YEAR B 2024 christ the king

Christ the King, 2024
Daniel 7:9-10, 13-14
Psalm 93
Revelation 1:4b-8
John 18:33-37

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  Amen.

What we see in today’s gospel reading is a confrontation between power and truth.  And when power and truth collide, we want to choose carefully which side of that divide we land on.  There is power.  And there is truth.  And they are not necessarily the same thing.

The court chaplain of Louis XIV—the Sun King of France—was Jean-Baptiste Massillon, after whom our city of Massillon is named.  Louis the Great instructed Massillon that upon his death, the King was to lie in state in a golden coffin at Notre Dame cathedral in Paris.  As the writer Dave Dishman describes it:

At his funeral service the entire cathedral was to be completely dark, lit dimly by only a single candle positioned above the coffin. Louis the Great wanted to be held in awe by all in attendance and the candle was to remind them of his singular greatness.

When Louis the Great died in 1715, Massillon did exactly as the King had instructed. At the funeral thousands waited in silence as they peered at the elegant casket that held the mortal remains of their monarch, illuminated by the single flickering candle.

Massillon rose to eulogize the king. But before he spoke, Massillon reached out and snuffed out the candle representing the late king’s greatness. Then in the darkness of Notre Dame he proclaimed to all, "Only God is Great.”  

More than 200 years later, in 1925, Pope Pius XI decreed that the last Sunday before Advent would be called Christ the King Sunday.  Fans of history will note that 1925 is the same year that Benito Mussolini officially became the fascist dictator of Italy and was then called il Duce—or, The Leader—by the Italian people.  Against that backdrop, by initiating Christ the King Sunday, Pope Pius XI was putting a stake in the ground for Christians: earthly rulers are not supreme, Jesus Christ is.  Or, in the words of Jean-Baptiste Massillon 200 years earlier, only God is great.

So here we are: Christ the King Sunday.  And today we see our Lord Jesus called into the headquarters of Pontius Pilate and being questioned about his kingship.  On Christ the King Sunday, we would expect to get an example of Jesus’ authority, and his power, and his rule over all creation.  Instead, we get a portion of John’s gospel that is usually read on Good Friday.  That doesn’t sound like Jesus is doing a good job of being Christ the King.  So what gives?

Well, it’s because we have a distorted view of what authority and ruling looks like.  This confrontation with Pilate is one of power versus truth.  And it’s a reminder that power is not what we think it is, or where we think it is.

For me, this encounter with Pilate brought to mind the Oval Office meeting last week.  In American tradition, the outgoing President invites the incoming President-elect to the White House.  (Usually.)  And the point of that meeting is to show that power does not belong to one person in America.  In our country, power belongs to the people.  And presidents are only there because we sent them there.  And that is why outgoing presidents also attend the inauguration of their successor.  (Usually.)  Because it is not about them.  It’s about us: we the people, not you the president.

Similarly, earlier this month, we watched the investiture of the new Presiding Bishop of the Episcopal Church.  And there again, the outgoing Presiding Bishop was present as the new Presiding Bishop was installed, because the power belongs to the people, not the Presiding Bishop.  Our Presiding Bishop is not a Pope.  All those bishops only wear pointy hats because we elect them to lead us, and then they elect one of their own to be Presiding Bishop to lead their meetings.  But it all starts with the people.  Sean Rowe is called “The Most Reverend,” but he not our Pope.

Contrasted with all of that, the Roman Empire of Jesus’ day was not a democracy.  It was an autocracy, or even a dictatorship.  One Emperor ruled over all the people.  One person was right.  Caesar Tiberius was always right, even when he was wrong.  Pontius Pilate and every other underling would be constantly looking over their shoulder.  The Emperor might have you beheaded, or might make his horse a senator: his choice.  In the Roman Empire, power did not belong to the people.  OR to Pilate.  If the Emperor said jump 3 feet high and scratch your head, that’s what people did.  If Caesar declared some people good and others vermin, then that’s what people were, and that would tell you how to treat them.

So Pilate is essentially a bureaucrat who is constantly looking over his shoulder.  There is no real power for anyone other than The Leader in an autocracy.  Pontius Pilate has the same power as a government leader in today’s Russia.  And if he crosses The Leader, well you better stay away from any open windows Pontius.

