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“Blessed Are You”

Matthew 5:1-12

February 1, 2026

Rev. Rebecca DePoe

We all woke up on Monday morning to the news that Pittsburgh had received 11.2 inches of snow. While we were grateful we didn’t lose electricity or heat like some of our siblings in the South did. We looked out our windows to see that everything we used to rely on- roads, schedules, routines- just… stopped working.

No one could get anywhere until their streets were plowed. And once our streets were plowed. It took hours to dig our cars out of the snow piled on them by the snowplows. All our carefully laid and communicated plans were canceled. And the people who are usually the most prepared, weren’t necessarily the ones who fared the best.

But something else happened, too.

The world got quieter.

The usual rush of Monday mornings slowed down. School was canceled. Employees were told to work remotely. We shifted our expectations for the day. And we were reminded- whether we wanted to be or not- of how much of our lives exist outside of our control.

Snow has a way of revealing that. It levels things out. It exposes our limits. And sometimes, it gently invites us to receive help we didn’t plan on needing.

When Jesus sees the crowds in Matthew’s Gospel, he doesn’t begin by telling them how to fix their lives or get things back on track. He sits down and he starts speaking of blessings. Not to the people who have it all figured out- but to those who know their limits. To the poor in spirit. To those who mourn. To the hungry. To the weary. And the blessing he offers is surprisingly simple: Blessed are you.

When Jesus begins to speak in Matthew’s Gospel, he doesn’t raise his voice or issue commands. He simply sits down and names a quiet reversal of the world as we usually understand it. He looks out at a crowd made up of ordinary, tired, uncertain people and calls blessed the very ones who rarely feel that way.

He blesses the poor in spirit, the grieving, the gentle, the hungry- people who are not usually known for being impressive. In doing so, Jesus reveals that God’s kingdom does not belong first to the strong or the self-sufficient, but to those who know their need. This is not a loud overturning of values, but a gentle one, and it tells the truth about how God’s grace actually works.

And I think it matters that Jesus says these words out loud, in public, to people who may never have heard themselves described as blessed before. Because many of the people listening to him had likely internalized the opposite message- that their hardship meant failure, that their grief meant weakness, that their hunger meant they were doing something wrong. Jesus does not correct their circumstances, but he does correct the story they have been telling themselves about what those circumstances mean. He names them as people whom God sees, God values, and God draws near to. The naming itself is an act of mercy.

What makes this teaching difficult is that Jesus uses a word we think we already understand. When we hear the word “blessed,” we often think of comfort, stability or success. But that is not what Jesus is describing. The blessing he names is not a reward for getting life right; it is the assurance of God’s nearness when life is hard. To be blessed, in Jesus’ teaching, is not to be spared from struggle, but to be seen and held by God in the midst of it.

This is where the Beatitudes push back on some of our instincts. Because many of us have learned- explicitly or implicitly- that blessing is something we earn. If we work hard enough, believe strongly enough, make good enough choices, then blessing will follow. But Jesus does not say, “Blessed are those who have figured it out.” He says, “Blessed are those who know they haven’t.” He does not say, “Blessed are the ones who are emotionally together.” He says, “Blessed are those who mourn.” The Beatitudes are not aspirational traits; they are honest descriptions of human life as it actually is.

And to be clear, Jesus is not romanticizing suffering. He is not calling poverty, grief, or injustice good. He is naming where God chooses to show up. The blessing Jesus speaks does not deny reality; it meets us honestly within it and declares that God has not abandoned us there. It tells the truth that many of us are afraid to say out loud: that sometimes faith looks less like confidence and more like showing up with empty hands.

That matters because many of us carry quiet shame about the places where our lives feel thin or unfinished. We assume those places disqualify us. We assume the are evidence that we are falling behind or falling short. But Jesus looks directly at those places and says, “This is exactly where God’s kingdom comes close.” Not after you fix it. Not once you’re stronger. Right here.

That is why these words belong so naturally alongside the table we will gather around today. Because like the blessing Jesus speaks, communion is not something we achieve or deserve. It is something we receive. We do not come to this table because we are spiritually strong or because our faith is complete. We come because we are hungry, because we are weary, because we need grace. The table does not ask us to prove anything. It simply offers us Christ.

Just as the snow forced us to let go of our usual striving and control, the table invites us to stop trying to prove ourselves and simply receive what Christ freely gives. Jesus does not say, “Blessed are you if you have it all together.” He says, “Blessed are you,” and that blessing is not a feeling or a fleeting moment- it is a promise. A promise that God’s kingdom is closer than we think, and that grace is already moving toward us.

So hear the goods news at the heart of Jesus’ words: blessing is not something you earn; it is something you receive. The snow slowed us down enough to remind us of our limits. The Beatitudes name those limits and call them blessed. And the table we are about to gather around meets us right there- not asking us to be more than we are.

Jesus looks at us in our hunger, our grief, our longing and says, Blessed are you. Then he does the most ordinary and holy thing of all: he breaks bread, pours the cup, and gives himself to us. Here at the table is where the blessing becomes real.

Thanks be to God,

In Jesus’ name,

Amen.