Rewriting the Beatitudes (Twice) For Those With Privilege

Today’s reflection is from Jason Steidl Jack, a gay Catholic theologian and Assistant Teaching Professor of Religious Studies at St. Joseph’s University in New York. He is the author of  LGBTQ Catholic Ministry: Past and Present, published by Paulist Press.

Today’s liturgical readings for the Fourth Sunday in Ordinary Time can be found here.

In college I attended a Bible study with some of my best friends. One friend who organized soup kitchens and sometimes slept on the streets alongside the poor encouraged us to be open to the scripture’s prophetic challenge. Rather than assuming we’re on the side of righteousness, we were urged to ask how the Gospel pushes us to grow? What is the “punch” or “sting” of our faith?

As I consider today’s liturgical readings, I hear my friend’s words loud and clear. It’s easy to read the Beatitudes, which are recounted in the gospel passage, and think that I’m on Jesus’ side. It’s much more difficult to consider the alternative. This is especially true as I reflect on my own circumstances, such as:

“Haywood Street Beatitudes” by Christopher Holt

“Blessed are the poor in spirit.” I’m usually self-satisfied.

“Blessed are they who mourn.” The world has been pretty good to me.

“Blessed are the meek.” Still I try my best to convince others that I have it all together.

“Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for righteousness”? Rarely, in my case.

“Blessed are the merciful.” Take a look at my grudges and hatred toward my enemies.

“Blessed are the clean of heart.” If only you knew what I’m thinking.

“Blessed are the peacemakers.” Listen to my gossip. I’m good at stoking division.

“Blessed are they who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness.” Not today; not really ever.

“Blessed are you when they insult you and persecute you and utter every kind of evil against you falsely because of me.” Well, usually people say bad things about me because I’m being a jerk.

The Beatitudes challenge me to look deeply into the values and priorities of God’s kingdom. Mine are often out of line. Jesus’ teaching also serves as a mirror and helps me to confront my own privilege. I’m white in a white supremacist society. I’m male in a patriarchal culture. I’m Christian in a nation that is overwhelmingly so. I’m a citizen of one of the wealthiest and most powerful nations in the history of the world. I have healthcare and education and a roof over my head and a family that loves me. Yes, I’m gay, but I live in a city that doesn’t blink an eye about it. I’m rarely bothered by injustice.  

The Beatitudes are a measure of reality to remind me that there are many, particularly among the LGBTQ community (even in my own city) whose experience is far different than my own. Their suffering and littleness places them at the center of God’s beating heart. They should also be at the center of mine. Maybe I should consider an updated set of Beatitudes:

Blessed are those who struggle with self-acceptance and shame, “for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”

Blessed are those who are beaten up and have lost friends to queerphobic violence, “for they will be comforted.”

Blessed are those in exploitative, hidden, and low-paying jobs, “for they will inherit the land.”

Blessed are those who strive for holiness and do their best to please God, “for they will be satisfied.”

Blessed are those who chose understanding and empathy even when they’ve been hurt themselves, “for they will be shown mercy.”

Blessed are those who delight in others and wonder at the world, “for they will see God.”

Blessed are those who work for reconciliation in communities that reject them, “for they will be called children of God.”

Blessed are those who are defamed in the public square and dehumanized by the law, “for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”

Blessed are you when they call you slurs and make up lies about you because you embody the one God created you to be. “Rejoice and be glad, for your reward will be great in heaven.”

The Beatitudes call me to solidarity with those who don’t have it all together, those who are on the margins, and those who are forgotten. God forbid I see my Christian faith as an excuse for my life of routine, comfort, and ease. God gives me a heart to seek out God’s reign where the world least expects to find it and to embrace the discomfort of striving and struggle outside my own bubble of privilege.

The way of the Gospel challenges me to look beyond what I see as success. Power, money, safety, and respect mean nothing in God’s kingdom where the tables are turned. Indeed, St. Paul tells us in today’s second reading: 

“God chose the foolish of the world to shame the wise,
and God chose the weak of the world to shame the strong,
and God chose the lowly and despised of the world,
those who count for nothing,
to reduce to nothing those who are something,
so that no human being might boast before God.”

To paraphrase queer Argentinean theologian Marcella Althaus Reod, this is an indecent God who shows up among indecent people. It’s hard to imagine anything more counterintuitive.

Of course, this does not mean that powerlessness, poverty, danger, and disrespect are goods in and of themselves. They’re not. Instead, they ought to be a siren call to me and others to partner with God in the shaking up and healing of the world. But I’m the one who needs to be shaken up first. The God of Jesus Christ disrupts my self-sufficient agenda and calls me to something greater—a radical identification and ministry with the queer. God grant us all the grace to live out this highest of callings.

—Jason Steidl Jack, February 1, 2026