So into Pilate’s headquarters steps the prisoner named Jesus.  Pilate wants to have a confrontation about power and kingship and authority.  Jesus wants to have a conversation about truth.  The power-hungry but powerless Pilate wants to know if Jesus also seeks power.  He asks him, “So you are a king?”  And Jesus responds, “You say that I am a king.”  You say it.  Under Pilate’s rules, in the world in which Pilate lives, Jesus is a wanna-be king.  But Jesus does not claim to be a king.  In fact, in the 6th chapter of John’s gospel, Jesus escapes into the mountains because he knew that the people wanted to make him a king by force.  Everybody wants Jesus to be a king.  Everybody except Jesus.

We cannot help but think of making powerful people into our rulers.  Or, making our rulers into powerful people.  When Massillon extinguished that candle at Louis XIV’s funeral, the people were shocked!  How dare he do that?  How dare he say that “only God is great” at the funeral of Louis the Great, the Sun King himself?

And yes, Pope Pius XI initiated Christ the King Sunday, but then he spent the next decade cooperating with Mussolini for financial gain for the clergy, along with the fascists’ promising that the catholic faith would be taught to all children enrolled in public schools.  Only after the fascists began earnestly persecuting Jews did Pope Pius finally retreat from his compromise.  And then . . . it was too late.  Earthly power is a dangerous thing, because human beings are a fickle people.  Always in danger of giving in to those we put in power.  Always in danger of making compromises when we should be taking stands.

But that is not what Jesus seeks.  The one who ran off into the woods to avoid becoming a king does not seek earthly power.  In the confrontation in today’s gospel, Pilate wants Jesus to define himself as a king.  Because Pilate understands kings, just as Pope Pius understood dictators.  Pilate wants to talk power; Jesus wants to talk truth.  Jesus says, “I came into the world, to testify to the truth. Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice.”  And though it wasn’t part of today’s reading, in the next verse we get Pilate’s response, “What is truth?”  As Francis Bacon wrote, “'What is truth?’ asked jesting Pilate, and would not stay for an answer.”  Pilate asks for a definition of truth, but he does not want to know the answer.

So here we are celebrating Christ the King Sunday.  And we run the risk of making Jesus into the earthly king he never wanted to be.  Because Jesus never sought earthly power.  In fact, he spent his entire life rejecting earthly power, surrendering rather than ruling.  Born in a stable rather than a palace.  Living as a guest with others, instead of in a mansion.  Choosing to eat with the weak and the outcasts, and not with the rich and the powerful.

And that is the good news for you and me.  Because Jesus does not look for those in control.  He does not seek out those in power who have everything together.  The Jesus we worship on Christ the King Sunday comes to eat with sinners.  With those who have lost hope.  With those who seek after truth, rather than power.  Jesus said, “I came into the world, to testify to the truth. Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice.”  The Holy Spirit has called us to the truth, and so we belong to the truth.  And we listen to his voice.  Because only God is Great.

Amen

YEAR B 2024 pentecost 26

Pentecost 26, 2024
Daniel 12:1-3
Psalm 16
Hebrews 10:11-25
Mark 13:1-8

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  Amen.

Now you may not knows this, but this present building is not the first St. Timothy’s Church to stand on this location.  The first building was completed in 1843 and was called “one of the finest church buildings in the state of Ohio.”  Diocesan Conventions were held in that space, and the parishioners were proud to show it off whenever they had the chance.  But over time, it turned out that the foundation was not strong enough to support the structure, and the building was sinking.  

In 1892, the last service was held in that building.  After just 49 years, one of the finest church buildings in the state of Ohio was gone.  Now this sanctuary was completed in 1898, and we once again have one of the finest church buildings in the state of Ohio.  And . . . Jesus said to his disciples, “Do you see these great buildings?  Not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down.”

As I’ve mentioned before, one of my favorite bumper stickers says “Entropy Rules!”  Entropy is the science-y word that means, everything naturally falls apart.  Like, you cut down a tree, come back in 20 years, and it will have slowly decayed into the ground.  Or, to quote from The Breakfast Club: "Screws fall out all the time; the world is an imperfect place.”  This is why we have to get our cars serviced, and launch capital campaigns to fix our buildings.  Because the natural order of things is to fall apart.  Entropy Rules!

