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.

---

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.

Toilet Paper, Payback, and Christ the King

Luke 23:33-43

When they came to the place that is called The Skull, they crucified Jesus there with the criminals, one on his right and one on his left. Then Jesus said, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.”

And they cast lots to divide his clothing. And the people stood by watching, but the leaders scoffed at him, saying, “He saved others; let him save himself if he is the Messiah of God, his chosen one!” The soldiers also mocked him, coming up and offering him sour wine and saying, “If you are the King of the Jews, save yourself!” There was also an inscription over him, “This is the King of the Jews.”

One of the criminals who were hanged there kept deriding him and saying, “Are you not the Messiah? Save yourself and us!” But the other rebuked him, saying, “Do you not fear God, since you are under the same sentence of condemnation? And we indeed have been condemned justly, for we are getting what we deserve for our deeds, but this man has done nothing wrong.”

Then he said, “Jesus, remember me when you come in your kingdom.” He replied, “Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise.”

---

In fifth grade, my house was toilet papered. Waking up that morning, it looked like there had been a blizzard—but only at my house. And the worst part is it took a solid two hours to clean up.

We got word the perpetrators were coming back, so my brother made a plan. We hid in the bushes with the hose, firecrackers, and an air horn at the ready. As soon as the first roll hit the tree, we unleashed it all. It was some of the sweetest revenge I’d ever tasted.

But here’s the thing—I wanted more. Now I am not proud to admit this, but for the next two years, I was a serial toilet-paperer. I went TP-ing with my friends every chance I got. I don’t think to this day my parents know this. Finally, one fateful night a police officer stopped our fun and we dropped our rolls of toilet paper for good. He could have called our parents, ordered community service. But he just made us clean up the mess, giving us mercy we didn’t deserve.

If I asked you what the most deadly addiction is, you might say smoking, alcohol, fentanyl, or maybe Facebook. But no, it’s none of that. This addiction is far more common and not a substance or drug at all. The deadliest addiction is revenge. That’s the argument put forth by James Kimmel Jr., a professor at Yale. He says nearly every form of violence childhood bullying, domestic violence, police brutality, war—begins with someone convinced they’re a victim seeking justice.

And for the first time in human history, we have some scientific insight into how we can stop this deadly addiction. Revenge is that feeling, sometimes subtle, sometimes intense, to return the pain someone first gave you. Through scans and research, Kimmel and his team have found that a brain on revenge looks a lot like a brain addicted to drugs.Grievances of any kind—real or imagined, disrespect, betrayal, shame— they all light up the brain’s pain center.

Our brains don’t like that and so it quickly starts reaching for pleasure.

We could reach for anything after we’ve been wronged—a tub of ice cream, an intense workout, a few drinks—and those might help for a moment. But the uncomfortable truth is that we humans get the most satisfying pleasure from hurting the very person who hurt us. It’s not our best trait.

Neuroscientists have shown that when someone wrongs us and we even imagine retaliation, the brain’s reward centers wake up. The parts tied to craving and habit-building fire just like they do when addicts feel stressed or see something associated with getting a fix. Revenge isn’t just an idea; it’s an addictive action. Yet, unlike other addictions, revenge is addiction turned outward. Instead of harming ourselves to get a fix, we harm someone else. And like any addiction, the thrill is short-lived, the pain returns leaving one feeling even worse, and the craving only grows.

Perhaps you know how this feels. As a kid, it’s the punch you throw when the roughhousing gets too rough. In marriage, it’s the sentence you say that you know will cut deeper than any knife. As an adult, it’s the desire to slash the tires of the buffoon who cut off everyone in the school pickup line. We all know that impulse. It’s part of being human.

And it certainly isn’t limited to individuals. Right now, it feels like our whole nation is running on it. Childish name-calling, dangerous threats, the endless churn of angry rhetoric: vengeance seems to be the most animating force in public life. It shows up across the political spectrum, where the goal is clearly not about solving problems but more about scoring points or making “the other side” hurt.

I see it too in the Christian Nationalist movement, which grows out of a perceived assault on Christianity, by which they mean a very narrow version of Christianity defined as white, straight, and evangelical. The response is to attack back through laws and power in public life. We’ve built a society—a kind of kingdom—where hurt is expected to be met with greater hurt, and the loudest voices insist the only way to win is to strike back harder.

Christ the King Sunday, which began 100 years ago today, was created to celebrate a king and kingdom that operates in the opposite way. If there was ever someone innocent who endured great harm—someone who could have, maybe even should have, returned the pain—was it not Jesus Christ, the King of the Jews? The one crucified between criminals while the very people who once followed him stood by and watched?

Surely he had every right to act with vengeance, to call down the wrath of God, to save himself from that cross and rule like every other king tries to do. That’s exactly what the crowd urged him to do. Three times people said to Jesus, “Save yourself.” It’s what we humans know best.

But that’s not the kind of King Jesus is. His first words from the cross were not a declaration of innocence or a plea for pity, but a favor from his Father: “Forgive them.” It’s fascinating that Jesus speaks to God in this moment. He doesn’t say I forgive you to the ones nailing, flogging, and scoffing at him. That wouldn’t have made any sense.

They didn’t think they were doing anything wrong. In their minds, they were doing exactly what they should be doing: executing a sentence of execution for a man charged with treason.

And here’s the part that always stops me: Jesus isn’t only speaking about the people at the foot of the cross. His words reach beyond that moment.

It’s as if Jesus is saying, Father, please forgive them—because I already have. And the “them,” the object of that forgiveness, is me and you. Jesus came preaching and presenting a different way to be in the world, an alternate kingdom to reign over our lives—one of mercy, kindness, forgiveness—and we killed him for it.

And every time we long for revenge, every time we save ourselves, every time we reject mercy, we put him back on that cross, crucifying the voice that tells us there’s another way.

Yet just like he did then, he says to us again, “Father, forgive them; they don’t know what they are doing.” God, in Jesus, meets our violence with grace; our anger with forgiveness; our revenge with reconciliation. Always and only.

The way of Jesus and his kingdom is what neuroscience now tells us is the best way to stop the dangerous, deadly pull of revenge: forgiveness. Research shows that even picturing yourself forgiving someone triggers something powerful: the brain’s pain center settles, the craving for revenge loosens, and the part of your mind that helps you think clearly and choose wisely lights back up.

Forgiveness is not saying what happened was okay or pretending the wound never happened.

It means letting God begin loosening revenge’s grip on your mind but more importantly on your heart. In other words, forgiveness acts like a kind of wonder drug. It eases the hurt, dead-ends the desire to strike back, and breaks the hold pain has on you.

And best of all, it’s free, always available, and you can take another dose whenever needed.

Try it this week. Call to mind one person who has hurt you and, in prayer, quietly just begin to imagine forgiving them. You don’t have to tell them. You don’t have to have it all figured out. Just imagine it, and let Christ the King meet you there.

You can do this. We can do this. We don’t have to keep hurting each other. You don’t have to live with the pain someone else has inflicted on you. We can drop our rolls of toilet paper or whatever your retaliation is, once and for all, and stop the harm being done, big or small.

There is a way out of this addiction and we didn’t need scientific research to prove it.

Christ the King has been showing us how all along, giving us a mercy we don’t deserve.

Amen.