Goodbyes Stink

I checked my phone and saw who had called. Him calling me at 8am on a Sunday wasn't good. "Jon, I wanted you to know that Dad's gonna hear you preach in heaven today." Those words took my breath away. My friend, Ray, had died last Sunday, November 18, and his son, Danny, called me with the news. I sat down at my desk, put my head in my hands, and wept.

In my vocation as pastor, I deal with death and dying on a regular basis. I've lost track of the times I've spoken the words of the Rite of the Commendation of the Dying, yielding our loved ones to the Lord's care: "Father, into your hands we commend his spirit." Dozens of times, I've made the sign of the cross and spoken a final blessing over the body of the dead, "Now may God the Father who creates this body; may God the Son who redeemed this body with His own precious death; may God the Holy Spirit who sanctified this body in the waters of Holy Baptism, bless and keep these remains until the resurrection of all flesh."

I tell you this so you understand I am no stranger to death and dying. Most of those times, I do so with dry eyes. Yes, I have shed a tear; once or twice I've even had to pause to collect myself, clear my throat, and with a deep breath continue.

But this has hit me hard. All week long, as I've remembered my friend, my throat has gotten tight,  my chest felt heavy, my eyes moistened, and a tear would trickle down my chest. It hurts. My friend has fallen asleep in Jesus.

Oh, I know the answer is in Christ: don't misunderstand me. I know, believe, trust and rely that in Christ's death and resurrection, He has conquered sin, death and the grave. I trust Jesus' promise, "I am the resurrection and the life... He who lives and believes in me will never die." With Martha, I answer Jesus' question, "Do you believe this?" with "Yes!"

But, remember, even after this exchange, when Jesus stood outside his friend's tomb, He wept. Honest tears, hot tears, sad tears. Death isnt supposed to happen. God didn't create man to die; He created man to live. Jesus wept because death was interrupting life.

Yes, He knew He would interrupt death by raizing Lazarus and then with His own resurrection. But in that moment, death hurt.

Death is hurting today. It has all week. I tried and failed to sing "I Know That My Redeemer Lives." Tears ran hot and free. I choked up offering condolences to the family. And when I shook Danny's hand, we were two sons who lost fathers and two men who had both lost friends in each other's fathers.

That's where I am.
This is who I am:
A Christian...
Who hurts..
Trusting in the promise of Jesus...
While knowing His tears.

Ray: the Storyteller

Raymond:
Storyteller & Friend

"Wellllllllll...." If Ray answered you with that word, long-drawn out for about three seconds of your day, you better sit down, because the answer would take a while. It would be worth your time, but you had to slow down. Maybe he did it because the shop was inside of Mickan's curve, forcing traveler and customer to slow down, anyway. Maybe it was because his brain was so full of stories he had to sort them out.  Maybe he wanted you to know for sure you were getting it straight from the horse's mouth. Maybe it was because out in Walburg, folks still greeted each other with a "howdy," a handshake, and a sit-a-spell way of life when a job was done.

I am convinced his motto was "Never tell a two-minute story in two minutes when you can do it in five, unless you're calling the sheriff or the ambulance, and then you better just get to it, because those 911 operators just don't have patience to sit and listen to this story about why we need their help in the first place, although that might be good for them to know about how that time when so & so called and the ambulance had to drive by the house four times - this was back before houses had actual numbers and not just rural route mail box assignments - but this ain't the time for that part of the story, so I reckon y'all better get out here pretty quick, huh?" Or, at least something like that.

The omnipresent matchstick or toothpick would dangle loosely from the corner of his mouth, maybe a throwback to when he and everyone else smoked, and bounce to the cadence of his lower lip, occasionally rolling to the other corner, or being withdrawn and used like an old-school classroom pointer for emphasis.  His brow would furrow in concentration or to show the seriousness of the comment and information he would deliver. Grey coverall sleeves would dance as his hands gestured north, south, east or west to show you where the event happened or the person in question lived or came from.

Setting the hook...