And that’s kind of how Jesus responds to the disciples as they leave the Temple in this morning’s gospel reading, and it’s kind of depressing.  As we heard, one of the disciples says to Jesus, “Look, Teacher, what large stones and what large buildings!” And Jesus asks him, “Do you see these great buildings? Not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down.”  What Jesus could have said was, “Yes, it’s all very impressive, and one of the finest church buildings in the state of Ohio.  But Entropy Rules.  Screws fall out all the time; the world is an imperfect place.”

I have a friend who used to be a pretty hardcore Evangelical, and he was really hooked on the idea that when Jesus returns he’s going to wipe everything out and start over.  When anyone got too attached to something, my friend would say, “It’s all gonna burn.”  Like you’d say to him, “I really like our new car.”  And my friend would say, “Don’t get too attached, because it’s all gonna burn!”  Like when Jesus comes back he’s going to be carrying the Mother of All Flamethrowers.  

Some people take that view, like my friend, because they think that everything is broken and twisted and must be replaced.  Irredeemably flawed.  I personally disagree with that view, because from what I see in the scriptures, it seems more the way of Jesus to perfect things rather than replace them.  When Jesus sees a blind man, he doesn’t replace him with someone who can see; Jesus gives that man his sight.  Jesus restores things, rather than upgrading to a newer version.  At the tomb of his friend Lazarus, Jesus brings him back to life, instead of rolling out Lazarus 2.0.  In Jesus, things become what they were meant to be, rather than what they currently are, and as opposed to what people say they should be.

But there’s a tricky balance at work here.  If my friend is correct and everything is gonna burn, then why take care of anything?  Why eat my vegetables since I might get hit by a bus tomorrow?  Why start singing a song since I know it’s going to end after the last chorus?  Is there any point in pursuing beauty through preservation and care if it’s all going to be destroyed?  And that’s where there is a difference between entropy and It’s All Gonna Burn.  Entropy makes us engage to make things better; thinking It’s All Gonna Burn makes us give up.  Entropy rules . . . but not if we can help it, right?  There’s a great quote that applies here, sometimes attributed to Martin Luther:  “If I knew that tomorrow was the end of the world, I would still plant an apple tree today.”

There’s a running theme in Mark’s gospel that has come up several times in the past few months.  And that is, the disciples’ obsession with greatness.  Remember that time they were arguing about which of them was the greatest?  And Jesus shows the disciples what greatness is by placing a child in the midst of them.  So when they talk about the greatness of the temple with its large stones, he reminds them that buildings do not last forever.  Because entropy rules.  Things fall apart.

We like to judge the disciples for their obsession with greatness, but that’s only because we don’t recognize it in ourselves.  We are obsessed with growth, and bigness, and strength.  In our country, in our churches, and in ourselves.  We want to be the biggest and the best at . . . well, at everything.  We are not so far off from the disciples in this way.

One of the thrills of being the Rector at St. Timothy’s is that throughout the year I get to bring groups of people into this space and hear them ooh and aww at the beauty that has been handed down to us.  And they say to each other, “Look, what large stones and such fine Tiffany windows!”  And then I say, “Do you see these great windows in this amazing building? Not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down.  Hope you can join us for worship on Sunday!”

This section of Mark’s gospel is sometimes called The Little Apocalypse, because Jesus also says to the disciples: When you hear of wars and rumors of wars, do not be alarmed; this must take place, but the end is still to come. For nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom; there will be earthquakes in various places; there will be famines. This is but the beginning of the birthpangs.  Scary stuff, right?  Apocalyptic.

But that response is an answer to a question from the disciples.  They say to Jesus, “Tell us, when will this be, and what will be the sign that all these things are about to be accomplished?”  And here we’re really back to entropy.  Because it’s all falling apart, all the time.  We are living in a slow-motion apocalypse from the day we are born.  Just look around.  Have you seen nations rising against nations?  Earthquakes?  Famines?  When will it happen?  It’s happening right now.  You’re soaking in it!

We have no control over these things.  We’re living in a slow-motion apocalypse all our lives, and entropy rules.  And any time we start arguing with one another over who is the greatest, or marvel at our seemingly indestructible buildings, we would do well to remember this teaching.  “Not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down.”

