February 1, 2025, Year A, The Fourth Sunday of Epiphany

Matthew 5:1-12, Psalm 37:1-11, 1 Corinthians 1:18-31

Grace and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ be with you. In the season of Epiphany, we marvel at the ways God has chosen to reveal himself to us—not through overwhelming displays of power that the world might expect, but through quiet, unexpected moments that cut through the darkness like a beam of light. The very word "Epiphany" speaks of manifestation, of something hidden being unveiled. 

We think of that brilliant star leading the Magi from distant lands to a humble stable in Bethlehem. We remember the heavens opening at Jesus' baptism, with the voice from above proclaiming, "This is my beloved Son," and the Spirit descending like a dove. And we recall the wedding feast at Cana, where ordinary water was transformed into the finest wine, the first glimpse of his glory that stirred faith in his disciples. These are not grand spectacles for the elite; they are surprising disclosures that show God's light breaking into the world for everyone—Jews and Gentiles, insiders and outsiders—upending our assumptions and inviting us all into his story.

These epiphanies set the stage for what we encounter today in the Sermon on the Mount, where Jesus climbs a hillside, sits down like a new Moses delivering a new kind of law, and opens his mouth to teach not just his closest disciples but the crowds pressing in from every direction—people hungry for hope, healing, and truth.

Epiphany calls us to be living manifestations of Christ's love, bridging divides in a world that still yearns for unity. And that's where the Beatitudes come in, those profound words from Matthew 5:1-12 that form the heart of our reflection today. They are found on page ________ of your pew Bibles. 

In the Beatitudes, Jesus paints a picture of blessing that turns the world's values upside down, honoring those the world often ignores, marginalizes, or even crushes underfoot. As he speaks, we see the kingdom arriving in him, breaking in among the unlikely and the overlooked. These Beatitudes shine like an epiphany themselves, revealing that God's wisdom doesn't look like the world's—it's not about human strength or cleverness, but about power made perfect in weakness.

Notice how the Beatitudes unfold with a beautiful symmetry: they begin and end with promises of the kingdom—present for the poor in spirit, assured for those persecuted—while the ones in between build layer by layer, each trait flowing from the last, starting from that foundational poverty of spirit and shaping a life that reflects God's heart.

Jesus starts at the very root: in verse 3 "Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven." (Matthew 5:3, ESV) Imagine standing before God with nothing but open, empty hands, fully aware of our spiritual emptiness—no illusions of self-sufficiency, no boasts of achievement or piety. In a society that equates worth with wealth, status, or smarts, Jesus flips the script: the kingdom of heaven belongs right now, in the present tense, to those who know their utter dependence on God. It's the humble and contrite spirit that God regards, as Isaiah tells us, the one who trembles at his word (Isaiah 66:2).

We see this echoed in stories like the tax collector who couldn't even look up but beat his breast and begged for mercy, going home justified while the proud Pharisee did not (Luke 18:13). Or the prodigal son, returning in rags and unworthiness, only to be wrapped in his father's embrace with robe, ring, and feast (Luke 15). Even Mary's song, the Magnificat, celebrates God filling the hungry with good things while sending the rich away empty-handed (Luke 1:53). Psalm 37 speaks right into this, urging us not to fret or envy the evildoers who seem to prosper but will fade like withered grass (vv. 1-2). Instead, trust in the Lord, do good, delight yourself in him, commit your way to his care, and wait patiently (vv. 3-5, 7)—the poor in spirit rest in God's provision, not their own schemes.

Paul drives it home to the Corinthians: God deliberately chooses what the world calls foolish, weak, low, and despised to shame the wise and strong, leaving no room for human boasting (1 Corinthians 1:26-29). Christ himself becomes our wisdom, righteousness, sanctification, and redemption (v. 30). This Epiphany season, consider the Magi—men of learning and means—who humbled themselves to follow a star, crossing deserts to worship a child in a manger, their lavish gifts an offering of dependence. Or Jesus at his baptism, stepping into the waters as one of us, modeling this poverty of spirit and receiving the Father's voice of beloved affirmation, inviting us into that same sonship through humility.

And from this place of humility, Jesus leads us naturally to the next truth in verse 4: “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.” (Matthew 5:4, ESV) This mourning isn't limited to personal grief over loss or betrayal, though it includes that; it's a deeper, godly sorrow over sin—our own failings that separate us from God, the collective brokenness that oppresses the vulnerable, the fractures in families, communities, and all creation. Those who mourn have hearts softened to injustice, weeping over the chasm between God's holy intentions and our fallen reality; that his will is not yet done on earth as it is in heaven. It's the kind of sorrow that stirs repentance and a zeal for change, as Paul describes (2 Corinthians 7:10).

