Category: Kingdom season

From Bafflement to Delight

David Herbert1 Comment

and from one generation to another

Here’s a response to a pastoral question, inspired by reading Matthew 5:1-12 and, particularly, Revelation 7:9-end for All Saints Sunday in a rural Warwickshire church. John’s vision of the “multitude that no one could count” amazed him. I wonder whether it might help us move from bafflement to delight.

I’m going to begin with a question.
Our thinking often begins with a question’ doesn’t it?
Our Google search history is full of questions.

Who does my leg ache?
Is there a recipe for using green tomatoes?

For some questions there are no answers
from Google or anyone.

The question I begin with
was shared a few weeks ago.
This is my paraphrase of it.
Those of you heard it
may judge how accurate it is.

Maybe it was a couple of months ago,
Sue opened up in the notices
a question about her family,
a question she keeps asking herself,
a question close to her heart.

But she spoke of her family,
and their lack of engagement with the Church
and her sense of failure
that she’d not managed to bring them with her,
in spite of her best efforts and a lifetime of devotion.

At that moment it felt like Sue was naming the question of a generation,
the generation of us Babyboomers,
but a question that goes further back to the previous generation –
the so-called Silent Generation.

My paraphrase is this:

What happens when the faith we have lived by is not a faith our children can make their own?

On Thursday, I  heard the same question again,
from an old friend, Keith,
at the funeral of his son-in-law.
The funeral was led by a celebrant.
Keith was deeply disappointed.
He had hoped for something more,
something that spoke of the faith
which has been important to him.
And his disappointment brought him
to a much deeper question:
had he been a good enough witness?
Had he failed?

Two different people.
Two lifetime servants of the Church.
Serious Christians for whom this is a serious question.
Perhaps not just Sue’s question,
or Keith’s question,
but one many of us carry.
A question that comes in the dark.
Have we failed?
Have we done it wrong?,

Perhaps we need to put our question
in a longer history.

We sometimes talk as if the Church’s troubles
began with ourselves,
with  our children,
or with the swinging 60’s,
or the world we find ourselves in now.

But the story goes back further,
to the late 1920’s
to what historians call,
“a quiet demographic tipping point”
in the delayed shadow of the First World War.
The young adults of the 1930’s
were the children of the “lost Generation”,
growing up through the Great Depression,
with disruptive unemployment and poverty
and the breaking up of tight-knit communities.

And the Church was left anxious,
with its massive and expensive infrastructure,
wondering what would happen next.

And there were other things to do.
Cycling clubs were opening up,
the car was hitting the road,
the BBC was starting, and, as always,
there was the possibility of a lie in.

And some found ways
of enjoying God in their day-to-day,
in walking, in nature,
in their work of care,
beyond the walls of the church.

So we are not the first generation
to wonder what has happened
to the faith we hoped to pass on.
Nor the first to be baffled by it.

And perhaps bafflement is the word.
Not necessarily disappointment.
Not even a sense of failure.
But the puzzlement of not quite understanding
why something that has meant so much to us
doesn’t seem to mean the same to them.

My own children fall into that category,
though I don’t think I feel the question as keenly as Sue does.
But church doesn’t seem to figure in their lives.
They don’t go.
And it’s not clear what they believe.

But I trust them.
I love them.
I respect them.
And I’m inspired by them
and the spirit in which they live their lives.

And I know that is how Sue views her children.
She appreciates their values,
encourages their spiritual quest,
and is intrigued by the questions they are asking,
even as she wonders what they are missing.

I’m going to suggest we take our children out for coffee,
an imaginary Starbucks
and you become a fly on the wall
because the person they’re really meeting is Jesus

and Jesus listens to all that matters to our children.
He encourages them to talk.
One thing after another pours out of their mouths:

their work and why it matters
how they might do it better,
the beauty they’ve found around them,
and the weather – there’s always the weather –
all they’re doing for their families,
encouraging growing minds and bodies,
providing the taxi service,
their disillusionment with the powers that be,
their impatience with how the vulnerable are treated,
and their questions about God,

their sufferings and struggles

and Jesus just listens
as if he’s heard it all before
and he has – we know he has:
“He’s the one who told me everything I ever did”
as the Samaritan woman told the people in her village.

And he smiles at our children.

