Even on slower days, working in the hospital was an exercise in the unexpected. When we weren’t running from crisis to crisis, the other chaplains and I would logon to the “spiritual consult” list and start our rounds. These were the patients or patients’ families who requested spiritual support, so we would go around, check in on people and see how we could help. Simple enough, but then our list also included room precautions we had to follow. There was:
Contact Precautions, which just meant we had to wear gloves into the room. We rarely had much physical contact with patients, so no big deal. Then there were Droplet Precautions. That meant gloves and a mask… and to keep your distance to avoid getting sneezed on. And finally, Airborne Precautions. This meant gloves, mask, gown, goggles… the works. Especially during Covid. We did this all the time, so it felt normal. But sometimes—typically in a room with a desperately sick patient—I would have the sudden realization that the only thing standing between me and a life-threatening disease was a thin layer of latex and a paper mask. This protective equipment is remarkably effective; it does its job well, but sometimes in those spaces I still felt vulnerable; exposed to things that could cause great harm. The thin layer of protection didn’t feel like enough. It WAS enough. Hospital protective equipment works, and when I felt most vulnerable, I tried to reflect on the countless times I experienced the truth of that firsthand. Not to mention the thousands of people around me who experienced this same truth every day.
Some days my faith is strong. I feel confident in proclamations like, “No weapon formed against me shall prosper.” But other days I feel exposed. I feel vulnerable. My faith feels thin; like I’m holding onto something that used to make sense but now just feels fragile. And the surrounding voices—some of them claiming to speak for God—are so loud, so certain, so sure that blessing looks like power and success and being on the winning side. I struggle, and I wonder if my thin layer of faith is enough to keep the threats at bay. Honestly, that’s how I’ve felt the last few weeks. Every morning I wake up, wondering what the next terrible headline will be? Who will be the next person harmed, left out, kicked out, beat down, excluded, villainized, forgotten? I typically have a pretty positive outlook on life, but lately there have been days when it’s tough to hold on to hope. Plus, it’s cold outside. That’s like a rotten cherry on top of a dumpster fire sundae.
And then I look at the first word in Jesus’ famous sermon. “Blessed.” Like those who first heard him speak this word on the hillside, I expect this word, “blessed” to be followed by a description of people whose lives look nothing like mine. People who have endless resources, good looks, perfect houses, and families. Or I expect Jesus to follow this word, “blessed,” with instructions or requirements for how I can achieve blessing. But that’s not what happens. Jesus starts with the wounded. And he called them blessed. He calls us blessed. He calls me… blessed.
But what does that word even mean? “Blessed.”
Because if we’re honest, we’ve gotten confused about it. Somewhere along the way, “blessed” became a hashtag. A humble brag. A way to show off the new car, the perfect vacation, the promotion. #Blessed became code for “look how good I have it.”
Or worse—”blessed” became a weapon. A way to say, “God loves me more than God loves you. I’m on the winning team. I’ve got it figured out.”
But that’s not what Jesus means.
When Jesus says “blessed,” he’s not talking about circumstances. He’s not saying, “You’ve earned this.” He’s not congratulating anyone for having their life together.
Blessed is God’s verdict on your belovedness—regardless of what’s happening around you or to you.
It’s not a reward. It’s not conditional. It’s not something you achieve.
It’s who you are because of whose you are.
So when Jesus sits down on that hillside and starts listing people—the grieving, the hungry, the persecuted, the ones the world dismisses—he’s not giving them a to-do list. He’s giving them assurance of their identity.
He’s saying: Even here. Especially here, you are beloved. You are seen. You belong to God. And nothing—not your suffering, not your doubt, not the voices telling you you’re not enough—nothing can change that.
Blessed are the poor in spirit…
Blessed are those who mourn…
Blessed are the meek…
Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness…
Blessed are the merciful…
Blessed are the pure in heart…
Blessed are the peacemakers…
Blessed are those who are persecuted.
And I’m reminded that even the thin layer of my faith is more than enough, because God’s faithfulness never fails. God’s blessing remains steady. Too often I forget this when my faith feels thin. So I need a reminder. I need to hear the contrast between #blessed and the blessing of a God who meets us in our mess.
The prosperity gospel says you’re blessed when life is easy. Jesus says we’re blessed when we mourn. Christian Nationalism says you’re blessed when you’re powerful. Jesus says we’re blessed when we’re meek. The world says blessing looks like winning. Jesus says blessing looks like peacemaking—even when it costs us something.
