The Sermon on the Mount in Matthew and the Sermon on the Plain in Luke present the same radical message but frame it differently to reveal its depth. Matthew’s Jesus stands like a new Moses, delivering a fulfilled law that does not abolish but transforms. From a mountain—where God once gave the law—Jesus speaks of righteousness that surpasses legalism, a kingdom where the meek inherit and the merciful receive mercy. Luke’s Jesus, in contrast, stands on level ground, a new Elijah proclaiming God’s prophetic justice. The Sermon on the Plain presents Jesus not above but among the people, standing on level ground, declaring God’s justice with prophetic urgency. This is not just spiritual truth but a social and economic upheaval. The proud are brought low, the lowly lifted up, just as Mary sang before his birth. Both sermons reveal the same kingdom, yet each frames its meaning differently. One calls us to a righteousness beyond the law, the other to a justice that upends worldly power. Both demand response. Both challenge us to see God’s reign breaking in. And both begin with a simple yet radical declaration: blessed are you. How will we respond?
Let us pray. May only God’s Word be spoken and may only God’s Word be heard; in the name of Jesus. Amen.
The Beatitudes.
We’ve heard them so often they fade into the background, stitched onto pillows, printed on greeting cards, read sometimes even like a lullaby to inure us to the problems we face. Blessed are the poor… blessed are the hungry… blessed are those who weep… They sound soft, soothing, safe.
But they aren’t safe. Not at all. They rattle the bones. They turn the world upside down. They don’t lull us to sleep; they shake us awake.
Because Jesus isn’t handing out warm sentiments. He’s making a staggering claim about reality. The world says blessing looks like comfort, power, success. Jesus says blessing lives in the struggle, in the hunger, in the places we’d rather not see. The Beatitudes aren’t just promises of a great reversal someday—they are a reckoning with what’s true right now. They peel back the illusion. They demand we see the world as it is: broken, aching, crying out for God. And they demand we see where God is—not in the halls of the powerful, but among the poor, the grieving, the worn down.
But that’s not how we’ve been trained to see, is it? We’ve been handed a script, a smooth, well-rehearsed lie. If you’re struggling, it’s because you didn’t try hard enough. If you’re mourning, you should be over it by now. If you’re successful, you must have earned it. If you’re full, satisfied, comfortable—you must be blessed. That’s what the world says.
Then Jesus comes along and says something entirely different: “Blessed are you who are poor. Blessed are you who hunger now. Blessed are you who weep now.”
And just as starkly: “Woe to you who are rich. Woe to you who are full now. Woe to you who laugh now.”
This isn’t a simple role-reversal. It’s a wake-up call. Jesus isn’t saying pain is holy and joy is wicked. He’s telling the truth about how things actually work. The world equates success with security, but Jesus warns that comfort can be a trap. The world says grief is something to get over, but Jesus says it’s the doorway to something deeper. The world tells us power is the way forward, but Jesus says the kingdom is for the ones the world steps on.
And it’s not just words. Look around. The world is groaning. We are not okay. War, disaster, greed—it feels endless. Some of us are drowning in grief. Some of us are scraping by, exhausted. Some of us are sitting comfortably but feel a quiet, creeping dread, wondering when it’ll all come crashing down. So we do what we always do. We numb ourselves. We drown out the ache with work, with noise, with mindless scrolling. In the face of each new disaster, each new tradegy that overwhelms us or we sipmly don’t want to deal with, we toss out shallow words to those affect—“Our thoughts and prayers are with!”—but we don’t move, don’t act, don’t change. We wrap ourselves in comfort and pretend we don’t see what’s happening to the people Jesus calls blessed. “What good is it, my brothers and sisters,” St. James asks us, “if you say you have faith but do not have works? Can faith save you? If a brother or sister is naked and lacks daily food, and one of you says to them, ‘Go in peace; keep warm and eat your fill,’ and yet you do not supply their bodily needs, what is the good of that? So faith by itself without works is dead.” Words from Jesus brother—not me!
But Jesus sees. And he refuses to look away.
He looks straight at the poor, the hungry, the grieving. He doesn’t offer platitudes. He doesn’t pat them on the back and say, It’ll all work out someday! No. He calls them blessed. He meets them in their need. He walks into their suffering and calls it holy ground. And to those who are comfortable? He doesn’t curse them—he warns them. Be careful. Comfort can be a thief. It can steal your sight. Wealth can blind you to your need. Fullness can dull your hunger for God. Laughter can make you deaf to someone else’s cries. The problem isn’t having good things. The problem is letting those good things close your eyes. Jesus calls us to see. To see the hungry and feed them. To see the grieving and sit with them. To welcome the stranger as Jesus welcomed us. To see the broken world and refuse to accept it as normal.
But don’t despair because you think this isn’t easy. It’s not easy. But Jesus gives us what we need. Here, at this table, he gives us himself. Not as a gesture. Not as a concept. As real food. Real drink. His own body, broken. His own blood, poured out. Not just to comfort us, but to sustain us. To shake us awake.
And what about the woes? What do we do with them? Ignore them? Soften them? Pretend Jesus didn’t really mean it? No. He meant it. He meant it because he loves us too much to lie. “Woe to you who are full,” because fullness can make you forget what hunger feels like. “Woe to you who laugh,” because comfort can make you blind to another’s suffering. “Woe to you who are rich,” because wealth can trick you into thinking you have everything—when in truth, you need God most of all.
The woes aren’t punishments. They’re flashing warning signs. They are Jesus shaking us by the shoulders, saying, Wake up. Look around. Don’t sleepwalk through this life. Don’t let comfort make you blind.
And at this altar, Jesus refuses to leave us in our blindness. He places his own body in our hands, his own blood on our lips. And he says, This is for you. Whether you come empty or full, weeping or laughing, this meal is for you. Not to confirm you in comfort, but to open your eyes. To sustain you for the hard work ahead. To not only help you see—to make you see…taste and see the goodness, the blessedness of the Lord.
This isn’t easy—to be sure. Not easy at all. Seeing clearly rarely is. Owning the truth, chaning our behavior, changing what we have held dear—that’s not easy. But Jesus does not leave us to face reality alone. We stand in the light of his truth. We are held in the grip of his mercy. The kingdom is already at work among us—even in winter, even in grief, even in defeat. Our job is not to fix everything. It’s not to force ourselves to be happy.
Our job is simply this: to open our eyes. To see clearly. To live in the truth of Jesus—to act in the light of that truth, in the light of his truth.
Because the truth? The truth is blessed are the poor. Blessed are the hungry. Blessed are those who weep.
And blessed are those who see, for you shall behold God among us.
In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
The Rev'd Daniel W. Spigelmyer, Jr. 