03.02.2026
Saint Francis
Pr. Christian Jennert
Fourth Sunday after Epiphany (Year A)
February 1, 2026
Isaiah 9:1-4 Psalm 15 1 Corinthians 1:10-8 Matthew 1:1-12
How do you know that you are blessed?
Our culture has plenty of answers ready. We are told we are blessed if our bank accounts are healthy, if our bodies cooperate, if our work feels meaningful, if our relationships are stable and fulfilling. Social media has trained us to display blessing as good fortune -- something achieved, earned, or admired.
And many of those things are good. Health, meaningful work, loving relationships -- these are gifts. But Jesus, standing on a hillside, speaks a very different word.
When he sees the crowds gathering, people hungry to understand what God's reign looks like, he opens his mouth and offers eight surprising statements of blessing. We call them the Beatitudes. And from the very first word, Jesus turns our assumptions upside down.
"Blessed are . . ."
Not blessed will be.
Not blessed were.
Not blessed should be.
Jesus speaks in the present tense.
Blessing, he says, is not a reward waiting at the end of faithful endurance. It is not consolation for later. Blessing is already being spoken -- right in the middle of lives that are complicated, fragile, and unfinished.
Jesus reminds us that blessedness is not the goal of faith; it is the starting point. Before we do anything. Before we get it right. Before the circumstances of our lives define us.
We are blessed.
That word -- blessed -- names our primary identity in God. We are loved and favored, not because of our strength, our clarity, our success, or our piety, but because God has drawn near in Jesus.
And perhaps most surprisingly, Jesus locates blessing precisely where we would least expect it: among the poor in spirit, the grieving, the meek, those longing for justice, the merciful, the peacemakers, the persecuted.
These are not virtues to be achieved. They are realities people are already living.
Matthew's community would have understood this deeply. The early followers of Jesus lived under suspicin and pressure. Their faith set them at odds with the dominant powers of the Roman world. Some worshiped quietly. Others suffered openly. To hear that they were blessed -- already, now -- was not sentimental comfort. It was spiritual sustenance.
It was courage.
Whenever the world pronounces condemnation, God declares, "Blessed."
Whenever the world excludes, God welcomes.
Whenever the world wounds, God promises life that cannot be taken away.
This week, that promise feels close to home.
In Minneapolis, a community is still grieving after violent and deeply troubling events involving immigration enforcement. Faith leaders, families, and neighbors are wrestling with fear, anger, and profound moral questions. These are not abstract issues. They touch real people, real bodies, real families -- peple longing for dignity, safety, and belonging.
Into monents like these, Jesus does not offer explanations. He offers presence. And he speaks blessing, not as a denial of pain, but as resistance to despair.
"Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness," Jesus says.
The Greek word Matthew uses, dikaosynē, can also be translated as justice, or giving each their fair share. This is not private morality; this is communal faithfulness. As theologian Karoline Lewis notes, the Beatitudes are not only declarations of blessing, they are also a call to action. And people in the Twin Cities act. They stand on the streets in frigid temperatures. Our friends in Minnesota teach us what is means to be neighbors, and how to care for neighbors in need. This is at the very core of what it means to be Lutheran.
This hunger and thirst is not abstract. It longs for a world where justice does not remain locked away or rationed, but moves feely -- where mercy widens, truth is spoken with courage, and love reshapes what has grown dry or brittle. God' vision is not one of scarity, but of abundance: justice that flows, peace that expands, and hope that takes root in real lives and real communities.
And here the other readings join the conversation.
The prophet Micah asks, "What does the Holy One require of you?" Not grandiosity. Not performance. But to do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with your God.
And Paul reminds us that God's wisdom often looks like foolishness to the world. The cross upends our ideas of power and success. God chooses what is weak, overlooked, and dismissed to reveal divine love.
All of it points in the same direction.
The Beatitudes do not ask us to look away from suffering. They ask us to stay, with eyes open and hearts engaged.
They press us with honest questions:
Do I hunger and thirst for justice -- or do I grow numb?
Do I assume someone else will act?
Do I stay silent to avoid discomfort or conflict?
St. Francis knows what this looks like. The doors of this church were, and remain, wide open, welcoming those who are LGBTQ+ or living with HIV into the full promise of the gospel, when other congregations, and even the wider church, kept their doors tightly shut.
I am humbled to stand with you in this tme and place, trusting that the Spirit is still at work among us -- calling us not to have all the answers, but to walk faithfully together, wondering which doors we are being called to open today so that all may find hope, meaning, and healing for their lives.
Blessed -- not because the world is easy.
Blessed -- because God is near.
Blessed -- because love still has the final word.
And may the peace of God, which passes all understanding, keep your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus. Amen.