               

But the sound effects were a big part of setting the stage. A single "tick" or "click" of the tongue against the teeth said more than the ominous "dum-dum" of Law and Order, letting the hearer know this was serious stuff. In ancient literature, Shakespeare could have used this sound to begin any of his famous tragedies. This would usually be followed by arms getting crossed, chin lowered slightly toward his chest, and then a baritone rumble, "Let me tell ya..." And he would. He would remember the names, places and details and, with the storyteller's way, he would weave it together so you understood how the event in question touched him, or a family, or one of the churches of the Walburg-Theon-Corn Hill metroplex. He wasn't name dropping, but name telling so you knew these were real people who had known or were experiencing real hurt. To emphasize a point, he would stop talking, purse his lips tight across his teeth - there was that "tick" again - push his head forward and retract it, maybe give a single shake to the side, then clear his throat and come to the sad conclusion, "It was a real hard time for them," repeating it once for emphasis, a half-octave lower, "a real hard time."

But, if it was a comedy, those arms would cross - or not - and a smile would spread over his face. He had Teddy Roosevelt teeth - a big, friendly grin - and they could never hold back the deep guffaw that rumbled out. His eyes lit up and, like a fisherman who just caught the biggest fish ever, he knew he had a good one on his line. His voice would rise and fall, like a fishing pole, keeping tension and giving slack. The storyline would dance up and down, side to side, details here, the setting there, swirling around just a bit so you had it all figured out, letting out a little more information, then reeling you back in for more. The twinkling in his eyes danced like sunlight on the water. A chuckle, or maybe an honest to goodness laugh, would burst out into the open. Now the question arose in the hearer's mind - just a whisper of a hint - is this true, or is it a story? Did Indians really roam Walburg two hundred years ago? Well, I guess it was possible, the hearer thinks. If a story, is it a local joke or is it one of his own invention? Wait - Cockleburr Indians? Why didn't we hear about them in Texas History? Like the eternal question, "How many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll Pop" - and he always had some of those in a glass candy jar on the counter for kids (of all ages) - the world may never know.

And he loved listening to a good story, too. He was a good listener. If he interrupted you - one arm, suddenly unfolding, hand held out in a wait-a-minute stop sign - it was because he was missing a piece of information and he wanted you to give him the whole story, or maybe he had a tidbit to drop in to fill in your narrative. Maybe it was a person he knew, or a place he had been, or your story intersected with one of his own. It was his way of teaching storytelling, I guess, to help pull it out of you.  If you got him with a good joke, his laughter echoed in the shop. If the story touched him, his voice was thick and nit much more than a whisper. More than once, I saw a tear in the corner of his eye. More than once, he would say, "I gotta remember that one to tell ol' so & so..."

I had the privilege of listening to this storyteller for the good part of five years, working for him summers, Saturdays, and vacations. In my line of work, being able to tell a story is important. If folks don't want to listen, they'll never hear what I'm saying.

Last fall, I met a funeral director. We were talking about strange funeral stories, killing time - you should pardon the expression - before the family arrived at the church. He told me his story; it took about two minutes. I think he was of the Joe Friday school - just the facts. I knew I had to up my game to hook Joe Friday into the narrative. I invited him to have a seat. "Got a minute?" I said. "Might as well sit down." Then I got to it. I crossed my arms, a smile crept across my face, and a single guffaw erupted from deep within my chest. "Wellllllllllllll," I started, and like Jerry Clower (who was another good storyteller)  would say, I shucked that corn down to the cob. He interrupted me, once, with the observation, "That wasn't right!" I knew I had the fish on the line. Details, voice, information...all following the master storyteller. Ten minutes later, he was slapping his thigh, laughing. He looked at me. "You're a good storyteller," he said.

Thanks, I said. I learned from one of the best.

House of Palms Speech: Changing the Story, One Life at a Time

Board members, honored guests, and friends: Thank you for the honor of being with you tonight. It is a privilege being here to share my story with you.

I first heard of House of Palms a little over a year ago. Some of Barbara’s friends attend my church and, through them, I met Barbara. If you’ve not met her, imagine a woman with the energy of a perpetual motion machine, the warmth of a spring day, the tenderness of a grandmother, the faith of Ruth, the determination of the Little Engine that Could and an enthusiasm for this project that can only be described as infectious. I say this because I caught it as well. The more she talked, the more interested I got in House of Palms and thought this would be a mission opportunity for our church to help make a difference in the lives of some special folks.