And he takes us by surprise.
We hear his words,
words so familiar to us,
but words we have never heard him address to our children.

He calls them blessed.
Over and over again we hear him say the word:
Blessed.
To the one in front of him,
our child, “blessed”.

Blessed are you for not being too proud to sit with me.
Blessed are you for grieving for the way things are,
and blessed are you for being gentle
and longing for wrongs to be righted.
and blessed are you for the purity
that goes to the very heart of you,
and for living to make peace,
and blessed are you who are
persecuted and ridiculed for who you are,
and blessed are you who are insulted,
enduring your ordeal with integrity,
with the faith, hope and love
which will be forever on your side,
like me,
who’ll never go away.
You are my beloved.


Of course,
some of our children
will have turned their back
on people Jesus loves.

Turned their backs on their neighbours,
on refugees and strangers,
on prisoners,
on the poor,

turned their backs on Jesus
using people
for their own selfish interests.

We mustn’t pretend otherwise.

But haven’t we heard Jesus
tell the story
of the son who turned his back
on his father?

And how the father watched for him,
and ran to meet him,
and welcomed him home?

The turning back matters.
But so does the welcome
that was waiting for him
as for all of us who turn back.

Is this then the picture
we need to have in mind?

The picture of the Father’s welcome,
and the imaginary picture
of Jesus with our children in Starbucks,

so that our bafflement
is consoled by celebration
of the way they are with Jesus.

Perhaps we need
to loosen our grip
on what we think faith should look like,
and on who we imagine
will be gathered into God’s kingdom.

Which brings us to John,
the writer of Revelation,
and the vision he was given.

When he looked
he saw a great multitude.

He didn’t know who they were.
He heard himself asking,
“Who are they all?”

And was told
that they were the ones
who had come through
the great tribulation,
who’d endured so much
in the ordeals of their lives.

There were so many,
a multitude no one could count.

And they ain’t all Jews.
Or Anglicans.
Or churchgoers.
Or even Christians.

They’re from every nation, tribe
people and language.

If we add our imagination to John’s
can we see our children there

amongst the multitude?

And if we can,
how does that leave us feeling?

Does it loosen something in us?
Does it allow us to breathe a little more freely?

We carry so much responsibility
for the faith we have received
and the faith we hope to pass on.

And the Church can add to that burden
with its suggestions
to try this, try that
to grow the church, reverse decline,
as if we’ve failed
as if there’s more we should have done.

John’s vision sees a multitude
no one can count,
In which every one does count.

He isn’t given a target to meet,
or a strategy to implement,
Or a list of people still missing.

He is given a vision
of a God whose welcome
is wider than he can imagine.

John is astonished by the crowd,
by their differences,
by just how many there are,
by the breadth of God’s gathering,
beyond anything he could count.

He shares that vision with his church
to help us to continue to be faithful
without believing that the whole weight
of God’s kingdom rests on our shoulders

and to help us love our children,
to honour the lives they are living,
to remain curious about their questions

and to love the world
in which we trust
God to be at work
in ways that astound us.

And it’s a vision
that invites us to imagine
our children
as part of the multitude
with Jesus
in Starbucks,
with a coffee,
at home in God’s delight.

Revelation 7:9-end
I looked, and there before me was a great multitude that no one could count, from every nation, tribe, people and language, standing before the throne and before the Lamb. They were wearing white robes and were holding palm branches in their hands. And they cried out in a loud voice:

‘Salvation belongs to our God,
who sits on the throne,
and to the Lamb.’

All the angels were standing round the throne and round the elders and the four living creatures. They fell down on their faces before the throne and worshipped God, saying:

‘Amen!
Praise and glory
and wisdom and thanks and honour
and power and strength
be to our God for ever and ever.
Amen!’

Then one of the elders asked me, ‘These in white robes – who are they, and where did they come from?’

I answered, ‘Sir, you know.’

And he said, ‘These are they who have come out of the great tribulation; they have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb. Therefore,
‘they are before the throne of God
and serve him day and night in his temple;
and he who sits on the throne
will shelter them with his presence.
“Never again will they hunger;
never again will they thirst.
The sun will not beat down on them,”
nor any scorching heat.
For the Lamb at the centre of the throne
will be their shepherd;
“he will lead them to springs of living water.”
“And God will wipe away every tear from
    their eyes.”’

