The Feast of All Saints is about our past, our present, and our future as the Body of Christ. Today it is my honor to be invited here to share in your local, parochial witness to that claim.
All Saints is about our past because we gather here profoundly aware of all the saints who have gone before us, the ones who from their labors rest. That includes those “capital S” saints that we share with the one holy, catholic and apostolic faith: people like Peter, Paul and Mary (the originals, not the band!) and Mary Magdalene and Andrew. And down through the centuries, people like Julian of Norwich who lived through the plague and still insisted that “all shall be well.” And Francis of Assisi who lived during the crusades and kept on praying, “Lord, make me an instrument of thy peace.” We sometimes feel like we are living in challenging times and we surely are. But is there really anyone here who considers the days of Julian or Francis to be “the good old days?”
All Saints’ Day is about our past because it also gives us a chance to remember our own personal small “s” saints as well. As we recall those who touched our lives and perhaps continue to influence the life of this parish, those who are now part of that great cloud of witnesses, we no doubt recall some happy memories. And maybe also a few loose ends and unresolved conflicts too, because life and death are rarely as tidy as we wish they would be. For most of us there is some stuff we keep working on long after our loved ones are gone. So we remember them on the day of their birth, and on the day they died and on Christmas morning and lots of moments in between. And on this thin, holy day. They are still part of the fabric of our lives because our lives are knit together, as today's collect puts it. Let me just admit here, publicly, that my colleague Pam Mott is constantly speaking up for knitters and weavers as Biblical metaphors when the Bishop and I are arguing about baseball. And I know your rector is also a knitter. So here, today, on this Feast Day, we remember that our lives are knit together. And our relationship with those who have gone before us is changed, not ended, by death. This is why even at the grave we dare to make our song: alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.
But All Saints’ Day is not just about what has been. It’s also about what is, and what will be.
…they lived not only in ages, past…there are hundreds of thousands still. The world is bright with the saints of God!
As we gather here today, look around you and see God’s beloved: claimed and marked and sealed as Christ’s own forever. Conventional wisdom uses the word “saint” to mean somebody who is holier than thou. But that is not what I mean and that’s not what the Church means by this word. I mean the baptized, these companions God has given to us along the way, these fellow witnesses to the good news of Jesus Christ with whom we walk this road as followers of Jesus. These saints teach church school and sing in the choir and serve on the finance committee. They say prayers for us when we are experiencing joy or carrying heavy burdens, and they sit at vestry meetings when there are probably twenty-three other things they would rather be doing. Now that is true love!
If the saints around us are only those who lived in ages past and we are not finding ways to be faithful today, then it’s just about ghosts. If we aren’t trying, with God’s help, to be saints in our own day then we misunderstand what this mystic sweet communion is all about. They cheer us on as we continue to struggle to be what in the old days they used to call “the church militant.” That metaphor is problematic for me and I’m not suggesting that we revive it. But the point of that old language was to remind the Church that there is work to be done today and while the saints triumphant cheer us on, they had their turn! The work that God gives us to do is ours, here and now, and if we don’t take up that mantle then we are always in danger of becoming a museum and not the Church. We need all hands on deck.
So I love All Saints Day, because it reminds us not only of our heritage but because it also calls us to fidelity in the present. But there’s even more: this is such a thin place that we also get a glimpse into the future. While we give thanks for those who have gone before us and celebrate the saints in our midst, we also try to peer beyond this moment to the culmination of human history. Even as we shed a tear or two for those whom we love we see no longer, we recall God’s promise to wipe away every tear. We reflect on the banquet where all of God’s children are fed and there is always room at the table for one more. Where the wine is beyond to die for, it’s to live for. And the roast beef is done to perfection. That is what Isaiah is talking about. Can you not perceive it?
We come forward at the Eucharist to taste and see that the Lord is good, and to have a foretaste of the heavenly banquet there is room for all of God’s children to gather. And they are all God’s children, from the east and from the west, from the north and from the south, from every tribe and language and people and nation. That is where John of Patmos picks up on where Isaiah left off: imagining a world where there is enough for all. Enough food. Enough wine. Enough healthcare. Enough hope. Enough faith. Enough joy. Enough peace. Enough love.
This is a beautiful church, but as you all remember, the church is not a building. We learned this as children and that lesson is still true: the church is not a resting place. And the church is not a steeple. The church is a people! The church is the communion of saints. Christian faith is about the hope that inspires us to join in the adventure that is headed toward that future day. This is our work, to participate in and to cultivate God’s mission taking hold in this world and to live the words we join with Christians throughout the centuries in praying: thy kingdom come on earth as it is in heaven.
Now, let me move from preaching to meddling.