So, I connected Barbara with our ladies’ group at Zion Lutheran in Mission Valley. Within five minutes after Barbara left, the ladies set the goal to purchase one of the needed washer/dryer units for the House.  Last month, Zion did a fundraiser to benefit one of our families.  The Lord provided mightily, and we exceeded our goal by 40%. I’m both humbled and proud to say that with no question, the abundance was passed on to House of Palms. If you are here tonight, on the fence of whether to support House of Palms, if Barbara calls, emails or knocks on your door, just give up and say “yes.” She is an irresistible force. For the record, if she leaves House of Palms, I call first dibs on her to chair our church’s Stewardship Drive.

Let me tell you why House of Palms is so important to me as a Lutheran pastor.  First and foremost, I believe life is a gift of God and we, as God’s people, are called to preserve and protect life – including the lives of the unborn. We live in a world of convenience, expediency, and selfishness; where the wants of the unholy trinity of me, myself and I trump the needs of others; where the wants of the greater and stronger overwhelm the needs of the lesser and the weaker. No where is this seen in a more demonstrable way than in the lives of the unborn children. House of Palms will provide a loving, caring and supportive alternative to an option that otherwise might be forced on these young girls by a parent, a boyfriend, or even their own, terrified conscience that is afraid of tomorrow.

On January 22, 1973, the Supreme Court handed down the Roe v. Wade ruling that legalized abortion in the United States. In the forty-five years since then, the Centers for Disease Control estimates that about 50 million babies were not born due to elective abortion procedures. Fifty million: that’s a 5 followed by seven zeros. Let’s try to put that in perspective for a second. According to www.census.gov, the state of Texas has about 27 million citizens. That means that for every Texan, two children were not allowed to live since 1973. To make it a little more local, there are approximately 100,000 people in Victoria County. That means for every citizen of our county, five hundred babies have been aborted.

I was born on January 29, 1974 – exactly a year and a week after the Court’s decision. I could have been part of that very sad statistic. I could have been that part of the lost generation after Roe v. Wade. While that’s technically true of all of us born after January 23, 1973, I think it’s a little closer to home for me. Let me explain.

Thanks to modern medical technology, parents today can see a remarkably clear and amazingly detailed 3-D picture of their child in the mother’s womb. In 1974 such technological wonders didn’t exist, at least not in rural Iowa where my parents lived. But, if it did, it would have shown a couple of strange things about my little body.

By definition my body was physically handicapped with birth defects. I say “by definition,” because I’ve never considered myself “handicapped” nor having “birth defects.” Regardless my opinion, the fact is that my body is malformed. I have no toes on either foot. My toe-less feet look like the forefront of my foot was traumatically amputated. My feet are stumps that can fit on a 3x5 note card.  Both of my hands are dwarfed. My left hand has full fingers, but my 14-year-old son now has longer fingers than I do. Where your middle knuckles allow your fingers to bend and flex, that is where the fingers on my right hand stop and, although I can bend my right thumb, I cannot flex my right fingers at all.  This wasn’t Thalidomide-induced, or an umbilical cord that strangled a limb. There was something wrong - a flaw - in the genetic code that makes fingers and toes. 

One of the arguments offered by pro-choice groups is that children who will be born with mental or physical handicaps will, theoretically, have an altered, lesser quality of life than “normal” babies. Because of this, they suggest these children should be aborted so they (or their parents) won’t have to suffer. Let’s apply this theory to my story. Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that modern technology was available in 1974 and it showed my physical malformation. Further, and again for the sake of argument, let’s say that Mom and Dad were counseled that my birth defects would impact my quality of life with physical and emotional difficulties. The conversation could have been as bad as a doctor telling them this: “We can tell that your son is handicapped.  He might not be able to walk or run; he might never be able to throw a ball or manipulate anything with his right hand.  He will certainly be different than other children. Do you want your son growing up to be the one every other child stares at?” What if Mom and Dad agreed and decided to abort me? My family of 6, growing up, would have been a family of 5…well, perhaps 4 had they followed the same line of thinking for my sister when they discovered she has dwarfism on both of her hands, also.