Luke’s Last Surprise: One Condemned Man Joining Another as the First in Paradise

David HerbertLeave a comment

This Sunday marks the end of the Christian year.
Next Sunday we hop on the next liturgical cycle of readings – it will be Year A.
Each year focuses on a particular gospel. Next year it will be Matthew’s. This year it has been Luke’s.

When I began this preaching year, I wondered what Luke would offer us.
I wondered how he might inspire us, challenge us, lead us.
And now, at the end of the year, I find myself saying one thing above all: WOW.
Luke has surprised us. Luke has stretched us.
Luke has shown us the kingdom of God in places we would never have thought to look.

This Sunday is a WOW moment,
a hinge on which we hang our wonder,
before the new year opens again.
Next week we begin again,
not from cold, not from scratch,
but already warmed by hope,
already knowing what God’s kingdom looks like
in the dominion of darkness.

We will return to the manger
knowing now what Luke has shown us all year –
that God’s kingdom begins with the smallest,
with the least, with the last instead of the first,
in a vulnerable baby held by exhausted parents
on the edges of empire.

These are the readings (Colossians 1:11-20 and Luke 23:33-43) that crown our year.
And this is where Luke has been leading us all along:
not to a palace, but to the place of the skull,
Not to a gold throne, but to a wooden cross.
A king.
A sign nailed above his head.
And a thief beside him.
That’s the gospel picture.
That’s where Luke brings us when the year ends and we crown Christ our King.

Our other reading, from Colossians, may seem difficult at first –
until we recognise it as a hymn.
A hymn praising the God who rescues us from the dominion of darkness,
who strengthens us with endurance,
who qualifies us for the kingdom of his beloved Son –
the kingdom of light,
the kingdom where Christ is King.

Luke paints the scene.
It is the “dominion of darkness” (to use the phrase from Colossians).
The place is the place of the skull,
Death Row in the Dominion of Darkness:
there is the smell of death
and the overpowering smell
of cruelty, injustice and wrongdoing.
There are three crosses.
One is for Jesus, the others for two criminals crucified either side of him.

Luke gives them very different voices.
One sneers – placing him with those who mock, jeer and insult Jesus.
“He saved others, let him save himself if he is who he says he is.”
(In other words, he isn’t who he says he is.)
“Aren’t you the Messiah? Save yourself and us!”

The other criminal rebukes him, saying the two of them deserve their punishment.
Then he protests Jesus’ innocence. “This man has done nothing wrong.”
And in that moment he is just right.
He is right to defend the defenceless
against the forces which have conspired against Jesus.
“This man has done nothing wrong,”
and yet he is facing the same sentence, only worse,
because insult is added to injury.

Then he turns to Jesus.
“Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom”

This criminal is the first to defend Jesus publicly.
He is the first to take his stand with Jesus.
And Luke wants us to see him.
This figure.
This last, least, condemned man
who becomes the first to declare Jesus innocent
and the first to receive a royal promise.

He is the last person in the world you’d expect
to be the first to defend Jesus –
(we are led to believe that there is no honour amongst thieves),
but here he is in the picture of paradise – alongside Jesus.
The last becomes the first in paradise,
that kingdom of love –
a relationship, not a place.

And here – right here – you can almost see it happen:

And perhaps this is Luke’s final surprise for us:
that the first to enter paradise with the King is not a saint or a scholar or a faithful disciple,
 but a criminal who can offer Jesus nothing but honesty and trust.

He offers no record of virtue.
No proof of goodness.
No last-minute achievements.
He can’t even lift his hands in prayer.
All he can do is speak the truth —
about himself, about Jesus, about the kingdom.
And Jesus takes that truth, that tiny seed of faith,
and makes it bloom.

“Today you will be with me in paradise.”

And that paradise begins there,
in the dominion of darkness,
with a king crowned not with gold but with thorns,
and a wrongdoer who sees more clearly than anyone else.

The only crown Jesus could ever wear is a crown of thorns.
They’re the thorns of scorn, the barbs of bitterness.
They’re our failures, our wounds, our complicity,
our inability to rule even ourselves.

But the kingdom Luke has been showing us week after week
is a kingdom where the last come first,
the lost are found
and where the crucified King gathers in his arms
those the world’s unjust powers condemn.