But that’s much different from, It’s All Gonna Burn, right?  It is the natural order of things to be born or built, have their existence, and then pass away.  All will be thrown down.  In the words of the band Kansas, “nothing lasts forever but the earth and sky.”  It’s just the way things are.  When will things fall apart, Jesus?  Things are falling apart right now, all the time, even the finest church buildings in the state of Ohio.

Hearing that something is going to happen naturally makes us want to know when it’s going to happen.  And when the disciples hear Jesus suggest that all these buildings will be rubble at some point, they want to know when.  Tell us the day, Jesus.  Give us the signs that we are to look for.  Is it today?  Tomorrow?  Next week?  They almost seem to panic, don’t they?  What do you mean St. Timothy’s won’t be here forever?  What will be the sign that all these things are about to be accomplished?  Whatever will we do?

And you know why they panic?  Why we panic?  Because we put our faith in structures, and buildings, and nations.  This American democracy will last forever.  This building will always be here for us.  And when we start putting our faith in buildings and nations, well, maybe it’s helpful to have someone say to us, remember: Entropy Rules.

Jesus says, “nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom; there will be earthquakes; there will be famines.”  106 years ago this month the War to End All Wars came to an end, and simply paved the road to an even more devastating war.  If we put our trust in kingdoms, nations, and buildings, we will be sorely disappointed.

But, as we were reminded during the peak of the pandemic, the Church is not a building; the Church is us.  Sure, we happen to have inherited the most beautiful structure in the state of Ohio, but this building is not the Church.  We are the Church, along with all the others who have ever lived and ever will live.  We don’t put our hope in the current things of this world, where Entropy Rules.  But you know where we do put our hope?  

In the birthpangs, that’s where.  Yes, everything comes to an end.  But for those who put their hope in Jesus, the end is the beginning.  The rebirth is always around the corner.  As we heard in the letter to the Hebrews this morning:  

“Let us hold fast to the confession of our hope without wavering, for he who has promised is faithful.”  We put our hope in the promises of Jesus Christ.  And we can trust that hope, believe that hope, live that hope, because Jesus is faithful.  And among the promises of Jesus, we know he has promised to be among us.  Here in building number 2.

I still believe the best bumper sticker is that one that says, Entropy Rules, but I’m tempted to add, “So Far.”  Yes, things do fall apart, and then God restores them to fulness.  Yes, we all do go down to the grave, and God promises to raise us up to new life.  May God give us the grace to trust in the hope of these promises, and to live together in unity and peace, until the day that Jesus returns, and makes all things new.

Amen.

YEAR B 2024 pentecost 25

Pentecost 25, 2024
1 Kings 17:8-16
Psalm 146
Hebrews 9:24-28
Mark 12:38-44

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  Amen.

I really do love the first lesson we heard this morning, where Elijah comes to the widow because God sent him to her.  God says, “I have commanded a widow to feed you there.”  How's that for specific?  And how does Elijah even find this one particular widow?  We don’t get any clues from the reading.  But Elijah shows up and it feels a little uncomfortable when he gets there to be honest.  A widow who has nothing is being asked to give this stranger a portion of the tiny bit she has left.  And she complies.  Oof.

She says, I’ve only got a tiny bit of flour.  In fact, so little flour that I was planning to make a small cake for my son and myself to eat, and then we will die.  And Elijah seems to completely ignore her dire situation and says, make me a little cake before you feed your family.  ANY person in their right mind would say, “Um, no thanks.  We’ve got just enough to die; we can’t spare anything for you, lest we die sooner!”

We can’t tell for certain, however all the details here suggest that if Elijah hadn’t shown up, this woman and her son would have been dead the next day.  She’s made her plan.  Gather some wood for a fire.  Make a little cake.  Then lie down with my son and die.

This is how it was for widows in those days.  Which is EXACTLY why God says over and over throughout both the Old and New Testaments that people are to care for widows and orphans and immigrants.  Just look at the second half of today's Psalm.  Unless someone intervenes, they are destined to make a little cake to eat and then lie down and die.  Because people don’t care.  Because that’s just the way life is.  Widows and orphans and immigrants live at the mercy of others.  And that’s why God cares.  In that culture (and ours), widows and orphans and immigrants need people to care what happens to them.  And over and over God says, so care what happens to them!