My sister and I would be nameless statistics scored by the CDC.

So, I thank God every day for a lot of things. I thank God that Mom and Dad were blissfully ignorant of my situation and that they chose to have and love a baby who was physically different. But, was I really that much different? They never treated me that way. I played baseball, football, softball, and racquetball. I played trumpet in the high school marching band. I mowed lawns, hauled hay each summer, and trespassed – I checked, the statute of limitations has expired on this– across many a farmer’s fields to hunt rabbits and squirrels and go fishing. I’m good with my hands, typing quickly and accurately, and untangling necklaces for my wife and daughters. I’ve worn out three sets of prosthetic feet since 1996. I’ve held hands with a beautiful woman who became my wife. We’ve walked on beaches and mountains, stood in deserts and forests together. When Laura told me she was pregnant, I prayed that our children would be “normal;” I wept with joy when the sonograms showed all three of our children to have normal hands and feet; then I counted each precious finger and toe on their newborn feet multiple times to be sure we didn’t miss something. On Sundays, I stand in front of a congregation of saints of God and get to tell them of God’s love for them in Christ Jesus. I guess I understand the sentiment behind “quality” when it comes to life but, remember: for there to be any quality at all, there must first be life.  All these things were done because my parents weren’t worried about my quality of life. They were simply thankful God had given them a life. Incidentally, my name, Jonathan, means “God gives.”

Don’t misunderstand me: I wouldn’t wish my hands or feet on anyone. Without toes, the shock of walking and running transfers straight to my hips and spine. I have multiple herniated lumbar discs and my back, knees and hips are starting to hurt most days. Although I wear a full-foot prosthetic, my gait is odd.  Standing for long periods of time is uncomfortable – I guarantee I’ll never preach more than 20 minutes. Buying shoes, even with my prosthetics, and finding gloves that fit is a challenge. Over the years, plenty of people have given me “the look” when we shake hands for the first time. At the swimming pool, people stare when I walk by.  My nephew once quipped, “Uncle Jon – push your toes out!” And I’ll never forget when my own brother, when he was 3 or 4, bluntly asked – as only a young child could do – “What is wrong with you?”

But, while I wouldn’t wish them on anyone else, I thank God for my hands and my feet. I see them as they are: imperfect, but part of what makes me, me. In high school, I wanted to be a Marine, but the Marines couldn’t take me. I tried the Army, the Navy and even the Air Force – no one would take me. Yet, the Lord had already taken me – hands, feet, and all my members and senses – and made me His. Called His child through Holy Baptism, He later called me into the Holy Ministry. As a pastor, I’ve stood next to newly-minted parents with their own baby, and I’ve sat next to parents, weeping, because their child died all-too-soon. My hands have poured baptismal water over a baby’s head and poured sand upon the grave of the elderly who have died in the faith. With my dwarfed hand, I’ve made the sign of the cross in holy absolution and in blessing.

It’s those hands and those feet that have brought me here this evening. That’s my story. Why are you here? Why have your feet carried you here this evening; why have your hands accepted the invitation to be part of this event? Some of you are here because you already have a passion for this project and are already giving of your time, skills, and financial gifts to see the House of Palms succeed. Some of you are being recognized in a special way for what you have done to take this from an idea, to a structured plan to the brink of dedication and opening for business. Thank you. Still others are here because this is new to you - you’ve heard about the House of Palms and you’re curious about what it’s about or how you can help. Let me tell you: you have the unique opportunity to be involved in making a direct, immediate, and loving difference in the lives of these girls and their babies.

And, maybe for some of you, you are here because you see some of your own story reflected here and it’s drawing up old memories and hurts. Perhaps your story is similar to that of the girls who will be living in the House, and you wish you had a place like this for yourself, or for a daughter, or for a granddaughter or a dear friend. Perhaps years ago, you were pushed to make a decision about a baby, one which you still struggle with. Or, perhaps you were the one who pushed your girlfriend or daughter or wife to make that choice and that ache still throbs in your chest.  If this is you, and your conscience is burdened by your past, I would count it an honor and privilege to listen to your story, with care and compassion, without judgement or hatred, provide pastoral care in the name of Christ Jesus for you.

