Jesus Never Said, ‘Blessed Are the Righteous’

They told us it was just like walking up a wheelchair ramp.

Well, two hours later, in pitch darkness, I lagged behind the rest of my group, wondering why this seemed easier for everyone else. Every step forward got harder and harder. I had not prepared well for this.

They told us that it was easier to climb Mount Sinai (Jabal Musa) in Egypt on foot than to take a camel. Climbers can take one of two paths: the “Steps of Repentance,” a steep 3,750-step climb carved into the mountain by monks, and the “Camel’s Path,” a wide, winding slope that climbers share with camels. Both paths meet at a rest area before the final 750-step climb to the summit. I joined my church’s group for the climb, excited to be walking where Moses had walked to meet with God and receive the Law. We took the Camel’s Path and began at night so that we could see the sun rise at the top of the mountain and descend before the sun’s heat battered the mountainside.

I struggled to make it to the final rest area before the last 750 steps. Inwardly ashamed, I stayed at the rest area with a few members of my group while the others journeyed to the summit. Most of those who stayed behind were much older than I and had knee problems, but one of them was a friend my age. As the rest of the group went up the stairs, she burst into tears. I turned to comfort her, thinking she was ashamed, like me, that she could not reach the top.

“I’m so happy,” she said, between sobs. “This is my first time to ever climb a mountain! I did it!”

I swallowed my shame. In comparing my physical fitness to that of others, I had forgotten that this was my first climb, too. Even more importantly, I had almost forgotten that I was still sitting where Moses sat, where he might have even rested during his many days on this mountain. I thanked God for my friend’s perspective. Turning with her, we watched the sun rise in silence.

Unless we go back and try it again, we’ll never know how it looked at the summit. But we know how it looked right there, and the sunrise still took my breath away.

I did not take up mountain climbing after that trip, and I have never gone back to Mount Sinai to try the climb again with more preparation. There are those who relish the hard work of mountain-climbing, the thrill of reaching the summit. I’m just not one of them. I prefer viewing mountains from afar, far enough to see their tops, and close enough to sense their majesty. Thankfully, sunrises can be enjoyed at almost any altitude.

I much prefer walking to climbing. And in many ways, our spiritual lives can be likened to a walk. But along that walk sometimes there are hills, and sometimes mountains. And unlike the mountaintops we can reach by car, ski lift, or gondola, these spiritual mountains are the ones we must climb ourselves, like it or not.

Great Lent for me is one such mountain. Unlike physical mountains, Great Lent is a mountain I must climb as a Christian. I’ll be honest — I often look towards the Great Lent climb with an impending sense of fatigue. I’d rather just skip to the Resurrection. I know this is a spiritual weakness on my part. Perhaps this is why the first book I wrote focused on the joy of the Resurrection, and the one spiritual practice I did not include was fasting.

The fact is, we do a lot of fasting, especially in Orthodox Christianity — which I practice. All that fasting is for good reason. The church knows that most of us are not seasoned mountain climbers, and the church also knows that the safest mountain-climbing is done in groups. So, we fast together, with Lent arguably the most important fast of the year. Lent is a communal fast, a period when almost all Christians have decided to enter into a spiritual struggle. And, just as with climbing Mount Sinai in a group, we climb that spiritual mountain together.

Mountains hold a special place in Scripture — indeed, in all ancient Near Eastern religions. The idea of mountains as holy places seems ingrained in our human psyche. Mountains draw our eyes heavenward; their height, their majesty, their danger give us a glimpse of transcendence. Even as their summits seem out of reach, they paradoxically symbolize the nearness of God. “The elevation of mountains, as a geographical feature, qualified them to be a place of meeting between God the most high and His people on earth,” Fr. Morcos Daoud writes. Hence, Moses would receive the law on Mount Sinai, he would view the Promised Land on Mount Nebo, and the temple where the Israelites worshiped would be built on Mount Zion.

Our Lord Jesus Christ could often be found on a mountain. He went to a mountain to pray, to seek solitude from the crowds. He fasted and prayed for 40 days and 40 nights on the mountain where the devil tempted him. He met Moses and Elijah on Mount Tabor and was transfigured before his disciples. His most famous sermon is the Sermon on the Mount.

On that mountain, the Lord taught us what it means to be blessed. Matthew uses makarios for the word “blessed,” and although, loosely translated, this word means “happy,” its root goes much deeper. Orthodox author and peace activist Jim Forest writes that makar in classical Greek is related to the gods, to immortality. “In Christian use, makarios came increasingly to mean sharing in the life of God.” The poor in spirit, those who mourn, the pure in heart, the peacemakers, the meek, the merciful, those who hunger and thirst for righteousness — all who embody these qualities share in the life of God.

We might believe that like Moses, we will meet our Lord Jesus only if we make it to the top of the mountain, the heights of spirituality, the top of the ladder of divine ascent, and so on. The beauty of Lent, however, is that we don’t need to wait until we reach the top. During Lent, Jesus climbs this mountain with us — just as he did in Matthew 5. He didn’t fly to the mountain, despite having angels at his beck and call. He went up on the mountain with his own two feet.

During my first year of motherhood, I spent many hours alone at home with my firstborn. As much I treasured those days with him, I also often felt a crushing loneliness. I had just moved — twice. Once across the Atlantic to my parents’ house, and once again into an apartment of our own. I was adjusting to new motherhood right as my husband was adjusting to his new role as a Coptic Orthodox priest.

Our apartment had a large balcony window, and from the 16th floor I had a view of the hills far beyond our street. Those hills became a comfort in my loneliness. Whenever I looked at them, Psalm 121 would come to my mind: “I will lift up my eyes to the hills — From whence comes my help? My help comes from the Lord, Who made heaven and earth.” The hills stood far away, yet I could see them. Help from the Lord would come.

On that mountain in Matthew 5, Jesus said, “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be filled.” He did not say, “Blessed are those who are righteous.” He said, Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for it. This is all he asks. He asks us only to desire righteousness, and he will fill us. He will fill us because Jesus Christ himself is righteousness, and all he asks is that we desire him. All we need to do is turn our eyes to the mountains. Our help will come from the Lord.

This article was excerpted from Hunger for Righteousness by Phoebe Farag Mikhail. Copyright: Phoebe Farag Mikhail. Used with permission by Paraclete Press.