Grace to you and peace from God our Father and from our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.
Today, we celebrate All Saints
Day, the day the Church gives thanks to God for all who are declared saints by
grace, through faith in Jesus (which is all Christendom, by the way - a name
not merely reserved for those of extra-ordinary faith or works, but every
single Christian). Especially today, we thank God for the faithful who have
gone before us, living and dying in faith.
I have to admit; All Saints Day
gets me. It hits in two ways – one, our memories of those who have died in the
faith, but also, two, the picture of the resurrection when Jesus returns.
The readings for today set the
stage. In his first Epistle, St. John tells us that we are all children of God
- not just called His children, but we are His. We are adopted into sonship and
daughter-ship. If you know anyone who has gone through the adoption process,
you may understand how expensive it is for lawyers and court fees. Our Divine
adoption was even more costly: God surrendered His only-begotten Son to pay the
adoption price. But, the benefit is eternal: God sees you as little Christs,
Christian. Then, there’s John’s Revelation - it’s truly a wonderful book, so
misunderstood by so many. They think it’s a roadmap filled with secret truths
to deduce and hidden messages to try to get you to the end, sort-of the BIble’s
version of Chutes & Ladders. It’s not. It’s the Revelation, the revealing,
a glimpse of what eternity will be like in the resurrection of all flesh, as
God sits on His throne, and the Lamb, Jesus Christ. And then there’s the
Church. The word used in the Greek New
Testament for “church” literally means “the called-out ones.” John says that
the Church is called out from everywhere - all peoples, tribes, nations,
languages, backgrounds, family histories and genealogies. They’re in white -
there it is again - waiving palm branches. Palm Sunday is reversed: Jesus isn’t
entering in humility to die, surrounded by misunderstanding people waiving palm
branches; this time, He enters in resplendent glory surrounded by those who
rejoice that sin, satan and death are destroyed and they no longer need to
fear, or weep, or mourn, or shed tears because those they love are suffering
and dying. Revelation paints this magnificent picture of what awaits us on that
great and glorious Easter of Easters when Jesus returns and renews creation.
But, we’re not there yet. Now,
we’re still on this side of heaven. While we look forward to the heavenly
reunion with our Savior and those who have died in the faith, right now, and
especially today, we remember and we grieve. For some, that grieving is still
raw, painful, and tears well in the eyes. For others, it’s less painful but
there is still a twinge, a little ache in the heart. For some of you, here
today, that grief is still incredibly close and personal.
Hear again Jesus’ words in the
Gospel, “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.” Among the
list of Beatitudes, that can be missed, but today, hear those words for you. He
was speaking prophetically, early in His ministry, already pointing ahead to
the purpose for which He came. The comfort we have lies in the death and
resurrection of Jesus because His resurrection guarantees our own resurrection.
Death is not the end for those who believe in Jesus as Lord. For the church,
this side of heaven, we have that promise of a day of comfort that will be
complete when Jesus returns. Then, the church on earth will join the church
triumphant. You know this: you will say it in just a moment. “I look for the
resurrection of the body and the life of the world to come.” But, I want you to notice, Jesus doesn’t
scold: shame on those who mourn, for you should know better; there is no need
to mourn because your feelings aren’t valid. No; He says, “Blessed are those
who mourn, for they shall be comforted.”
There is comfort here, in the
body of Christ. We mourn with you because we have mourned as well. You do not
mourn alone. We are the body of Christ, remember, and just like the whole body
responds when you stub your toe, the body of Christ responds when you hurt. Let
us mourn with you. There is comfort in the Word of God, for in that Word is the
promise of the forgiveness of sins. It was sin that brought death into the
world, and in Christ’s death and resurrection is forgiveness. There is comfort
in Holy Baptism. With death destroyed and the grave opened, sin’s eternal,
damning power is also destroyed. In Christ, there is forgiveness for our loved
ones who have died in the faith and for us, who live by faith. Therefore, that
same Word gives us the comfort of the resurrection to come. You will confess it
in the Creed: “I believe in the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the
body, and the life of the world to come.” Life eternal is already a gift given
you as a child of God. We see it dimly, now, but look forward to seeing it in
it’s full radiance in Christ, the Lamb. There is comfort in the Lord’s Supper.