Whether you are a new supporter of House of Palms or you were here on the ground-floor or you are somewhere in-between, you get to be part of another story. You are helping a mother’s life-giving choice to be a little easier by helping provide them have a safe place to live. You will help them celebrate their child’s birth instead of wondering how to survive. You can help a child begin a life and grow so that he will one day play baseball with your grandson, she will march in the band with your great-grand daughter, he might drive a tractor in the field of your family farm, she can work in your family business while she saves to buy her first car. Maybe, just maybe, one of these kids might grow up and figure out how to make missing feet and fingers grow. 

A builder builds a house. A house is a thing, an object: it is shelter. We have the house. Your support will make this house into a home. A home is a living, breathing place where a family lives, where love, mercy and grace are practiced. This will, indeed, be a unique family of single moms and babies, but it will be a family. This House of Palms will also be a unique home because it will give these girls safe a place to receive Godly, unconditional, sacrificial love for themselves and for their babies. They will receive encouragement, support and help for their choice of life. While none of us can guarantee this will be easy for these girls and babies, your help makes it easier. Giving them a safe place to live means they don’t have to sacrifice the life of a child to please or appease someone else for the sake of convenience.

In your gifts of compassion, given to these who our world deems to be the least, you act with the loving hands of Christ to these girls. They may never know you; their babies probably will not be named after you. But these mothers and their babies will know someone loves. And one day, those mothers can sit and tell their children a story that starts, “Once upon a time, God brought together a bunch of strangers in Victoria, Texas, who, without meeting us, loved and cared about us to make sure that we had a home to live in.”  I can’t wait to hear how that story will end.

Thank you.

"According to the Word of the Lord..." I Kings 17: 8-16

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and from our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen. The text is the Old Testament lesson, 1 Kings 17:8-16.

What would you have done if you were in this would a woman's shoes?

Elijah has spoken the word of the Lord against King Ahab, king of Israel. He “did evil in the sight of the Lord, more than all who were before him.” That’s saying something. The Scriptures then add, “Then, as if it had been a light thing for him to walk in the sins of Jeroboam…he took for his wife Jezebel…” Combined, their sins against God, and leading the people of Israel against God, were so great that the Lord commanded Elijah to prophesy that a drought would come across the land. The rivers dried up. The creeks dried up. The wells dried up. The fields were scorched. Crops died. Famine was widespread. The people of Israel suffered tremendously for their sins and the sins of their king. If Old Mother Hubbard were alive, not only was the cupboard bare, so was the water jug.

There was no FEMA. The Red Cross, UNICEF, World Health Organization - none of these things existed. The National Guard wasn’t going to show up with cases of MREs and bottled water. If you were out of food and water, and didn’t have any way to acquire more – remember, there wasn’t any food - you would die. Remember, also, she was a widow so she was without support. Her son was apparently too young to be the man of the house. Even if there were family members around, how could they help? They were busy trying to survive, too. The situation was desperate, to put it mildly.

So, what would you have done?

That was this woman’s plight. We might describe her as a glass half empty kind of woman, but that would be giving her way to much credit: the jar wasn’t even half full. All she had was a handful of flour and a drizzle of oil left and she planned to make a little snack-sized bread to share with her son. Did you catch the detail about how little there was – she only needed to gather a couple of sticks for enough fire to bake it. That’s it. And then they would have to sit and wait to starve to death. Miserable plan, I know, but what would you have done? I know what I would be doing…I would be pacing the floor, then stop and measure and re-measure the flour and the oil to make sure I had it figured right. I would have lost sleep for days, trying to figure out how I would make this work. I would probably cry, pound my fist, and rub the beard right off of my chin.

