All Saints Sunday
For this morning’s reflection, I’d like to offer three comments. I’m not sure these three thoughts are connected, but I trust you will hear all three as enthusiastic invitations to live in the grace and hope we share together.
First, we are in the midst of the stewardship season here at St. Alban’s. On November 24, we will gather the pledges that you and I have made to support our congregation in the new year. Filling out the pledge form is something I try to do automatically and quickly. I tell myself that this is a voluntary commitment – and that things have always worked out in the past.
For some reason – perhaps Christine’s reflection last week – my pledge this year has become a pause to savor what it represents. I’ve come to realize just how many people’s lives are affected by my financial support of St. Alban’s. Of course, this small group that gathers with such determination here every Sunday– and sings like a large congregation – benefits in a big way.
But five days a week, dozens of children learn and grow here. AA groups and others meet regularly. Musicians practice, and in the course of the year hundreds attend Calliope concerts. A sizeable Jewish congregation gathers once a month.
What a gift it is for us to have our gifts to St. Alban’s have such a big impact. Talk about walking in love!
Second, this year we are observing All Saints with election day less than 48 hours away. We’ve seen and heard so much this past year. We’re all holding our breath. We’ve been living with constant worry, dread, and despair. No matter how this election turns out – and we may not know for days or weeks – the ugliness and division are sure to continue.
I don’t have any happy, optimist thoughts to offer you, but I do give thanks that, in recent years, our government has done many good things and has provided help to so many. Things are far from being where they should be, but they could be a lot worse – and many measures (like sidewalks in Albany!) have been put in place that will make a difference in the future. We are so fortunate to have the right to vote to keep trying to make ours a safe and civil society.
And I know that, no matter what happens, we will have this beloved community – this Body of Christ – that will welcome and sustain us through the days ahead.
My third comment is about today’s Scripture readings. These texts for All Saints’ Day are clear and bold in their proclamation of the Gospel’s promise: We and all the saints live in a time of resurrection. As we’ve heard all year from the Gospel of Mark, this is good news that happens immediately. Our hope is not some airy palace in the future, but a new heaven and new earth right now.
Every Sunday, we gather together for a banquet – to sing and pray about our new life together. Here at St. Alban’s, we celebrate the Eucharist only twice a month, but every Sunday I’m amazed by the offerings for our coffee hour. What a symbol of the rich life we share together.
For me, singing and praying with you always feels like the bandages are being unwrapped – and, following Lazarus, I can walk out of the tomb of my life.
What makes all this more joyous is that we experience this new heaven in the midst of an earthly life saturated with death.
Today, both our first and second lessons are apocalyptic. They take the lid off and are a revelation of what’s really going on: the whole world is collapsing, the cosmic order is coming to an end.
The verses of our first lesson from Isaiah 25 are beautiful, but they are part of what’s called the Apocalypse of Isaiah. In chapter 24, an immense blood bath takes place – buildings, people, and trees are destroyed. The prophet proclaims that, as Babylon obliterates Israel, God is cursing them for their faithlessness. So much for aging in place!
And, with good reason, the book of Revelation is called the Apocalypse of John. The temple in Jerusalem has been destroyed. So many of the city’s inhabitants were killed that blood flows through the streets. Now, when John the Seer is writing, Roman oppression of Christians is equally bloody. The Babylon here is not the Babylon of Isaiah, but a stand-in for imperial power that grinds out death and destruction.
In contrast to these apocalyptic announcements, today’s Gospel from John offers a small, intimate account of the revivification of Lazarus. One person – with two sisters – in one small town. Nice, but not that big a deal.
John’s Gospel – unlike the other three Gospels – doesn’t include a final speech by Jesus that uses apocalyptic language. There’s no prophesy about widespread destruction and the Son of man coming on the clouds in glory.
Yet today’s Gospel from John is apocalyptic. Death and despair do hold sway. Jesus dawdles in coming in response to Martha’s urgent plea. He lets Lazarus die. He dismisses their grief and sorrow. And Lazarus is very dead and he really stinks.
But, confronted with the death of Lazarus and the grief of his sisters, Jesus doesn’t turn back. To be sure, he is deeply disturbed and he weeps profusely. Still, though, he walks up to the tomb, trusting that God’s glory is at work.
And Jesus keeps coming to us Sunday after Sunday, shouting at us and taking us by the hand. He keeps telling us, “You will rise.”
And Jesus doesn’t come alone; he always brings others. Mary and Martha, Alban, Karen, Patricia, Dorothy, and all the others who are now with us in Spirit. And, of course, he comes with each of us here today to lift us up.
Jesus is able to raise us to new life because he stops at his own tomb.
At the very end of the account of Lazarus being raised, at verse 53, we hear that Jesus’ raising Lazarus moves the religious leaders to begin planning his death. Later, in the Garden to Gethsemane, Jesus, like Lazarus, will be bound.
But the good news is that for Jesus and for us – resurrection takes place in the midst of death. In his crucifixion, Jesus swallows up death. In his tomb, Jesus throws off the burial shroud.
As we heard in the first chapter of John, Jesus goes to the darkest of places, and God’s light has overcome the darkness.
That is the light that, in a few minutes, we will light candles to remember those who have died. It is the light by which we read the prayers and sing the hymns that fill out lungs with God’s new life. And, today, all the saints are joining us in this holy uproar. Amen.