A Blessing for the Screw Ups

Matthew 5:1-12

When Jesus saw the crowds, he went up the mountain; and after he sat down, his disciples came to him. Then he began to speak, and taught them, saying:

“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.

Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.

Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy.

Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.

Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.

Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Blessed are you when people revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account.

Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.

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I like to be right. Just ask Katelyn. Or better yet, ask Pastor Mark when he points out a grammatical error in my writing. Yes—the Oxford comma should be there.

What’s worse than liking to be right is having a toddler who also likes to be right. I hold up an orange and he declares it an apple. I say it’s too cold to go to the park and he responds, “No it’s not—it’s perfect!” You get the picture.

I imagine I’m not alone in this. We all like to be right. And our certainty—our confidence that we are right—can be far more dangerous than we realize.

In 2008, a woman went to Beth Israel Deaconess Medical Center, a Harvard teaching hospital, one of the best in the world. She’s taken back to the OR, put under, and the surgeon completes the surgery successfully. Everything went great…Until she woke up in recovery and realized the wrong side of her body had been stitched up.

The surgeon had operated on her left leg instead of her right.

When the hospital later explained how this happened, Kenneth Sands, a vice president, said this: “The surgeon began prepping without looking for the mark and, for whatever reason, he believed he was on the correct side.”

We’ve all felt utterly right about something, only to discover later that the opposite was true. And more than we like being right, we hate realizing we’re wrong. Now, an important clarification - Being wrong and realizing you’re wrong are not the same thing.

Kathryn Schulz uses an image from Looney Tunes to explain this. Wile E. Coyote chases the Road Runner straight off a cliff. He keeps running, completely confident, even though there’s nothing beneath him. It’s only when he looks down that he realizes he’s in trouble.

That’s the difference. Being wrong is standing over thin air and thinking you’re on solid ground.

Realizing you’re wrong is looking down and seeing there’s nothing holding you up.

This morning, I want to linger with just two of the Beatitudes. Not because the others don’t matter—but because these two speak directly to the world we’re living in right now. Our longing to be right, and our deep resistance to admitting we’re wrong, sit at the heart of so much division: in our homes, our communities, our churches, our nation, and even within ourselves.

And into that reality, Jesus speaks a word of blessing—a word that turns our fear, our hatred of being wrong into good news.

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled. We know what it means to be hungry and thirsty. Those longings are part of being human. We hunger not only for food, but for connection, purpose, community, beauty, and joy.

But to hunger for righteousness? That’s not a phrase we use or even hear outside of this space. In fact, it’s a word many of us avoid. It can sound pious, self-righteous, or just plain uncomfortable.

And that’s unfortunate… Because our discomfort with the word comes from confusion about what it means. Righteousness simply means being made right: made right with God, made right with others, and made right with yourself. Blessed, then, are those who long to be made right.

Like the other Beatitudes, this one surprises us. Standing there on the mountainside, we might expect Jesus to say, Blessed are the righteous. Blessed are the ones who get it right. Blessed are the ones who already are right.

But that’s not how it goes. When people come to Jesus assuming they are righteous, he has a way of setting the record straight. It is those who come knowing they are wrong—those who long to be made right—who receive grace and mercy.

The truth of the matter is this: we cannot make ourselves right with God, no matter how hard we try.

All the praying, Bible reading, worshiping, serving, and learning in the world do not make us righteous before God. Rather, the Holy Spirit works through these practices to make us aware of the grace of Jesus. And that grace alone is what makes us right. Not our words nor our posts on Facebook. Not our deeds. Not our politics. Grace alone.

Which is why Jesus finishes the Beatitude in the passive voice: for they will be filled.

Those who recognize they are wrong, those who don’t always get it right, those who long to be made right rather than clinging to the certainty that they already are - they will be filled. They will be made right with God, with others, and themselves.

This is a blessing for those of us who get it wrong—who mess up, who don’t always get it right.

So much of what we see and hear around us—in our culture, in business, certainly in politics—tells us to do the opposite: never admit fault, double down, point fingers, claim victory at all costs, and insist that we are always right. But there is no hunger or thirst to be made right if we never admit that we’re wrong.

This blessing is for those who screw up - and can say so.

What if this was our posture in the present moment, instead of the certainty that we are right?

What if we moved through the world not with the desire to be right, but with the desire to be made right—not only with God, but with one another? What if we faced our spouses, our kids, our neighbors with the simple possibility that maybe… I’m wrong on this.

Believe me, I’m preaching to myself here. How much better would your marriage be? Your relationship with your kids? How many friendships might be healed if we could say, “I was wrong. I’m sorry. I want this to be made right.”