This is a very challenging time to be the Church. You are blessed to have an outstanding rector here, a faithful committed priest. But these times are filled with anxiety and questions about identity, and also a lot of loss. Loss of what we remember of filled Sunday Schools and pews. Being the Church today is a lot more like wandering around the Sinai Desert (hopefully not for four decades). Ultimately we are in search of the Promised Land but in the short run we are in need of daily bread, and water to stay hydrated. In the short run we can get turned around and disoriented and even cranky. Manna again? Really? All we get is stinking manna! But the Spirit does indeed seem to be leading, or driving, this work. And this much I know, because I can tell you from watching it unfold: it is messy, Church. But it’s also holy, Church.
Today’s gospel reading doesn’t give us a roadmap and definitely not a GPS. But perhaps it is a kind of compass that can help us to at least get our bearings in these challenging times. First, notice that Jesus weeps at the grave of his friend, Lazarus. In those tears we see that we really do have a friend in Jesus, one who shares not only our joys but our burdens, too. I think it’s a good reminder that we should never underestimate loss. Someone has said that it’s not change people are resistant to, but loss. Every change that comes our way, even when it is good change, also represents some measure of loss. But we need to remember also that the costs of inertia are very high as well and we need to acknowledge that. Often we put enormous energy into resisting change because the costs seem too high. But I wonder what happens if we follow Jesus’ lead and weep for what is lost, so that we can then see more clearly what lies ahead? The truth is not only is the church of the nineteenth century gone, but the church of the mid-twentieth century is gone too.
So there were saints who lived in ages past who made decisions based on the leading or driving of the Holy Spirit and they cheer us on now. But it is you and I who are called to be saints in this time and place. Look around you: this is the starting lineup. I know some days it may feel like the Bad News Bears more than the world champion Boston Red Sox, but this is it. You go with what you got. At various speeds, congregations across this diocese are beginning to let go of the past in order to discover new missional strategies toward God’s preferred future, trusting that those who sow with tears will reap with songs of joy. So listen to what comes next. Listen to what Jesus says: (1) Roll away the stone; (2) Lazarus, come out; (3) Unbind him and let him go.
Roll away the stone. We don’t tend to be people who are comfortable rolling away stones. We like to leave things put: my grandmother donated that stone! Sometimes we entomb what needs to be called forth, but you know what, after a while it starts to smell when we do that. Four days, sometimes forty years or more. I have a friend who says that too many churches don’t smell of incense any more, but of mildew.
But then, Lazarus, come out! Jesus doesn’t go in to get his friend. Nor does he send in others to do so. Lazarus needs to move away from that tomb himself and toward the One who is Resurrection and Life. I don’t think that requires a lot of words from me on this day when we stand in such a thin place. But just to be clear since we’ve come this far and I’m since I’m almost done: what might it look like to hear Jesus saying to you, as a faith community, as the baptized: come out and live!
And then finally, because Lazarus has been bound up like a mummy: unbind him and let him go. There are many things that keep us bound up, to be sure. But I’m running out of time. So I’ll let you all work on that one in the days and weeks and months ahead. I do believe this work of unbinding is the primary work we are called to in the Church today.
Alright, now here is the thing. Your rector asked me to come here and talk about stewardship today. And she may be upset with me, or think I’ve forgotten what I agreed to do. I want to say to you all, though, and to Nancy, that this is for me the heart of what stewardship is all about. If we know who we are, and whose we are – if we care about being part of a community that has a rich heritage and a present mission and a future crown of glory then we need to act like we believe that. Where our hearts are, there is our treasure. Or to say that another way, show me your checkbook and I will tell you what you really believe.
If this community is something we truly value, then our choices about what we do with our gifts, our time, our money, should reflect that value. Those choices need to reflect our priorities. We need to keep first things first.
I do a lot of work with a lot of congregations across this diocese. The most ones most focused on mission are the ones that cultivate faithful stewardship because when the budget is not a worry, there is energy to focus on what matters. This is not rocket science! It’s the same in our homes. Families that live beyond their means are always in stress.
Most parishes are not living beyond their means. Most parishes are not overpaying their clergy or giving too much to mission. Most parishes are underfunded. You have an opportunity – an invitation – to change that culture. When everyone shares the work, and shares their resources, missional energy is unleashed. And the saints get to be focused on the right things.
My whole theology of stewardship is still summed up in that old line still spoken at Rite I Eucharists in many places: “all things come of thee, O Lord, and of thine own have we given thee.” My friends: it’s all God’s. God suggests we live on a budget of 90% of it, and let at least a tenth of it go, to build up the Body of Christ. We do that with glad and generous hearts when we trust that the Church’s best days are not in the past, but ahead of us.
In the name of the living God, Amen.
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