Blessed are YOU…

Daniel 7:1-3; 15-18                         Psalm 149                 Ephesians 1:11-23             Luke 6:20-31

All Saints’ Day always makes me laugh, because often we talk about saints like they’re solemn, glowing figures who float gracefully through life like spiritual ballerinas. But the actual communion of saints — the one that includes us — and those we have loved and lost, who we remember today – the real communion of saints is much messier and funnier than that… I mean, have you *met* the saints? They are wild. 

So, this year’s contenders for Saint of the Year… First up; St. Drogo, the patron saint of coffee and unattractive people. Then, St. Joseph of Cupertino, who levitated so often during mass his brothers had to tie him down. And St. Christina the Astonishing, who literally floated up to the rafters at her own funeral because she said she couldn’t stand “the stench of sin.”   And then my current favourite, St. Guinefort the dog. An actual French dog who was venerated as a saint for saving a baby’s life.

The saints are ridiculous and radiant, human and holy, just like us. They remind us that sainthood is not about perfection — it’s about grace leaking through the cracks, because Heaven isn’t a hall of fame — it’s a family photo. A bit blurry. Slightly chaotic. Utterly dysfunctional. And somehow, still beautiful. And we are in the picture too.  So, when Jesus says, “Blessed are you,” he’s not blessing the shiny people. He’s blessing the messy ones. The poor. The grieving. The hungry. The ones who cry themselves to sleep and still get up the next day. The ones who keep forgiving when it would be easier to quit. The ones who doubt, who break, who start again.

When Jesus looked out over that hillside, he didn’t see the perfect ones.  He saw the ones barely hanging on — the poor, the grieving, the hungry, the ones who’d been told they didn’t belong anywhere holy.   And he said, “Blessed are you.”  He didn’t start with demands or doctrine. He began with blessing.  He noticed the pain, the courage, the rawness of being human — and he called it holy.  That’s the scandal of the Beatitudes: they aren’t advice or expectations. They’re a declaration of love. They’re Jesus saying, *I see you. Right in the thick of it — and God is in it with you.*

Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh.  Blessed are you who hunger for justice, who keep showing up even when you’re tired. Blessed are you who have nothing left to give — because grace still finds you.

And then — more scandalous still – and before we can get too comfortable — Jesus flips it.  Woe to you who are rich.  Woe to you who are full.  Woe to you who laugh when others cry. Not as punishment. Not as threat.  But as warning — as mercy, even.  As another expression of love, actually. Because comfort can make us forget compassion.  Privilege can make us numb.  And laughter, when it’s too loud, can drown out someone else’s cry.  The woes are Jesus’ heartbreak for us when we settle for shallow joy.  They’re his way of saying: Don’t harden your heart. Don’t miss the miracle happening at the margins. Because the kingdom isn’t up there somewhere — it’s breaking out in the cracks of our lives right now. Right here. All around us. Even in the space left by the one we loved so much and felt like their death might kill us too.

So, if Jesus were preaching today, his words might sound like this:

Blessed are you who are exhausted from caring for everyone else, 

and blessed are you who can finally admit you need care yourself. 

Blessed are you who cry in the car, who weep in the shower, and keep loving people who are gone. 

Blessed are you who laugh too loud at the wake, and remind us that joy and sorrow share a table. 

Blessed are you who are angry about injustice, and blessed are you who don’t yet know what to do with that anger, nor even where to find it.

Blessed are the ones who doubt but still show up, the ones whose prayers have run out,  the ones who can’t say the creed but still light a candle. 

Blessed are the addicts, the anxious, the overworked, the underpaid, the burnt-out carers, the single parents, the ones barely hanging on. 

Blessed are the saints whose halos are dented and tarnished,  and blessed are the souls who thought they’d lost their faith entirely. 

Blessed are you — 

in your tears and your laughter,  in your weariness and your wonder,  in your holding on and your letting go. 

Because you belong.  You belong to the great communion of saints and to the God who calls every one of us beloved.

And maybe the woes would sound like this — not as curses, but as encouragement for more, for better. Not better for God, but better for us – God’s beloved children: 

Woe to us when our comfort dulls our compassion. 

Woe to us when we confuse abundance with worth. 

Woe to us when our laughter becomes defence, not delight. 

Woe to us when we polish our halos instead of washing feet. 

Woe to us when we are too busy to be kind, too right to be humble, too safe to be brave.

Because the saints — the real ones — didn’t live safe or polished lives. 

They loved until it cost them something. Until it cost them everything. They let their hearts stay breakable.  They chose tenderness over certainty, mercy over pride.

So as we light our candles today, and whisper names that still ache in our chests — remember this:  The same God who held them, holds us.  And holds them still. The same Spirit that burned in their hearts still burns in ours.  And one day, when someone lights a candle for us, may it be said that we loved well. That we blessed more than we cursed. That the light shone through us and others learned more about love, and life, and all that is good and human and divine, through us. May that be our prayer. Until then — may we remember:  there’s a great communion gathered around us — saints and souls, angels and ancestors — whispering in our ears and hearts the same truth Jesus spoke first on that hillside:

You are loved.  You are seen.  You are blessed.  Exactly as you are.  Amen.