Third Sunday before Lent, 16th February, by Dn Lucy

Jeremiah 17:5-10
1 Corinthians 15:12-20
Luke 6:17-26

I want to start this morning by asking a question:
What comes to mind when you imagine a life well lived?

What does the ‘Good life’ look like?

Who do you imagine when you picture the person who is blessed?

Here in the City of London we might think of success, security, satisfaction, health - a good pension, a comfortable home, respect from our peers. We know what blessing looks like, don’t we? But today’s readings challenge and complicate many of the assumptions we hold.

In our Gospel reading, Jesus stands on level ground, surrounded by a great crowd drawn from Judea, Jerusalem, and the coastal regions of Tyre and Sidon. They press in, desperate to touch him, as power streams from him. Diseases are healed, troubled spirits finding peace, and broken lives are made whole. This isn’t power being hoarded or controlled. It’s flowing out to anyone who needs it. Luke shows us Jesus both healing and teaching—the power that transforms bodies also transforms understanding.

To these same people who’ve just experienced his healing touch, Jesus speaks directly: “Blessed are you who are poor... who are hungry... who weep.” And each blessing is paired with a warning: “But woe to you who are rich... who are full... who laugh now.” Jesus’ words represent a complete reversal of how the world measures blessing and success.

Why are the poor blessed? Perhaps it’s because when you have nothing else to fall back on, you have to fall back on God. When all other sources of security and comfort fail, you discover the one source that never runs dry. As Jesus says elsewhere in Luke’s Gospel, “Those who are well have no need of a physician but those who are sick.” Worldy blessings, whilst not bad in and of themselves, have the potential to make us blind to our very real need for a Saviour. They can divert our trust and our desires away from God, towards that which is finite and transient.

This theme of trust emerges powerfully in our reading from Jeremiah. Through imagery that resonated deeply with his audience, the prophet contrasts two ways of living: those who trust in mere human strength are like a desert shrub in barren salt lands, isolated and struggling, unable to recognise relief when it comes. Those who trust in God are like trees planted by water, with roots that go deep, staying green and fruitful even in times of drought.

Jeremiah wrote during the final years of Judah, as the kingdom faced existential threats from Babylon. His people placed their faith in military alliances with Egypt, in political strategies, in false religion and the worship of idols - in everything but God. In this time of national crisis, the temptation to trust in human solutions must have been overwhelming.

We face similar choices today. Though our circumstances differ from ancient Judah, our tendency to seek security in temporary things remains the same - in financial stability, professional success, social standing, or carefully constructed plans for the future. Unless our trust is in God, we are like that desert shrub in a parched land. Our hearts can deceive us in subtle ways: claiming faith while lying awake worrying about market fluctuations, speaking of finding our worth in God while seeking validation through social media likes and our own carefully curated image. Like Jeremiah’s audience, we often don’t recognise how we’ve placed our deepest trust in everything but God.

The Corinthians were wrestling with their own version of this struggle. They were getting caught up in philosophical debates about resurrection, treating it like an interesting intellectual puzzle. But Paul insists—this isn’t just speculation. The power that raised Jesus from the dead is the same power that offers us redemption and renewal. They are inseparable. If Christ has not been raised, Paul argues, faith is futile. We remain in our sins. Those who have died in Christ have perished. Yet Christ has been raised—and this transforms everything about where we place our trust.

As I was preparing this sermon, I was reminded of Gavin Bryars’ beautiful composition, Jesus’ Blood Never Failed Me Yet, which I’m sure many of you will be familiar with. The piece centres on a recording of a homeless man singing a simple song of faith: “Jesus’ blood never failed me yet, never failed me yet, Jesus’ blood never failed me yet. This one thing I know, for he loves me so.”

By worldly standards, this man had nothing—no money, no security, no home. You can hear all this in his voice. Yet his words carry a profound truth about where real security lies. The power of this composition endures precisely because this homeless man, who had been failed by life in every conventional way, could sing with unwavering conviction about the one thing that never failed him. His faith was not based on external circumstances but on the unshakable certainty that Christ’s sacrifice was enough, that God’s love had never abandoned him, and that in Jesus’ blood, he found his refuge and redemption.

So what does this tell us about what makes a blessed life? Perhaps it looks very different from our initial assumptions. Perhaps it means having nothing left but God - and discovering that God is enough. Perhaps it means reaching the end of our own resources - and discovering there the power that comforts and renews.

And what does this mean for us as a church? What makes a successful church? Is it one where everyone seems to have their lives together, where the pews are overflowing with shiny happy people? Or is it one where sinners like you and me come bringing all our imperfections, wounds, and failings; where we kneel together before the altar, not in self-sufficiency, but in recognition of our deep need for Christ’s healing and resurrection life?

God’s power brings life out of death, hope out of despair, renewal out of brokenness. Jesus does not withhold his grace; his healing flows abundantly to all who call on him. But true reception of this grace requires a heart turned toward God—a willingness to repent, to be changed, to let go of false securities and cling to the only source that endures. Like that homeless man’s song, our faith is not rooted in external circumstances but in the unshakable truth of Christ’s love and redeeming blood. To choose to live without this God, Jeremiah tells us, is as foolish as choosing to live without water in the desert.

So, where do we place our trust today? In what is fleeting, or in the God who raises the dead? In our own fragile resources, or in the boundless grace that restores and renews? May we, like that unnamed homeless man, come to know that Jesus’ blood never fails. May we find blessing not in worldly abundance, but in the life that Christ freely gives. And may we, as a church, be a place where his grace overflows—where those who seek him find healing, where those who turn to him find new life, and where his saving power is made known to all.