To error is to be human. So be human, admit you’re human, and be blessed.

And the best news comes with the Beatitude that follows: Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy.

Jesus meets our wrongness—our sin, our failure, our getting it wrong—not with contempt, not with an I told you so, but with kindness. With mercy. In this life, we expect being wrong to be met with punishment. But Jesus shows us another way. Instead of meeting our sin with punishment, he meets it with sacrifice, generosity, and mercy.

And it is only because we have received mercy that we can extend mercy to others.

We cannot give what we have not first received.

So when someone comes longing to be made right—admitting they were wrong—it does no good to meet that honesty with harsh contempt or punishment. We resist this because we’re afraid. Afraid mercy will be taken advantage of. Afraid kindness will be trampled on.

And yet, what does the Lord require of us but to love kindness.

We don’t need to hate being wrong. Because when we admit we’re wrong, we are not earning grace—we are simply telling the truth. And grace is already there to meet us.

This week: look for one moment—just one—where you can say the words, “I was wrong. I’m sorry. I want this to be made right.” Say it to your spouse, your child, your neighbor, your pastors, or to God.

Don’t refute. Don’t double down. Don’t defend yourself. Instead, hunger and thirst to be made right.

And then be surprised by the grace of Jesus that meets you there, fills you up, and says, I forgive you.

In a world where leaders and institutions seem incapable of doing such a thing, this may be one of the strongest witnesses Christians can do in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, who gives us mercy, makes us right, and blesses us: not in spite of our mistakes, but because of them.

Amen.

How to Live a Life

John 1:29-42

The next day he saw Jesus coming toward him and declared, “Here is the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world! This is he of whom I said, ‘After me comes a man who ranks ahead of me because he was before me.’ I myself did not know him, but I came baptizing with water for this reason, that he might be revealed to Israel.”

And John testified, “I saw the Spirit descending from heaven like a dove, and it remained on him. I myself did not know him, but the one who sent me to baptize with water said to me, ‘He on whom you see the Spirit descend and remain is the one who baptizes with the Holy Spirit.’ And I myself have seen and have testified that this is the Chosen One.”

The next day John again was standing with two of his disciples, and as he watched Jesus walk by he exclaimed, “Look, here is the Lamb of God!” The two disciples heard him say this, and they followed Jesus. When Jesus turned and saw them following, he said to them, “What are you looking for?” They said to him, “Rabbi” (which translated means Teacher), “where are you staying?” He said to them, “Come and see.”

They came and saw where he was staying, and they remained with him that day. It was about four o’clock in the afternoon. One of the two who heard John speak and followed him was Andrew, Simon Peter’s brother.

He first found his brother Simon and said to him, “We have found the Messiah” (which is translated Anointed). He brought Simon to Jesus, who looked at him and said, “You are Simon son of John. You are to be called Cephas” (which is translated Peter).

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A couple of weeks ago, I signed up for Better with Time, a weekly newsletter course. Each week, I get a new tip in my inbox. Something small I can do at a different time of day to add a little more joy and adventure to my life. I’m two weeks in, and so far, I’ve experienced no added joy and absolutely no adventure.

And it’s not because I didn’t try—well, maybe the first one. Week one’s suggestion was to eat chicken parmigiana for breakfast. I mean… who would do such a thing? The point wasn’t nutrition. It was control. The author argues that breakfast can be whatever you want it to be, and that by eating chicken parm for breakfast, you reclaim a sense of freedom over your life. You start thinking outside the bowl.

You can let me know how that goes.

Week two didn’t do much for me either. The challenge was to spend twenty minutes flipping through a dictionary. The most joy I got from that was asking Pastor Mark for a dictionary—who, of course, had one from 1922.

I signed up for this newsletter because, honestly, I could use a little more joy in my day—who couldn’t?

I don’t necessarily need more adventure. But a distraction would be nice. A distraction from the endless updates of insanity that seem to flood our newsfeeds, no matter which one you’re looking at. So when I saw something that promised to tell me how to live my life in a way that might add a little joy—and it was free—I thought, why not?

After all, we are constantly being told how to live a life. By people, by companies, by experts.

We’re told what we should want, what we should value, and then—almost always—we’re offered a solution. Usually at a cost. But our passage today gives us a pretty good picture of how to live a life.

This is Jesus’ first public appearance in the Gospel of John. And instead of John the Baptist doing any baptizing, he shows up here as John the Witness—or John the Testifier. He doesn’t perform a ritual. He points. Literally.