Sometimes I’m convinced my faith has to be thick, bulletproof, unshakeable. But Jesus isn’t asking for that. He’s just asking me to show up—thin faith and all—because God’s faithfulness is what holds.
But how do we know this is true? How do we know this isn’t just wishful thinking or pretty words to make us feel better?
Well, it starts on a hill outside Jerusalem.
Jesus didn’t just talk about blessing the wounded—he became one of the wounded. He was betrayed, abandoned, and killed. And in that moment—by the world’s standards, weak and vulnerable—people looked at him and said, ‘If you were really blessed, this wouldn’t be happening to you.’ #loser
But God flipped all that upside down. God raised Jesus from the dead saying, ‘Even here. Especially here. Death doesn’t get the final word. Suffering doesn’t disqualify you from my love. The tomb is not the end.’
The resurrection is the boldest declaration of God’s verdict: Love wins. Grace holds. Nothing—not even death—can separate you from God’s blessing and God’s love.
When your faith is thin and you are the poor in spirit, you are blessed, and yours is the kingdom of heaven.
When you are up to your neck in grief… when you mourn, you are blessed and you will be comforted.
When your voice is drowned out by the shouting and the noise of this world… when you are meek, you are blessed, and you will inherit the earth.
When you see and experience injustice… when you hunger and thirst for righteousness, you are blessed and you will be filled.
When you offer compassion and grace instead of reciprocating violence and hate… when you are merciful, you are blessed, and you will receive mercy.
When you cling to LOVE while people in positions of power paint a picture of a violent and vengeful God… when you are pure in heart, you are blessed, and you will see God.
When you strive for God’s way of justice and peace… when you stand among the peacemakers, you are blessed and are called children of God.
When the opposition holds you down with words, policies, systems and lies… when you are persecuted for the sake of righteousness, you are blessed and yours is the kingdom of heaven
None of this is easy. Things don’t always resolve in nice, neat little packages. But because God has already walked through the worst and come out the other side, we can trust in God’s promise to do the same for us.
So what does it look like to actually believe this? To live like this is true? What does this look like in real life?
It looks like showing up even when your faith feels thin. You don’t wait until you feel strong enough or certain enough. You come to worship, you pray—even when the words feel empty—because God’s faithfulness holds you, not the other way around.
It looks like extending grace to yourself. You stop measuring your worth by how put-together you are, how strong your faith feels, or how well you’re holding up under pressure. You remember: you are blessed not because of what you do, but because of whose you are.
And it looks like seeing other people the way Jesus sees them. When the world dismisses the grieving, the struggling, the ones on the margins—you see them as blessed. As beloved. As worthy of dignity and care. You show up for the wounded because that’s where Jesus is.
And when you hear voices—even religious ones—claiming that God only blesses the powerful, the winners, the ones who look like they have it all together, you push back. Gently but firmly. Because that’s not the God we see in Jesus.
I think about those hospital rooms again. The ones where I felt most exposed, most vulnerable. Walking in with nothing but a thin layer of protection between me and real danger.
And I realize now—I was never walking in there alone. God was already present in that room. Already holding the patient. Already holding me. The thin layer wasn’t all I had; the fullness of God’s presence was there too. And the fullness of God’s presence goes before us and travels with us wherever we go.
Maybe that’s what Jesus is saying on that hillside. We don’t have to be strong enough on our own. We don’t have to have it all figured out. Our faith doesn’t have to be bulletproof.
We just show up—thin faith and all—even as we are still learning to trust that God’s presence is already there, holding everything we can’t.
God of thin faith and thick grace, we come to you just as we are—weary, wounded, wondering if we’re enough.
Meet us here. Hold us close.
For those of us whose faith feels fragile, who wake up to headlines that break our hearts, who wonder if hope is naive—
Meet us here. Hold us close.
For those who are grieving, who carry losses no one else can see, who are learning to breathe through the ache—
Meet us here. Hold us close.
For those who are working for peace, who refuse to return hate for hate, who choose mercy when the world demands vengeance—
Meet us here. Hold us close.
For those who feel overlooked, dismissed, pushed to the margins, told they don’t belong—
Meet us here. Hold us close.
Remind us, O God, that blessing is not something we earn but something you speak over us, again and again and again.
Help us trust that even our thinnest faith is held by your endless love.
And when we leave this place, send us out to see the world the way you do—noticing the wounded, blessing the struggling, reflecting your love for all people.
Meet us here. Hold us close.
In the name of Jesus, who blesses us still,
Amen.