This is the WOW moment.
Everything has led to this,
when the thorns begin to flower.
This is what Luke is intent on showing us.

His sequel, Acts,becomes the story
of the cross in bloom.
The frightened disciples become bold and generous.
The failures become witnesses.
A crippled beggar stands up and walks.
An Ethiopian outsider becomes the first fully Gentile convert.
A persecutor becomes an apostle.
Prisoners sing hymns; jailers are baptised;
enemies share bread.

Again and again the thorns flower.
Again and again the barren places bear fruit.
Again and again the last become first.

This is where the King of Love leads us:
into a rule of life that puts the last first
and sees thorns flower with grace.

All year long Luke has shown us a kingdom that grows in unlikely places,
and now at the last,
he shows us the unlikeliest place of all,
the place of the skull, Death Row.
Yet even here, if we look through Luke’s eyes,
Something ]begins to bloom.

At the place of the Skull grows the tree of life.
The crown of thorns flowers with grace.
The King of Love
and the convicted criminal
become the first couple in the new creation –
the first to walk the way of mercy,
the first to step into the garden of God’s future.

This is how the Christian year ends:
not with worldly triumph,
but with this strange, saving beauty –
a King who makes the last first,
who turns a place of execution into a place of promise,
who opens paradise to the least likely of all.

This is the kingdom of God and the gentle thorn-crowned rule of Jesus.

Luke 23:33-43

When they came to the place called the Skull, they crucified him there, along with the criminals – one on his right, the other on his left. Jesus said, ‘Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.’ And they divided up his clothes by casting lots.

The people stood watching, and the rulers even sneered at him. They said, ‘He saved others; let him save himself if he is God’s Messiah, the Chosen One.’

The soldiers also came up and mocked him. They offered him wine vinegar and said, ‘If you are the king of the Jews, save yourself.’

There was a written notice above him, which read: this is the king of the jews.

One of the criminals who hung there hurled insults at him: ‘Aren’t you the Messiah? Save yourself and us!’

But the other criminal rebuked him. ‘Don’t you fear God,’ he said, ‘since you are under the same sentence? We are punished justly, for we are getting what our deeds deserve. But this man has done nothing wrong.’

Then he said, ‘Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.’

Jesus answered him, ‘Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise.’

Hope Has Hooves: Keeping Faith When the World Feels Mean

David HerbertLeave a comment

This sermon was preached for the Second Sunday before Advent — sometimes called Kingdom Sunday, and this year also marked as Safeguarding Sunday.
It begins with the prophet Malachi’s vision of a day when “the sun of righteousness will rise with healing in its wings,” and when God’s people “will go out and frolic like well-fed calves.”
It’s a vivid, earthy picture of freedom — hope that doesn’t float above the world but thunders joyfully across it.
Hope, as it turns out, has hooves.

‘Surely the day is coming; it will burn like a furnace.
All the arrogant and every evildoer will be stubble,
and that day that is coming will set them on fire,’ says the Lord Almighty.
‘Not a root or a branch will be left to them.
But for you who revere my name,
the sun of righteousness will rise with healing in its rays.
And you will go out and frolic like well-fed calves.’ (Malachi 4:1-2a)

I thought I’d let Malachi do the talking this morning. 

He did his talking 450 years before Christ after the Jewish community had returned from exile.
They thought everything was going to be hunky-dory.
The Temple had been restored, the worship re-established,
and people hoped – and expected – that Israel would be great again.

But the glorious renewal never materialised. It rarely does.

The community Malachi is speaking to is one that had expected to be spared the ways of the arrogant and the evildoers.
Instead they found themselves small, struggling and disillusioned.
They are weary. They are disappointed. They’ve had enough.

And into that discouragement, Malachi tells them not to give up.

In my last parish we lived next door to a dairy farm.
The farmer knew how much we loved the moment when the cows were released into the fields after winter – those first few minutes when they leap and dance and frolic before settling down to graze away their days.
On our final day there, as a goodbye, he freed the cows (earlier than he normally would) just so we could watch them. A little gesture of joy and encouragement.

Watch the moment when these animals are released and leap into life.
This is the kind of hope we’re talking about — wild, earthy, triumphant (From the Funky Farmer)

That’s the image Malachi gives us: “You will go out and frolic like well-fed calves.”
Imagine that, he implies.
Feel it.
Let that joy into your bones.

