Today’s Gospel is one of those passages we almost know too well. “Blessed are the poor in spirit…”—we hear it and instantly recognize the script. It’s like the Jeopardy clue everyone gets right: “What are the Beatitudes? I’ll take Biblical passages everyone vaguely knows for $400”

But what do you actually feel when you hear those words? Do you really believe them? Or do they wash over you like background music, nice but not real?

Thank you for taking the time to read this homily for the FOURTH SUNDAY IN ORDINARY TIME – February 1, 2026 – Your support means a great deal to me, and I’m deeply grateful for the many who share these messages with their friends, families and social media followers. If you’ve found meaning in these words, I’d be grateful if you’d share them with others who might benefit.

And for those who prefer listening, you can find the audio version on SoundCloud HERE or subscribe to the podcast on iTunes HERE. Your comments, messages, and the way you’ve embraced these homilies continue to inspire me.   Sincerely in Christ -Father Jim

Because here’s the thing. If we stop just recognizing the words and actually let ourselves hear them, they’re not feel-good slogans or a step-by-step to success. They’re pretty jarring.

Blessed are the poor in spirit—those running on fumes, who can’t fix themselves. Blessed are those who mourn—the heartbroken, the ones scrolling through old photos with tears they can’t explain. Blessed are the meek—the ones who get trampled in the rush for attention and clout. Blessed are those hungering for justice—the ones craving meaning in a world that feels rigged. Blessed are the persecuted—the people mocked for their faith, canceled for standing firm, feeling like outsiders among their own friends.

None of that screams “blessed.”  No one wakes up to a failed exam, a ghosted interview, or another month of grinding without progress and thinks, “Wow—winning!”

And Jesus doesn’t stop there. He keeps going: Blessed are the merciful—those who forgive when revenge would feel so much better. Blessed are the clean of heart—those chasing something real in a world obsessed with filters. Blessed are the peacemakers—those who keep building bridges even when outrage is easier and gets more likes.

Honestly? That sounds exhausting. Like signing up for a lifetime of uphill battles when everyone else is taking the elevator.

So why does Jesus start here? Why does He lead with this, in front of a crowd of dreamers, parents, the sick, the oppressed—people who’d waited for generations, hoping for a Messiah who would smash the empire, restore fortunes, make everything right? The air was already thick with desperate longing, and Jesus says: “Blessed are you… when you’re still in the struggle. When you’re empty, grieving, overlooked—that’s when the kingdom is yours.”

You can almost hear the confusion ripple through the crowd: “Wait, what? This is the good news? This is the plan?”

Jesus isn’t saying suffering is good. He’s not romanticizing pain or telling us to put on a brave face and fake a smile. He’s not asking us to ignore our real fears or slap on an empty “God is good” when everything hurts.

What Jesus does is much more unsettling. He redefines what it means to be blessed. The world says blessed means going viral, being rich, having influence. Jesus says blessed means being exactly where God’s power can break through—where you know you need Him, where you can’t do it on your own.  It’s not about escaping the mess. It’s about God showing up in the middle of it.

And as countercultural as that sounds, it’s not new. Scripture’s been telling this story from the beginning.

Look at Zephaniah, our first reading. The prophet spoke in dark days—seven centuries before Christ, when the people of God were reduced to a remnant, their tribes conquered, their dreams in ruins. The last two tribes, Judah, were corrupt, chasing idols and power. God warns judgment is coming, but then He promises hope: “Seek the Lord, all you humble of the earth… Seek justice, seek humility.” Then the shock: “I will leave in your midst a people humble and lowly… They shall seek refuge in the name of the Lord… They will pasture and lie down, and none shall make them afraid.”

Zephaniah isn’t talking about the elite, the ones who always win. He’s talking about a remnant—the overlooked, the humble, the people who strip away pride and lean entirely on God. They don’t have self-reliance. They have God-reliance. And in that dependence, they find a peace the world can’t touch.

Sound familiar? It’s the Beatitudes, centuries before Jesus stood on the hillside. The kingdom belongs to the humble, the ones who know their need, who live truthfully and justly even when it costs them. Jesus is fulfilling what Zephaniah foresaw—God making a people out of those who trust Him completely.

