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There is a word I have learned to distrust, and that word is blessed. I do not distrust it because it is false, but because it has been cheapened. You see it everywhere now. Graduated. Married. New house. Baby. #Blessed. It has become the vocabulary of self-promotion.
At one time, the word carried weight. It meant recognizing that life was fragile, unpredictable, and undeserved. Now it is just a caption, a polished word for people who want to appear grateful without admitting luck, grace, or the chaos that governs our days.
In the Greek of the Gospels (especially Matthew 5:3–12 and Luke 6:20–23), Jesus uses the word μακάριοι (makarioi), which literally means blessed, fortunate, or in a state of flourishing. It’s in the present indicative form, “Blessed are the poor in spirit,” not “Blessed will be.”
That grammatical choice matters. It suggests that the blessing is not a reward awaiting the afterlife, but a condition already true amid hardship. It’s a radical redefinition of what it means to be blessed: not ease or wealth, but presence. The blessing is not deferred to heaven; it is alive in the ache of now. Text implies that to be blessed is not to escape suffering, but to inhabit reality in the midst of despair.
Life is a coin toss. One minute you are driving home from work, and the next you receive a phone call, a diagnosis, or find yourself in an accident. Suddenly, you are standing under hospital lights, and your own voice sounds strange to you. At those moments, you may or may not feel blessed. When you’re in such a place, it’s alright to ask, “Am I still blessed?” That’s okay. Sometimes, the most important thing we can do is sit with the moment and wrestle with the poverty of our own unknowing.
I began using the word again when my father was diagnosed with a rare form of lymphoma. Friends, family, and doctors said it often. “He’s blessed to have you here,” they would tell me. I nodded, but I wondered. Was he truly blessed, or were we both simply human, doing what humans do?
I take my blessings where I can find them. I see them in laughter that surprises me at funerals. I find them in the cook at the church breakfast who remembers what I like in my omelet. I find them in the sunlight that keeps returning, indifferent but constant, over this small and accidental planet.
Richard Bryant
Richard Bryant teaches English and literacy to adult learners in North Carolina. His essays explore faith, language, and the strange comedy of being human. He writes about the moments that test us, the words that shape us, and the small mercies that still arrive on time.