And then this stranger shows up and tells her to bake him the bread, first? Who is this guy? A stranger, a traveler, a bum? He’s some kind of itinerant prophet, apparently, invoking the name of God – which is a rarity itself in Israel under King Ahab – and saying the flour and oil won’t run out. Still, he thinks he’s more important, more special than her own flesh-and-blood son? Feed him before giving her son a final meal? Now, what would you do?  Show him the door, right? Tell him to go down the street and ask the next family – maybe they have more to spare. What would you do?

This woman, who is a glass-half-empty kind of woman, thankfully listened to Elijah. We don’t know what she was thinking. She might have been mixing, rolling, patting, and baking that little loaf with a lump in her throat and a knot in her gut fearing what was happening; her eyes may have been wet with tears knowing what awaited her own son; she may not have been rejoicing, “Oh, good! This is a prophet of God!” But she did as she was commanded. She poured, she mixed, she patted, she baked and she fed Elijah. And, wonder of wonders, joy of joys, miracle of miracles, when she looked there was just enough flour and oil for her son and she to eat as well. “The jar of flour was not spent, neither did the jug of oil become empty, according to the word of the Lord that he spoke by Elijah.”

“According to the Word of the Lord…” When the Lord speaks, that which seems impossible is done. It creates from nothing. It multiplies the meager. It blesses that which is imperfect and makes it beautiful. When the Lord speaks, that which seems impossible is done.

“According to the Word of the Lord…” Don’t ever forget how powerful that Word is. That same Word of God, that same voice of God which spoke light into the darkness, that created everything from nothing, that made man in His image, that same voice of God speaks to you as well. The word of the Lord spoke into the darkness of sin and death and called you with water into a baptismal relationship with Jesus. The word of the Lord is preached through the voice of a sinful man, yet that voice is used to create and strengthen faith in Christ.  The word of the Lord declares to you that all of your sins are forgiven in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. The word of the Lord speaks with a piece of bread and a sip of wine and you receive Christ’s body and blood, given and shed for you, for forgiveness of sins and the strengthening of your faith. The word of the Lord is spoken to you in blessing, encouraging you as you go home, enabling you to begin and end each day trusting in His name and His promise.

People have argued for centuries whether the glass is half full or half empty. The answer isn’t in it’s relative fullness or emptiness. The answer is in it’s ability to be refilled.

Luther said at the end of his life, “We are all beggars.” It’s the truth. Before God, we are as empty as that poor widow’s flour jar. We have nothing to offer God. Yet He does something with His Word that we cannot do for ourselves. He forgives us. He baptizes us, joins us to Jesus’ death and life.  We stand in the presence of Almighty God, by grace through faith in Christ, and in the midst of Sin’s famine, to our utter lack and emptiness, to our spiritual hunger and thirst for righteousness, God in Christ fills our sack. He gives us the Bread of Life, Christ, living Bread come down from heaven. He fills our empty sack so it’s slopping over and overflowing. And, as we go through the week, the sack is slowly emptied. Some gets used when we argue with our spouse. A little more gets consumed each day at work and at school. A whole bunch is used up following that car down Navarro at lunchtime. A little more is used up at the doctor’s office, and at the bank, and at the principal’s office. And by Saturday, you’re looking for the crumbs at the bottom of the bag. With repentance, knowing you are a sinner who deserves nothing at all in that sack, but with faith that trusts Jesus is going to refill it, you come back here to the Lord’s house, empty sack in hand. And you see something remarkable…you’re surrounded by brothers and sisters in Christ whose sacks are also emptied. Nothing in your sack you bring, simply to the cross you cling, knowing Jesus is going to fill it again. Why? Because it’s His promise…according to the Word of the Lord.  

All Saints Day With Tears in Our Eyes: 1 John 3:1-3

Grace to you and peace from God our father and from our Lord and savior Jesus Christ Amen.

Dear friends in Christ Jesus our Lord: A blessed All Saints’ Day to you. All Saints Day isn’t like Christmas – we don’t decorate for it. It’s not like Easter – we don’t dress in our finest clothes. It’s not like Epiphany, or Lent or Advent, those long seasons that lead to great festival celebrations, either. It’s a uniquely Christian commemoration, one that – thankfully – hasn’t been commercialized. It remains in the realm of the sacred, the holy, the consecrated. I am glad it does.

