Fourth Sunday of Ordinary Time – Sunday 1 February 2026

Welcome to each one of you who has gathered here to pray — in St Mary’s Cathedral that has carried the faith, the questions, the tears, and the hopes of generations of Tasmanians.

This morning, we heard the Beatitudes proclaimed once more. They are among the most familiar words in the Gospels. They are often chosen for weddings — perhaps because couples hope they will set a direction for the life they are beginning together. And they are frequently chosen for funerals — because families, looking back over a life well lived, recognise something of their loved one in those striking phrases: gentleness, mercy, a hunger for what is right, a quiet faithfulness through hardship.

However, the Beatitudes are more than a checklist for good behaviour. They are more than moral advice. They are, in fact, a work of art.

The Beatitudes are like a painting — but no ordinary painting. They are a self-portrait. In these few lines, Jesus reveals himself. The Master Artist has taken a brush to canvas, and what emerges is the face of only one person: Jesus Christ himself.

Every beatitude describes him.
Poor in spirit — surrendering himself to the Heavenly  Father’s will.
Gentle and meek — never forcing, never dominating.
One who hungers and thirsts for what is right — especially for the dignity of the forgotten.
Merciful and forgiving — even from the Cross.
Pure of heart — without manipulation or deceit.
A peacemaker — willing to suffer wounds in order to heal division.
And, as the prophet foretold, a man of sorrows — persecuted and spoken against simply because he does the will of the God whom he calls Abba.

This is not an abstract ideal. It is a face. It is his face.

And like every great portrait, it does something remarkable: it draws you in. You cannot glance at it and move on. You have to stop. You have to look — really look. And as you linger before this portrait of Christ, something unexpected happens. The painting begins to look back at you.

Because the Beatitudes do not only show us who Jesus is. They quietly, persistently ask who we are becoming.

As we contemplate the face of Christ — gentle, merciful, pitching his tent among saints and sinners alike — we feel a longing stir within us: a longing not just to admire him, but to resemble him. Not merely to praise his way of seeing the world, but to learn to see with his eyes.

And that is the quiet power of the Beatitudes. They are Christ’s self-portrait — and at the same time, they are an invitation. An invitation to let our own lives be reshaped, slowly and truthfully, into his likeness.

There is still more hidden in this painting. Look carefully at the background, and you may notice something easily missed: a ladder.

The Beatitudes are like rungs on a ladder. They are not meant to be conquered all at once. They are not ideals for the heroic few. They are steps — taken one at a time, over a lifetime.

It begins with recognising our need: poor in spirit.
Then comes letting go of control, learning gentleness.
We grieve what is broken in ourselves and in the world.
We hunger for justice, not for just comfort.
We learn mercy — especially when it costs us.
Our hearts are purified of possessiveness and fear.
We refuse to make enemies, choosing instead the hard work of peace.
And when faithfulness brings misunderstanding or rejection, we keep walking.

This ladder is not about climbing away from the world. It is about learning how to live fully within it — as Jesus did.

To look like Jesus, we must slowly become like Jesus.

And, here is the great promise held out to us today: the one whose portrait we contemplate does not stand at the top of the ladder, watching from a distance. He climbs it with us. He meets us on the rungs. He carries us when our strength fails.

If we dare to take this journey — patiently, imperfectly, one step at a time — then something extraordinary happens. We do not only begin to resemble Christ. We begin, ever so gradually, to see the world as he sees it.

And that, friends, is where true blessedness lies.

Archbishop Anthony J Ireland