In the old, Scandanavian tradition, communion rails were half-circles. The
image, the idea, was that the other half of the circle, the unseen part,
continued into heaven where, as we say in the communion liturgy, are the
angels, archangels, and all the company of heaven joining in praises to the Lamb
of God.
All Saints Day and Easter go
hand-in-hand. Through the resurrection, we are made holy. As holy people, we
have the blessed promise of our own resurrection into eternity. And, as Easter
people, we sing that hope and joy that we have in Christ. Martin Franzmann,
theologian par excellance, famously wrote “Theology must sing,” and so
our hymnody carries this confession of the resurrection as well. It especially
shines on Easter and on All Saints Day.
Frank Sinatra once sang about
love and marriage, "You can't have one without the other." While
experience shows him to be often wrong about that connection, in Christ, death
and resurrection do go together. You cannot have one without the other. Christ
died and rose; He rose because He had died. Likewise, when we die, we shall
live again, and we live into eternity because we died in our baptism, the Old
Adam and Old Eve being daily drowned by grace through faith in Him who died
vicariously, one (and once!) for all. That eternal, eschatological hope - or,
as I say, "Hope with a capital H" - is ours for a resurrection
reunion with those whom we love and, more importantly, with our Lord who loved
us enough to die for us while we were still sinners.
That Capitol H hope fuels my
singing. So, when singing those verses about the resurrection of all flesh and
the Hope that is ours in Christ, it gets me every time. There is sadness as I
remember, but there is joy, too: I'll get to see parishioners whom I buried, like
Ralph, Edwin and Val; friends whom I have mourned, like Gene, Raymond, and Joe,
my grandparents, Fred and Melinda, Herman and Regina, Aunt Loraine, Uncle Bill,
Uncle Fred. I'll get to meet people I never knew, people from parts of the
world I've never seen, people from whole other epochs of time - saints, one and
all, whole and holy in the blood of the Lamb.
I began this by saying All Saint’s
Day gets me. The hymn that hits the hardest and most hopeful is "For All
the Saints," Sine Nomine if you prefer Latin titles - and who
doesn't love to drop a little Latin now and then. You’ll sing it during
communion distribution. Don’t just sing on auto-pilot; pay attention to what
the words say. The text moves us from remembering the church militant with our
struggles on earth, now, all who live under the cross of Jesus, living in faith
while looking forward to that which we see, at times, dimly and at other times,
quite clearly. Yet, even when its dim and dark and hard, hearts best strongly
with the promise of God in Christ for a great, glorious day. Alleluia!
But, I don’t think I have ever
finished singing the hymn. By the time we get to verse 5, with that Hope, I am
down to a mere squeak of a voice as the organ thunders and the congregation
sings:
"But then there breaks a
still more glorious day:
The saints triumphant rise in bright array;
The King of glory passes on His way.
Alleluia, Alleluia!"
Usually, I am unable to see the
words printed because of the tears running freely. Thankfully, I have the words
committed to heart. But, even if I could see, I can't sing between sobs - or,
because I'm fighting to not burst into full-fledged weeping. The hymn paints us
the glorious picture of the church in glory, 144,000 magnified and multiplied
and majestic, without number, all singing in wonderful, angelic thunderous
voice.
"From earth's wide bounds,
From ocean's farthest coast,
Through gates of pearl streams in the countless host,
Singing to Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.
Alleluia, Alleluia!"
Maybe on that day, when I stand
among them, maybe then I'll be able to sing. But today, I can't. Today, I'll
hum along and murmur another Alleluia as I wait and thank God for all the
saints.
So, today, if you mourn the death
of fellow saints of God, mourn in faith knowing that they are already
experiencing the peace of God which truly passes all understanding. Your loved
one’s body is at rest but their soul is already experiencing the beginning of
the fulness of eternity. Jesus calls it “being asleep.” That’s a good way to
think of it. Mourn in hope - remember,
hope with a capitol H that is Jesus - in
the sure and certain hope that you, too, will have your resurrection day. Mourn
and give thanks to God for those whom you love who have died in the faith that
they shared with you. Mourn knowing you will see them again because Jesus
lives.
We say this on Easter. We need to
say it today, as well.
Christ is risen. He is risen,
indeed. Alleluia.
We are risen. We are risen, indeed. Alleluia.
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