Yet in a culture that dodges pain with endless distractions, busyness, or numbing substances, Jesus calls these mourners blessed because true comfort is on its way—beginning now through the Holy Spirit, our Paraclete who comes alongside, and culminating when God himself wipes away every tear. Isaiah prophesied the Messiah would bind up the brokenhearted, trading ashes for beauty and mourning for joy (Isaiah 61:1-3). We see it in Jeremiah, the weeping prophet who longed for eyes like fountains to lament Jerusalem's waywardness (Jeremiah 9:1), or in Nehemiah fasting and praying over the city's ruins (Nehemiah 1). Jesus himself wept over Jerusalem's rejection of peace (Luke 19:41) and sweat blood in Gethsemane's anguish (Matthew 26:38). And we're commanded to enter one another's pain, weeping with those who weep (Romans 12:15).

Psalm 37 offers guidance here, warning against anger or fretting that only breeds evil (v. 8), and instead calling us to wait patiently on the Lord (v. 7), entrusting our laments to him who acts justly. Paul points to the cross as the ultimate site of divine mourning—foolishness and weakness to the world, but God's saving power to us (1 Corinthians 1:18), where Christ's suffering absorbs our guilt and grief and bursts forth in resurrection hope. During Epiphany, the Magi's gift of myrrh hints at the burial spices for the cross, foreshadowing sorrow, yet their joyful worship amid that shadow points to salvation's comfort for all. At Cana, water becomes wine, turning potential disgrace into celebration, a foretaste of the kingdom's joy overcoming grief.

So let us embrace authentic mourning: confess our sins openly in daily devotions, intercede fervently for the suffering world, and open ourselves to the Comforter's embrace, allowing our pain to become a pathway for God's purpose.

This tenderness of heart paves the way for what comes next in verse 5: "Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth." (Matthew 5:5, ESV) Don't mistake meekness for timidity or spinelessness; it's power held in check, strength submitted to God's reign, refusing to clutch or crush others in self-interest. Think of Moses, described as the meekest man on earth, who boldly faced Pharaoh with plagues and led Israel through the sea, yet humbly interceded when God threatened to destroy the rebellious people (Numbers 12:3; Exodus 32). Jesus is the perfect embodiment, inviting us to take his yoke because he is gentle and lowly in heart, offering rest for our souls (Matthew 11:29)—he who could summon angelic armies chose instead the path of the cross, silent before his accusers.

The psalmist, in 37, promises that the meek will inherit the land and delight in abundant peace (v. 11), as they wait on the Lord without giving in to anger or wrath (v. 8). The “land” was Israel’s promised inheritance, a tangible sign of God’s covenant faithfulness and provision. The meek wait on God, refraining from anger and wrath (v. 8), trusting his sovereign justice rather than taking vengeance into their own hands. In Christ, this promise expands beyond Canaan to the whole renewed creation—“the earth” as in the new heavens and new earth (Revelation 21:1). The meek do not seize it by force or manipulation; they receive it as a gracious gift because they trust the One who holds sovereign title to it all. Paul echoes this, explaining how God selects the low and despised to bring the proud to nothing (1 Corinthians 1:28), so that our boasting is in the Lord alone (v. 31). 

In Epiphany's light, we behold Christ's meekness: riding into Jerusalem on a humble donkey rather than a warhorse, washing his disciples' dusty feet like a servant, enduring mockery and nails without striking back, praying forgiveness for his tormentors—his quiet strength shattering sin and death. The Magi, too, show it, bowing low before a vulnerable child instead of demanding royal honors.

In our world of viral outrage, corporate climbing, and power grabs, meekness stands out—in offices where we choose patience over retaliation, in homes where we serve without demanding credit, in politics where we seek common good over dominance. To cultivate this, try fasting to discipline desires, moments of silence to hear God, acts of service to practice submission. Let meek interactions—perhaps a gentle word in traffic or a listening ear in meetings—bear witness to the inheriting power of this beatitude.

Such meekness naturally stirs a deeper yearning in verse 6: "Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be satisfied." (Matthew 5:6, ESV) This isn't a mild interest but an all-consuming crave, like parched wanderers in the desert desperate for water, longing for God's righteousness—personal holiness, just relationships, societal shalom where all things are set right. Jesus calls us to seek this above all (Matthew 6:33), envisioning justice flowing like endless streams (Amos 5:24).