As much as I love Christmas, or Easter, or Pentecost, I especially love and appreciate All Saints Day. It stands as a day of reverence as we remember the saints of God who have fallen asleep in Christ over the past twelve months since All Saints Day of last year. All Saints Day reconnects us to the faithful who have gone before us as we remember them, their lives of faithfulness in Christ, and the witness they bore in life and in death.

I’ve stood at the graveside of brothers and sisters in Christ some sixty times and commended their bodies to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Children and parents, fathers and mothers, sons and daughters, wives and husbands all laid to rest, trusting in the promise of Jesus, “I am the resurrection and the life. He who lives and believes in me, though he die, yet shall he live. Do you believe this?” And with those words read for us, we answer with Mary and Martha, usually in the silence of our minds, “Yes, Lord, we believe you are the Son of God.” Yes, we do so in Easter hope and confidence, as the hymn sings:

“And now the Savior is raised up, so when a Christian dies,
we mourn, yet look to God in hope – in Christ the saints arise” (LSB 486 v.2b).

We can make this confession because, as St. John says in this morning’s Epistle lesson, we are called children of God. And, remember, when God speaks it is most certainly true. Being a child of God is not just mere wishful thinking: it is truth. God declares it: you are His child, through faith in Christ Jesus. United with Christ in Holy Baptism, you are part of an inclusive group of people. You are part of the church.

Church has a lot of meanings. We talk about the church building – let’s go decorate the church for Christmas. We talk about a congregation – What church is that? Oh, that’s Zion Lutheran Church in Mission Valley. We might even talk about a church body, a denomination, such as the Lutheran Church – Missouri Synod. These are all good uses of the word. Nothing wrong with it. But never forget that first, and foremost, when we speak of the church we speak about people, the body of Christ.

In the Greek New Testament, this is called the ekklesia, which means “the called out ones.” In our modern usage, we don’t like being called out. Your boss calls you out for being late; your teacher calls you out for inappropriate behavior; your spouse calls you out for spending too much money. In this case, though, being called out is a blessing. This begs a few questions: Called from where? Who called us? What are we called to do?

In his first Epistle, Peter answers the question this way: “But you are a chosen people, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people for God’s own possession, to proclaim the virtues of Him who called you out of darkness into His marvelous light. Once you were not a people, but now you are the people of God; once you had not received mercy, but now you have received mercy” (I Peter 2:9-10). You are called by God, through Christ, to be His own dear people. You are called out of darkness, that is out of a world of wanton sinful selfishness, and into His light so that you might proclaim the love and mercy of God in Christ. And, most importantly, you are called a holy people.

What does it mean to be holy? We usually think of holy as being sinless, but at it’s root it means set apart. It pairs with church. The set-apart, called-out ones.

But, unfortunately this is where we sometimes get in trouble when we think about saints. We think that a saint is holier than any of us can possibly be. We consider the lives of the men and women whom the church refers to as saints – St. Peter, St. John, St. Paul, St. Mary, St. Joan of Ark, just to name a few – and we rationalize we aren’t worthy of tying their sandals, let alone being placed on the same pedestal as they are. We look at their lives of faithfulness and confession in wonder and amazement, and consider our own plight as being unworthy.

Remember: when God declares, it is true. God declares you holy in Christ. God declares you a saint through faith in Christ. In Christ – see, that’s the key. We will confess this again in the Creed: “I acknowledge one baptism for the forgiveness of sins and I look for – I yearn for - the resurrection of the dead and the life of the world to come.” There it is: the forgiveness of sins. This is what makes us saints: Christ’s once-for-all satisfactory holy death payment for all of my unholiness. If there is no Jesus, there are no saints; none of his holiness, none of our holiness. But there is Jesus, there is His holiness, there is His forgiveness imparted fully, freely, richly through baptismal waters onto you. So you are holy - you are set apart by God, by His grace, through faith in Christ. In Christ, you are holied, you are sanctified, you are sainted in Christ Jesus.

