not new. On the one hand, there is the church of the Inquisition, formally known as the Holy Office for the Propagation of the Faith, which Pope Sixtus IV established in 1478 to stamp out heresy in Spain. Tomás de Torquemada, the priest he appointed Grand Inquisitor, was well versed in the techniques of torture, and during his 15-year tenure he burned an estimated 2,000 people at the stake. On the other hand, there is the tradition of Francis of Assisi, who ministered to lepers and preached to the birds, and who taught his followers that humans are members of – not masters over – the natural world. "Your God is of your flesh,” he preached. “He lives in your nearest neighbor, in every man."

Sadly, but not surprisingly, the Christian church, in all its denominations and manifestations, has been more Tomás than Francis. The Grand Inquisitor has dominated its history, and as a result, the church has done far more harm than good in the world. You can see its offspring today, in this country and elsewhere, in the guise of Christian Nationalism, which is little more than the theological arm of right-wing nationalist movements.

But for me, it is Saint Francis who is at the core of the gospel, and it is to him we turn for solace and for healing – and for the courage to face adversity. He points us, not to the Ten Commandments with all their “shalt nots” but to the Beatitudes with their “Blessed ares.” Jesus’ poetic sermon on the mount appeals to our inherent goodness, instead of our innate depravity.

It is here that the church has shined through the ages. It has borne witness to almost every liberation movement, from eastern Europe, where Catholic priests went underground to lead the struggle against totalitarian regimes, to Central America, where liberation theology was born. In the mid-20th century, in virtually every protest march against apartheid – whether in South Africa or in America – religious leaders were on the front lines.

I think of Dietrich Bonhoeffer, the German pastor whom the Nazis arrested for his outspoken resistance to the Holocaust and hanged less than a month before the end of the war in Europe. And of Martin Luther King, Jr., a Baptist minister who became the symbol of our own civil rights movement until he was assassinated in 1968. While all these people were committed to non-violence, they were forced to endure horrific violence from those whose authority they threatened.

Mariann Edgar Budde stands in this tradition of people who, in the name of mercy, stand up to power. Thank god.