The day is coming,
the day to end all days,
the day we’ve prayed for,
the end of wrongdoing, the end of misery, the end of oppression,
the end of the arrogant, the end of the evildoer.

But between the promise and its fulfilment, they still had to live through some very tough times indeed.
They still lived between a rock and a hard place.

He’s speaking to a community who’ve given up waiting for times to change,
who’ve lost hope.
And he may as well be speaking to us.

Things haven’t changed that much. His times are still our times.
The arrogant and the evildoers still seem to carry the day,
and we too can feel like a struggling and disillusioned generation.
We get weary. We get disappointed.

This is one of the readings appointed for today.
And its words speak, with beautiful conciseness and clarity, of the day we all pray for –
the day when everything broken will finally be set right.

And what Malachi offers is not a vague or floaty hope.
Not a “pie in the sky when you die” kind of hope.
Not the sort of hope that shrugs and says,
“Well, it won’t happen in my lifetime—maybe someday, somewhere else.”

No.
Malachi’s hope is earthed.
It has muscle and movement.
It has sun-warmed skin and strong legs.
It leaps. It runs. It frolics.

Hope, in Malachi’s vision, is not an idea.
It’s an animal set free.

Hope has hooves.

And because hope has hooves, it doesn’t wait politely for the world to improve.
It doesn’t sit still until things get better.
It doesn’t retreat into a dream or escape into the clouds.

Hope is not about leaving this world behind;
it’s about this world being set right.

The freedom Malachi imagines does not happen “up there” or “somewhere else”
but here—in the fields of our own lives,
in the soil beneath our feet,
in the communities that have grown tired and heavy with disappointment.

Hope is grounded.
Hope is embodied.
Hope is movement.

And that is why those who have given up hope
so often spiritualise it, soften it, postpone it.
They make it so distant that it no longer touches the earth.
They reduce it to wishful thinking or to a future reward
instead of a promise that breaks into the present.

But real biblical hope always has dirt on its feet.
It always has skin in the game.
It always demands something of us.

It is a hope with hooves—
a hope that will not stand still
because God will not stand still.

And so we pray for that day.
Every time we say the Lord’s Prayer — “your kingdom come” — we are praying Malachi’s prayer.
We’re praying for the day when wrong is ended, when justice rises,
when the oppressed stand tall,
when the broken are made whole,
when healing breaks out like sunlight over a cold field.

But praying for that day is not passive.
It is not waiting-room spirituality.
It is preparation.
It is participation.
It is permission for God to rearrange our lives as well as the world.

Paul, writing to the Thessalonians, puts it plainly:
“Never tire of doing good.”

Never tire.
Not when we get weary.
Not when hope feels heavy.
Not when the world seems to resist every effort toward kindness, justice, truth.

Because if hope has hooves, we need to keep ours moving.

Doing good is not an extra.
It is not the garnish on Christian faith.
It is the shape of hope lived out.
It is the daily, steady work of aligning our lives with the world God is bringing into being.

And Jesus, in the Gospel reading, speaks of upheaval—
nations in uproar,
wars and rumours of wars,
the ground trembling beneath our certainties.

But then he says something deeply strengthening:
“Do not be afraid.”

Not because everything is fine — it isn’t.
Not because everything will suddenly get better — it may not.
But because God is with us in the meantime,
and it is precisely in these mean times
that our hope matters most.

The world being turned the right way up is bound to be unsettling.
Those who profit from cruelty won’t like it.
Those who cling to power will resist it.
Those who prefer darkness will fear the light.

But discipleship has always been lived with courage.
Courage to do good when others give up.
Courage to tell the truth when lying is easier.
Courage to protect the vulnerable when it costs something.
Courage to embody hope when cynicism is fashionable.

And that brings us to Safeguarding Sunday.

We haven’t mentioned it until now —
and that’s intentional —
because safeguarding isn’t a special theme for one Sunday,
or a box to tick,
or a duty we dust off once a year.

Safeguarding is simply hope in practice.
It is the grounded hope Malachi speaks of,
the persevering hope Paul commends,
the courageous hope Jesus prepares us for.