Psalm 37 invites us to delight in the Lord, who grants our heart's true desires (v. 4), and to commit our paths to him, watching him bring it to pass (v. 5). Paul affirms that Christ has become our righteousness (1 Corinthians 1:30), the cross providing what our efforts never could. Epiphany reveals this hunger met in Christ: the Magi pursued the prophesied king across miles, their search satisfied in worship; disciples dropped nets to follow him, their thirst quenched by the living water he promised (John 4:14).

So, we must ask: what do we truly hunger for—approval, comfort, or God's will? Redirect it: fast to sharpen spiritual appetite, immerse in Scripture to taste his goodness (Psalm 34:8).

This pursuit opens us to others in verse 7: "Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy." (Matthew 5:7, ESV) Mercy is compassion in motion—extending forgiveness to the unworthy, kindness to the hurting, crossing lines to help. It's the Good Samaritan stopping for the beaten traveler, binding wounds and paying the bill despite cultural divides (Luke 10:25-37).

Psalm 37 links it to trusting God and doing good (v. 3). Paul warns the Corinthians against boasting, since all is gift; mercy received demands mercy given (1 Corinthians 1:29-31). In Epiphany, God's mercy reaches far, drawing pagan Magi to the Savior and protecting them from Herod. But beware the unforgiving servant who, forgiven a massive debt, chokes his fellow over pennies and loses everything (Matthew 18:21-35). Mother Teresa lived it, seeing Jesus in Calcutta's dying poor.

In our divided 2026, mercy heals—forgive that undermining colleague, assist the stranger, speak grace to the antagonist. Feed the hungry, visit the sick. Dwell in the mercy we've received, letting it flow freely.

Mercy purifies in verse 8: "Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God." (Matthew 5:8, ESV) Purity means single-hearted devotion, no divided loyalties or hidden agendas—like gold refined pure. Those with clean hands and hearts ascend God's hill (Psalm 24:3-4), glimpsing him now by faith, beholding him fully one day.

Psalm 37 calls for committing our ways and being still before him (vv. 5, 7). Paul urges boasting only in the Lord (1 Corinthians 1:31), the cross cleansing us from self-idolatry. Epiphany clears our vision: pure hearts see God's glory in Christ's face—"Whoever has seen me has seen the Father.” (John 14:9, ESV) Nathaniel, without deceit, recognized Jesus as God's Son (John 1:47); mystics like Teresa of Avila sought purity through prayer, experiencing divine encounters.

Let us guard our hearts: confess sins often, meditate on truth, find accountable friends. Shun duplicity in dealings; then spot God in nature's wonder, human kindness, even hardships. In 2026's digital haze, cut distractions to sharpen sight.

Then purity empowers peace in verse 9: "Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God." (Matthew 5:9, ESV) Peacemakers don't dodge fights; they forge reconciliation, justice, and wholeness—shalom—mirroring the God of peace who reconciled us through his Son's blood (Romans 15:33; Colossians 1:20).

Psalm 37 assures abundant peace for the meek (v. 11). Paul shows the cross uniting divided groups (1 Corinthians 1:23-24). Epiphany proclaims Christ as Prince of Peace, angels singing goodwill to all (Isaiah 9:6; Luke 2:14). Abraham gave way to Lot for harmony (Genesis 13).

In 2026's tensions be reconcilers: let us facilitate family talks, mediate church conflicts, advocate for human flourishing. Pray for world peace.

And this path may lead to trial in verses 10-12: "Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are you when others 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 so they persecuted the prophets who were before you." (Matthew 5:10-12, ESV) Living these beatitudes or bearing Christ's name invites opposition—insults, exclusion, suffering. Yet Jesus says rejoice, for your heavenly reward echoes the prophets' like Elijah fleeing or Jeremiah imprisoned.

Psalm 37 notes the wicked's brief bloom (v. 1); the faithful endure and inherit. Paul calls the cross a stumbling block and folly, yet divine power (1 Corinthians 1:18-25)—embrace its reproach. Epiphany's light reveals truth but stirs darkness, as Herod's fury showed, though it guides the faithful like the Magi home safely.

The Beatitudes describe the transformative shape of life in the kingdom that has dawned in Jesus. They are not a legalistic checklist to earn blessing but a gracious portrait of those in whom the kingdom is already at work through the Spirit—the poor in spirit receiving riches, the mourning comforted, the meek inheriting, the hungry satisfied, the merciful forgiven, the pure beholding God, the peacemakers called sons, the persecuted rewarded. In this Epiphany season, may the light of Christ reveal these truths afresh in our hearts, manifesting his glory in our apparent weakness, drawing others to the Savior.

Let us pray…