What does a saint look like? Look around: go ahead. Look at those who are around you. You see a snapshot of the saints of God. You remember the uses of “church?”  I say a snapshot because this church (congregation) only represents a small sliver of the whole Christian Church on earth and in heaven. Last Tuesday I was at a pastor’s conference in San Antonio hosted by our new District president. Most of us were Anglo men of Germanic or Wendish heritage – much like Zion, if you add in a few Czechs. But there was a small group who came from Mexico; there was a missionary from Germany; there were two Brazilians who were supposed to be with us, but they came down with the flu and – thankfully – stayed home. There were a half-dozen women from the District office who were there. There were members of the hosting congregation who cared for us. It was a bigger snapshot of the church on earth. Now, keep blowing that picture up…the church knows no limits: all people, all nations, all skin colors, all languages, male, female, adults, children, infants to elderly, all united through faith in Christ. Now, you’re getting close to what the church – the called out, set apart saints of God - looks like.

And, there is even more.  And, here is why All Saints Day is so important for us who still live and breathe out lives of faith and witness this morning. We are reminded that the church exists also into eternity. In the first reading from Revelation, St. John saw the heavenly multitudes that no one could number, the ones who are coming out of the great tribulation. In other words, the Spirit allowed him to see the faithfully departed who are already at peace with Christ.  In Christ, you are united to these saints of God as well. In the old Scandanavian Lutheran Churches, the communion rail was a half-circle. The design was intentional: the idea is that you imagine the remainder of the communion rail continuing through time and space into heaven where the saints join with you in celebrating the resurrection. We will confess this in the communion liturgy, “Therefore with angels and archangels and with all the company of heaven we laud and magnify your glorious name, ever more praising you and singing…” and then we join in singing the sanctus, “Holy, holy, holy Lord God of power and might.” And, in that moment, the entire church on earth and in heaven rejoices and you are united, through Christ, with those who have departed the faith.

But, as St. Paul says in 1 Cor. 13:12, “We see through a mirror darkly.” Yes, we admit this. We know the grave is conquered and blown open by Christ’s Easter triumph…but, when we stand at the graveside sometimes it’s hard to see anything but the grave itself and the body of our loved one lying there in peaceful rest and repose as if asleep. Don’t look at the grave…look through the grave. So, we follow in the footsteps of the saints who have gone before us, who followed the saints before them, who followed in the footsteps of Christ. Confess it in the Creed as they did before you – I believe in the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting. Amen.”

I was finishing my last year of seminary when my dad died on the morning of April 25, 2000. I preached that morning in chapel, in fact – ironically, it was the commemoration of St. Mark the Evangelist, two days after Easter. Now, when I didn’t find out Dad had died until after chapel was completed and a friend found me, delivering the message relayed through a friend. When Laura got to campus, we made our way to the Dean of Students office. He started to complement me on the sermon, but I cut him off and told him my tragic news. I remember he deflated and flopped into his desk chair. After a moment, he said this: “Now, you are called to live the faith you just preached.” This is what All Saints Day does for us, the Christian Church on Earth: it gives us the opportunity to live the faith that was taught to us by those who have gone before us. Many of us do it with tears – and that’s OK. The tears stand as testimony of our love for the departed.

The hymns of All Saints Day always get me. They keep us leaning forward, looking towards the day of Christ’s blessed return. We’ll join with the countless throngs that St. John saw, with holy and whole bodies, raised and glorious, the consummation of Easter that never ends.

But, lo, there breaks a yet more glorious day: the saints triumphant rise in bright array;
The King of Glory passes on His way! Alleluia! Alleluia! (LSB 677 v3).

But we’re not there, yet. We still wait, in eager expectation for the return of Jesus. As we wait, we continue to sing:

Oh, that day when freed from sinning,
I shall see Thy lovely face!
Clothed then in the blood-washed linen,
How I’ll sing Thy wondrous grace!
Come, my Lord, no longer tarry,
Take all sin and death away!
With your angels come and raise us,
Bring the realms of endless day. (LSB 686 v. 4, revised)

And the Spirit and the Bride say, “Come quickly, Lord Jesus. Come.” Amen.