Becoming the Beloved, II: Blessed

When did someone last say something good over you, out loud, to your face? Not a quick “nice job,” but something that told you who you are? For many people the honest answer is “I can't remember.”

Nouwen's chapter Blessed starts from the idea that we need blessing from other people. To bless, he says, is to affirm someone's belovedness. He also notes that it is as easy to feel cursed as blessed, because the world and our lives are broken. The difference, in his words, is that blessing speaks the truth and a curse speaks lies. Think about it: the careless comment from a parent, the label from a teacher, the joke at your expense that never quite left. Those can work like curses even when nobody meant them that way.

Numbers 6 shows how seriously God takes blessing. He tells Moses to have Aaron and his sons bless the people, and he supplies the words: “The LORD bless you and keep you; the LORD make his face to shine upon you and be gracious to you; the LORD lift up his countenance upon you and give you peace.” Notice two things. First, nobody blesses themselves here. The people receive it from another person's mouth, which fits Nouwen's point that we need to be blessed by others. Second, the blessing is not flattery. It says nothing about talent or performance. It pictures God's face turned toward you, shining, with nothing held back.

The last verse is the surprise: “So shall they put my name upon the people of Israel, and I will bless them.” Speaking a blessing is like writing God's name on someone. That's a weighty thing to hand to a neighbor.

A small illustration of our own: telling a coworker, “You did great on that report,” is praise. Telling them, “I've noticed how you stay steady when everyone else panics, and I'm glad you're here,” is closer to blessing, because it speaks to who they are, not just what they produced.

Nouwen also names a second path for claiming blessing, which is paying attention to the small blessings in ordinary moments: warm coffee, a text from a friend, a clear sky. Blessings are easy to miss when you're hurrying.

A caution about the practice below: nobody is owed your voice. If someone has hurt or harmed you, you don't have to approach them, and you can bless them in prayer from a distance or pick someone else entirely. If words of cursing in your past still hurt, a counselor or pastor can help you work through them.

Notice who the psalmist is talking to in verse 5: “For God alone, O my soul, wait in silence, for my hope is from him.” He's talking to himself. He has to tell his own soul to be quiet, which suggests it wasn't quiet to begin with. Anyone who has tried to sit still for five minutes knows that feeling. The mind races, the to-do list shouts, and old criticism rises up.

Nouwen calls this the real labor of prayer. In his view, prayer is mostly falling quiet in order to hear the voice that speaks well of us, the voice that calls us blessed. He pairs it with a second practice: cultivating presence to the small blessings in ordinary moments. Both ask for the same hard thing, which is to be fully where you are.

So why is that so hard? Here are a few reasons of our own. We're used to being useful, and silence feels unproductive. Our minds live in the past or the future, replaying and rehearsing. And in the quiet, the voices of self-rejection from Day 2 often get louder before they get softer. If you've ever quit a quiet time because it felt worse than not trying, that doesn't mean you're bad at prayer. It may mean you finally got quiet enough to hear what's been there all along.

The psalm doesn't hand you a technique. It hands you ground. God is called “my rock and my salvation, my fortress,” and the psalmist says, “I shall not be shaken.” Silence is safe here because of who is on the other side of it. Waiting isn't staring at a blank wall. It's resting against something solid.

And don't miss verse 8: “Trust in him at all times, O people; pour out your heart before him; God is a refuge for us.” Pour out your heart. Silence in this psalm isn't a ban on honest words. Pouring out whatever's inside, the worry, the anger, the long to-do list, can be what makes room for stillness afterward. Think of emptying a bucket before you listen for rain.

Try shaping a short prayer in three parts: talk, quiet, hear. Talk honestly for a couple of minutes. Then stop talking. Then, in the stillness, listen for one true sentence from God about you, such as “You are mine” or “I am well pleased,” and stay with it a moment.

If silence stirs up grief, numbness, or painful memories that feel too big, please tell a pastor, counselor, or trusted friend. You don't have to sit alone with that.