Safeguarding says:
in this community,
in this place,
every person matters.
The vulnerable are protected.
The wounded are listened to.
The frightened are safe.
This is a place where harm is named, not hidden,
and where healing is made possible.

Safeguarding is part of the way we pray “your kingdom come.”
It is part of the way we “never tire of doing good.”
It is part of the way we “do not be afraid.”

It is hope with hooves —
hope that moves,
hope that watches over,
hope that makes room,
hope that keeps all God’s people safe
until that promised day dawns
and we go out and frolic like well-fed calves.

So today we keep our hope alive,
we keep our feet moving,
and we keep one another safe.

Hope doesn’t just have feathers,
as Emily Dickinson writes in her poetry.
Hope has hooves.

The calling of God’s people in every generation
is to keep faith in these mean times,
to never give up hope in these mean times,
to never stop loving in these mean times.
These are the things we need to keep going forever,
faith, hope and love,
until the day comes which sees the end of the arrogant and the evildoer,
the day the sun of righteousness will rise
with healing in its wings.

Until then, we keep faith.
We keep hope.
We keep love.

Our call is to live for that day.

The stolen blessing: giving the word back to the poor

David HerbertLeave a comment

When the rich say they’re “feeling blessed”, the poor lose a word that was meant for them. Here I take my stand as a preacher – outraged and hopeful that the word “blessed” might yet be given back to those Jesus called “blessed”. It’s All Saints Sunday. I’m at Napton in Warwickshire.

In Luke 6, Jesus stands among the poor, the hungry, the grieving, and the hated — and he calls them blessed. He doesn’t bless success or security; he blesses need, honesty, and hope.
This sermon began with a niggle about that phrase, “feeling blessed,” and grew into outrage that such a word — once full of mercy — has been stolen by privilege.
Here’s my attempt to give it back to Jesus, and to those he named as saints.

Last Sunday I said this, and it’s niggled me ever since:

It strikes me that the Pharisee, in his way,
is saying what we so often hear today —
“I’m feeling blessed.”
Blessed that life’s gone well,
blessed that I’m not struggling,
blessed that I’m not like those who’ve fallen on hard times.

But the tax collector doesn’t say that.
He doesn’t feel blessed —
he only feels the weight of mercy.
And yet he’s the one who goes home justified,
seen, forgiven, restored.
Maybe that’s what blessing really looks like —
not success, but mercy meeting us
when we’ve nothing left to boast about.

Having heard this back in conversation with Angie,
I don’t think I was quite right.
It is true that it bugs me when I hear the phrase “feeling blessed”,
or when I see it as a caption on social media
under someone’s post showing how well life is going.
But I want to dig a bit deeper into this.

Angie was telling me about a conversation she’d had,
and that she left that conversation “feeling blessed.”
That seemed an entirely appropriate thing to say,
because the person she’d spoken to had truly blessed her.
He’d listened, encouraged, lifted her.
Perhaps all of us have had moments like that —
moments when the poverty of our nature is met by grace,
when we’ve made ourselves vulnerable,
when we’ve needed help, to be heard, to be understood —
and someone has met us there with words or deeds
that feel like they’ve come straight from the heart of heaven.
Then, yes — we can say we’ve been blessed.

The story of the Pharisee and the tax collector
was the context for what I said last week.
The Pharisee put me in mind of those who say “feeling blessed,”
because when he prayed, he thanked God
that he wasn’t like other people —
robbers, evildoers, adulterers.
Jesus, in effect, posted on social media
a snapshot of the Pharisee “feeling blessed” —
“me tithing,” “me fasting,” “me succeeding.”
But the Pharisee wasn’t blessed by God.
The one blessed by God was the tax collector
who prayed in shame and hope —
“God, be merciful to me, a sinner.”

So, those social media posts captioned “feeling blessed” —
what’s wrong with them is that they can seem boastful and proud.
They often show an exotic holiday, a trophy spouse, an obedient child.
It’s blessing as a lifestyle accessory.

But maybe there’s something deeper going on.
Maybe the word itself has been stolen.

