Last Sunday, we watched Jesus walk along the Sea of Galilee and interrupt ordinary lives. Fishermen were casting nets, doing what they had always done, when Jesus said, “Follow me.” And Matthew tells us, “At once they left their nets.” Not because they had everything figured out, but because something in his voice carried authority and promise. They followed first, and only afterward began to understand.
Today, those same followers appear again, but the scene has changed, and there are more people with them. Jesus climbs a mountain. Dust underfoot. Wind moving through dry grass. Ordinary people walking behind him, fishermen who smell like fishing nets, women carrying children, the sick, the tired, the curious, the disappointed. People who have lived under Roman occupation, religious pressure, and unfulfilled promises. People who know how life really feels.
Matthew tells us that Jesus “went up the mountain.” That is an important detail. Mountains in Scripture are not just another location. Mountains are where God speaks, where covenants are formed, where destinies are reshaped. Think of Sinai. Moses ascends the mountain, enters the cloud, and receives the Law, not his ideas, not Israel’s preferences, but God’s own word. Now, centuries later, Jesus climbs another mountain. But there is a difference: Jesus does not disappear into the cloud. He does not come down carrying tablets. He sits down and begins to speak.
That small gesture, “He sat down,” is loaded with meaning. In the ancient world, sitting was the posture of authority. Rabbis taught while seated. Judges pronounced decisions while seated. Kings ruled from a seat. That is why, even today, we call the bishop’s church a cathedral, from the Latin word, cathedra, meaning “chair.” The chair is not furniture; it is a sign of authority to teach in the name of Christ. Make it a point of duty to visit the Cathedral Church in your diocese, you will find that chair in the sanctuary that is meant only for the Bishop of the diocese. And when we say the Pope teaches ex cathedra, we mean, he is teaching from the chair, he is speaking with the fullness of his authority as the Vicar of Christ and successor of Peter. So when Jesus sits on the mountain, he is doing more than getting comfortable. Before he says anything, he is already telling us who he is, not just the one who speaks with authority, but the one who is authority himself.
And that brings us back to Sinai. Moses went up the mountain to receive the Law from God. Jesus goes up the mountain and speaks the Law as God. Moses said, “Thus says the Lord.” Jesus simply says, “Blessed are…” This is not a correction of Moses. It is a fulfillment. Not a rejection of the covenant, but its completion. Jesus is revealing the heart of God, not on stone tablets, but in human lives. And then comes the shock. “Blessed are the poor.” “Blessed are the meek.” “Blessed are those who mourn.”
That was a radical moment. In Jesus’ world, blessing was assumed to be visible: strength, victory, prosperity; honor. If you were winning, God must be with you. If you were losing, something must be wrong. Jesus turns that logic upside down. He doesn’t say poverty is good, or suffering is desirable. He says God is already at work in the very places we assume he has abandoned.
The connection to Moses even deepens. In Numbers 12:3, Scripture says, “Moses was the meekest man on earth.” Not because Moses was weak or passive, but because he surrendered his strength to God. Moses had power, leadership, and authority, but he did not cling to them. He trusted God to defend him, guide him, and vindicate him. That is biblical meekness: strength under God’s control. Jesus now says: that posture, the posture of Moses, is the posture of the Kingdom.
The beatitudes are not a checklist for spiritual overachievers. They are a portrait. Jesus looks at the people who followed him up that mountain, the overlooked, the tired, the poor in spirit, the hungry for something more, and he says, “This is what God’s reign looks like when it takes flesh.” And here is the deepest shift of all: Jesus is not just promising heaven later. He is announcing heaven now. Not as an escape from the world, but as a transformation of the world. “The Kingdom of heaven is theirs,” he says, not will be theirs, but is theirs. Heaven begins wherever lives are shaped by God’s mercy, God’s justice, God’s trust.
That means the beatitudes are not distant ideals. They are a way of seeing reality differently. The world says the strong win. Jesus says the meek inherit. The world says happiness is found in having more. Jesus says blessing is found in depending on God. Jesus sits on the mountain and shows us that the new covenant is not written on stone, but on hearts. Not enforced by fear, but drawn by grace. And the invitation is the same as last Sunday: “Follow me.” Learn how to live where heaven has already begun.
The Beatitudes are not a checklist to complete before entering heaven. They are signs that heaven has already begun to take root. Wherever these values are lived, even imperfectly, the kingdom is present. When someone chooses mercy over revenge, heaven breaks in. When someone remains gentle in a harsh world, heaven breaks in. When someone refuses to harden their heart despite disappointment, heaven breaks in. Because in the end, the Beatitudes are not about escaping earth for heaven. They are about letting heaven take root on earth, starting with us. Heaven is not just our destination. It is our vocation. Heaven is not waiting for us after death; it is waiting for us to live it, here and now.
Homily for 4th Sunday in Ordinary Time Year A 2026
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