Every time Jesus walks by, John points and says, “Look! There he is!” Honestly, it’s a little odd. John is like a toddler in public, loudly pointing at a stranger: Look at that person! I can’t help but wonder if it was as embarrassing for Jesus as it can be for parents when that happens. But that’s the scene. John sees Jesus, and he wants everyone else to see him too.

The second time John points and shouts at Jesus, two of his disciples finally pay attention.

They hear what John is saying, and something about it catches them. So they begin to follow Jesus.

And then—Jesus turns around.

He looks at them and asks, “What are you looking for?”

In English, the question sounds simple. But it doesn’t really capture the depth of what Jesus is asking.

It’s closer to: What are you seeking? What do you hope to find? What do you long for? The disciples respond to Jesus by asking, “Rabbi, where are you staying?”

It’s a richer question than it first sounds. They aren’t asking for an address. They’re asking where Jesus dwells, where he abides. And that word carries the sense of belonging. It’s the difference between a hotel and a home. You stay at a hotel. But you abide, you belong, at the place you call home. That’s what the disciples are really asking: Where do you dwell? Because we want to dwell there too.

Jesus responds with a simple invitation: “Come and see.” Not an explanation. Not a theological lecture. Not a test to see if they believe the right things or are worthy enough. Just an invitation. Come and see.

And they do. They spend the rest of the day with Jesus. The text doesn’t tell us what happens while they’re there, but something clearly does happen. We know this because before abiding with Jesus, they called him Rabbi, teacher. Respectful. Formal. After spending time with him, they leave calling him Messiah: the anointed one, the one who saves and frees.

Don’t you wonder what happened in between: what they talked about? what they saw? what they experienced? Whatever it was, it changed them. They had to be impressed. Amazed. Astonished. So much so that Andrew immediately goes and tells his brother Simon what he has seen and experienced.

I wonder how Simon took that news. If he’s anything like me, I imagine his response was something like, No way. Are you sure? Prove it. But Andrew doesn’t argue. He doesn’t explain. He simply brings his brother to Jesus. I wonder if he used the same invitation Jesus used with him: Come and see. Because no sooner than he tells his brother the two of them are off to find Jesus.

And that’s when it clicks for me.

I don’t need a newsletter to tell me how to live a more joyful or adventurous life. I don’t need influencers, companies, or marketing campaigns promising they have the product that will finally solve all my problems. What I need in this life is what those two disciples just experienced—because that is living a life: paying attention, being astonished, and telling about it.

And that’s not my framework, but the poet, Mary Oliver’s. In her poem Sometimes, she writes: “How to live a life: Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.”

The disciples paid attention to what John was saying about Jesus. They noticed where he was pointing, and they were willing to look in that direction. That’s often how faith begins, not with certainty, but with curiosity. With listening to those who point us toward Jesus, and being willing to follow their gaze. And sometimes that pointing takes us somewhere we didn’t expect.

Then they abide with Jesus—and they are astonished by him. What a gift. When was the last time you were astonished by Jesus? Truly astonished—filled with wonder, caught off guard, surprised by grace.

Maybe it happens in the quiet of prayer, when you aren’t looking for an answer, and Christ meets you with peace instead.

Maybe it happens through the words of Scripture - when you read a passage for the one hundred and first time and finally hear the promise it has for you. Not because the words changed, but because you did.

Maybe it happens through a song - when the Spirit overwhelms you at the very moment you least expected it.

You know this kind of astonishment when it happens - because it changes you. No longer is Jesus only a teacher, someone with wise words to admire from a distance. He becomes Messiah: the one you follow, the one who meets you, the one who saves and frees. And once we are astonished, just like Simon, we can’t help but tell about it.

About the Messiah we’ve found. About the astonishment we’ve experienced. About the abiding that has changed us.

And the way we tell isn’t by arguing or proving or persuading. It’s by offering the same invitation Jesus offered in the first place: come and see. Hearts and minds aren’t changed by data or debates. They’re changed through stories and experiences.

Siblings in Christ, Jesus gives the same invitation to us: come and see.

Come and abide with me.

Come and be astonished by me.

This is what I hope for us at Cross of Grace. That we are a people who have seen Jesus, and who can’t help but point to him. A community astonished by his mercy, forgiveness, and grace. So that when others are searching, when they know something is missing, when they are looking for more hope, more joy, more belonging in their life, we don’t try to convince them or fix them.

We simply point. We point to Jesus. We point to a place where he abides with us. A place where they will be welcomed and loved.

And we offer the same simple invitation: Come and see.

Come and see why our joy doesn’t come from newsletters, but from being astonished by the grace of Jesus Christ. Come and see a place where you can experience that grace for yourself.

That’s how we live a life: Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.

Amen.