Somewhere along the way, the word blessed slipped its moorings.
In the early Church, to be blessed was to be close to Christ in suffering —
to be touched by mercy in the midst of need.
By the Middle Ages, blessing had become
the Church’s way of naming holiness —
attached to the saints, the sacraments, the sacred.
Then, in the modern world —
especially in the language of empire, commerce, and the prosperity gospel —
blessing became confused with success.
 The word that once described God’s nearness to the poor
was slowly recruited to congratulate the comfortable.
It drifted from the margins to the centre,
from the hungry to the well-fed,
from the grieving to the gratified.
And that’s why we need to give the word back —
to let it find its way home to mercy again.

[Four readers speak these “impact statements,” one by one — slowly and simply.]

1. I used to think I was blessed — until my job disappeared.
 Now I know what it feels like to be forgotten while others boast of favour.

2. I pray for food and work and a home for my children,
 while my feed is full of people posting pictures of dinners and holidays,
 captioned “feeling blessed.”
 It feels like the word was never meant for me.

3. I came here from another country,
 fleeing violence and fear.
 They call me an asylum seeker,
 but I’m seeking only safety, belonging,
 a place where I might be seen as blessed too.

4. I live with grief every day.
 People avoid me because my sadness unsettles them.
 But if Jesus is to be believed,
 it’s people like me who are blessed —
 the ones who weep now, and will laugh again someday.

Because when Jesus opens his mouth to bless,
he doesn’t bless the powerful.
He blesses the poor, the hungry, the weeping, the hated.

Blessed are you who are poor,
for yours is the kingdom of God.

Blessed are you who hunger now,
for you will be filled.

Blessed are you who weep now,
for you will laugh.

Blessed are you when people hate you,
when they exclude you, insult you, reject your name as evil.

But woe to you who are rich…
woe to you who are well fed now…
woe to you who laugh now…

This is the same train of thought that sees the tax collector blessed
and the Pharisee left outside the circle of mercy.

When those who are rich, those who are well fed,
those who are having such a good time,
those receiving yet another honour —
when they say, like the Pharisee, “I’m feeling blessed,”
they are really rubbing salt into the wounds of the world.
What they should be saying is “I’m lucky,” not “blessed.”

Because it is the penitent sinner who is blessed.
It is the poor who are blessed because the kingdom of God works for them.
It is the hungry who are blessed — as in the feeding of the five thousand.
It is the heartbroken who are blessed.
It is the hated who are blessed —
the excluded, the insulted, the rejected,
the refugee and the asylum seeker.
They come first in the kingdom of God.

Please note: these are the only people Jesus calls blessed.

The proud, the self-satisfied, those who look good in their own eyes —
they should just count themselves lucky.
They put themselves first, better than all the rest —
but they come last in the kingdom of God,
because they give blessing a bad name.
They confuse blessing with comfort,
they preach a distorted prosperity gospel,
and in doing so they deprive the poor, the hungry, the heartbroken, and the hated
of the blessing that is rightfully theirs.
They exclude them, insult them,
and reject them from the realm of blessing,
pretending that the blessing is theirs alone.

So, today — on All Saints Sunday —
we remember not those who had it easy,
but those who kept faith when life was hard.
The saints are those who lived the Beatitudes —
the ones who gave the word blessed its meaning back
by how they lived.

And maybe that’s our calling too —
to speak and live in such a way
that the poor hear again that they are blessed,
that the hungry are satisfied,
that the grieving are comforted,
that the hated and the displaced are received as beloved.To give the word blessed back to Jesus —
and to those he never stopped blessing.

Luke 6:20-31
Looking at his disciples, Jesus said:
‘Blessed are you who are poor,
    for yours is the kingdom of God.
Blessed are you who hunger now,
    for you will be satisfied.
Blessed are you who weep now,
    for you will laugh.
Blessed are you when people hate you,
    when they exclude you and insult you
    and reject your name as evil,
        because of the Son of Man.

‘Rejoice in that day and leap for joy, because great is your reward in heaven. For that is how their ancestors treated the prophets.

‘But woe to you who are rich,
    for you have already received your comfort.
Woe to you who are well fed now,
    for you will go hungry.
Woe to you who laugh now,
    for you will mourn and weep.
Woe to you when everyone speaks well of you,
    for that is how their ancestors treated the false prophets.

‘But to you who are listening I say: love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who ill-treat you. If someone slaps you on one cheek, turn to them the other also. If someone takes your coat, do not withhold your shirt from them. Give to everyone who asks you, and if anyone takes what belongs to you, do not demand it back. Do to others as you would have them do to you.