St. Paul drives this home in our second reading. Corinth was a city obsessed with status—think ancient Instagram. But Paul says, “Look at yourselves. Not many of you were wise or powerful or well-connected. God chose the foolish, the weak, the nobodies, so no one could boast. Christ became our wisdom, our righteousness, our hope. So if you’re going to brag, brag about the Lord.”

Paul is yelling across the centuries to us: Your followers, your GPA, your hustle, your brand—none of that is your ticket to God’s favor. God picks the underdogs, the scrolled-past, the ones who feel invisible, so there’s room for Christ to become everything—your wisdom when you don’t know what to do, your strength when you’re burned out, your hope when you feel lost. It’s the same shock as the Beatitudes: Blessed are the poor in spirit, because when you’re empty, that’s when God’s kingdom breaks in.

But trusting that—when life hurts, when you can’t see the way forward—that’s the real test. We want the answers now, the healing now, the clarity now. We want resurrection without the cross. Humility means surrendering the need to control or understand it all now—and that’s hard. It’s always been hard. That’s why we need stories that help us see.

Let me tell you one.

In a rugged mountain village lived Miguel, a weathered widower whose life revolved around his only son and one faithful horse. One night, a wild storm shattered the peace. In the morning, Miguel’s horse was gone, vanished into the wilderness. The villagers gathered at his gate, faces grim. “Miguel, it’s over—no horse, no crops, no future.” Miguel looked at the splintered gate and said, “Maybe yes… maybe no.”

The next day, the lost horse returned—with six wild stallions behind him. The village erupted in excitement. “You’re saved! You’re rich! What luck!” Miguel watched the horses, smiled, and said, “Maybe yes… maybe no.”

His son, eager and restless, tried to ride one of the wild horses. The animal bucked, and the boy crashed to the ground, his leg broken. Neighbors wailed, “Tragedy on tragedy! Your only son, crippled!” Miguel knelt beside his son and whispered, “Maybe yes… maybe no.”

Days later, soldiers swept through, drafting every able-bodied young man for war. Seeing Miguel’s son injured, they passed him by. Again, the neighbors returned: “Unbelievable! Your son is spared while others march to war. How lucky!” Miguel, eyes on the horizon, quietly said, “Maybe yes… maybe no.”

This isn’t a story about numbing ourselves, pretending pain doesn’t matter. It’s about humility—accepting we don’t see the whole picture. What feels like disaster today may become mercy tomorrow. What looks like weakness may be where God is closest. What breaks your heart might become the very thing that saves you.

That’s the challenge of the Beatitudes. Jesus isn’t glorifying suffering—He’s inviting us to trust that God is working even when we can’t see it. They’re not just declarations. They’re an invitation. A dare. A push to trust God in the mess.

Jesus isn’t saying, “This doesn’t hurt.” He’s asking: Can you trust Me even when it does?

Can you believe God is close when you feel empty?

Can you keep praying when you’re disappointed?

Can you keep choosing mercy when revenge feels so right?

Can you hold onto hope before there’s any sign things will get better?

Most people don’t walk away from God because they stop believing. They walk away because they get tired of waiting. We want answers, healing, comfort—now. When God doesn’t move on our schedule, we start to drift.

But Jesus never promised easy. He promised meaning. He promised His presence, not a shortcut.

The Beatitudes don’t say, “Blessed are the strong” or “Blessed are those who always win.” They say, “Blessed are those who know they need God. Blessed are those who keep choosing good when no one is watching. Blessed are those who never let suffering make them cruel.”

That’s why Paul says Christ Himself becomes our wisdom, our hope, our strength—not our résumé, our bank account, or our public image.

Jesus stands before that hillside crowd—before us—and says, “You are not forgotten. You are not cursed. You are not wasting your life by trusting God, even when it hurts, even when it feels like you’re losing.”

So maybe the Beatitudes aren’t here to make us comfortable. Maybe they’re here to force a choice.

When you walk out those doors—when life is unresolved, when faith costs you something—will you keep seeking God? Will you keep following Christ? Will you really believe that humility, mercy, purity, and peacemaking matter, even if the world laughs?

Because if you can say yes—even through tears, even through hunger, even through injustice—you are closer to God’s kingdom than you think.

And that… is what it really means to be blessed.