But here is the interesting thing about this story.  If the widow had stuck to her plan.  If she had said, “No, I can’t help you, I’ve got to take care of my son and my family before I give you any extra,” she and her son would have died.  If she had adopted an attitude of circle the wagons, the pie is only so big, everyone has to fend for themselves, me first, my country first . . . well, she’d be dead.

It is only in sharing that the miracle of abundance can take place.  It is only in putting others first that we find there is always more where that came from.  And—in case it’s not obvious—this reading ties in quite nicely with the timing of our Stewardship Campaign.  She could very justifiably have said, “I don’t have enough to share because my family is on the edge.”  Just like, as a church, we could say, “We don’t have enough to share with our neighbors, because budgets are tight, and the bills don’t take a vacation, and we’ve got to circle the wagons, and the pie is only so big.”

And each one of us could sit at our kitchen table and say, “I can’t make a pledge to the church because the price of eggs is so high, and I’ve got to feed my own family first, and where will we find money next week, or next month, or any time?”  I know there’s a risk of sounding like a televangelist if I keep going in that vein, so I won’t.

But sharing what we have is what leads to truly living.  We need to consider the example of this widow when we think about our personal finances and how we spend our resources as a congregation.  Because if this widow hadn’t been willing to share with Elijah, she’d be dead.  If she hadn’t been willing to give a small portion of what she had left, she would not have survived.  It is literally by giving away what she has that she finds what she needs to carry on.

I don’t want to push this point too hard—because of that televangelist angle I mentioned—but it’s not too far a stretch to say that in giving things up, we find life.  In fact, Jesus says it all the time: in losing your life, you will find it.  In sacrificing, you will find fulfillment.  In dying, you will find life.  The first shall be last, and the last shall be first.  It’s true for us as individuals, and it’s true for us as a parish.  The more we are willing to surrender to God, the more God has to work with.  But enough of that, let’s turn our attention to the gospel, where another widow gives up all she has!

But that’s not the point I want us to take away from this gospel reading.  There’s an entirely different point I want to make, and it is related to what we’ve experienced this past week.  Or what some people have experienced this past week.  I want us to notice who gets lifted up by Jesus.

Jesus begins by describing the lives of the scribes.  These are sort of wealthy educated people who are respected in the community.  They walk around the marketplace getting noticed for being so awesome and drawing attention to themselves.  And that bit about devouring widows houses is because scribes fell into the role of what we think of today as a conservatorship, a position they then used to routinely steal from the women in their care.

So Jesus opens with a sharp condemnation of the kinds of people who walk around being flashy and popular and in control, who rip off the vulnerable ones who are at their mercy.  And then Jesus goes and sits down to watch what happens at the treasury.  More flashy people come and go, making sure everyone knows that they are giving tons of money, because they have tons of money to give.  And isn’t that just swell!  Does Jesus point to them and say how great they are for giving so much?  No he does not.  He doesn’t say a thing about them.

But then, along comes this poor widow who puts in two small copper coins, which are worth a penny.  And that’s who Jesus notices.  And that’s where we take the wrong message from this story.  We have centuries of talk about the “Widow’s Mite” and you’ve probably even seen little boxes with that phrase printed on it.  Give a couple pennies to the church, just like this poor widow did.

We want this to be a story about how a person with very little gives everything she has.  We want this to be a story about proportional giving, especially since it lines up so perfectly with our annual Stewardship Campaign.  But I don’t think this is a story about the percentage one person gives compared to another.  No, I think this is a story about who Jesus notices.

Societies elevate the people who are like the scribes in the marketplace.  The people who walk around the country club and give lots of money to the symphony.  Societies elevate the people who control hedge funds that rob widows of their investments while contributing nothing of value to the community.  Societies elevate those who have contributed “out of their abundance,” as Jesus puts it.

But Jesus notices the poor widow.  The one who is ignored by everyone else.  Jesus focuses his attention on the outcast, and the marginalized, and those whose very existence is threatened by the decisions of the majority of people around them.  If the majority are happy with their rights and their privileges and their status, why should we pay attention to the widows and orphans and immigrants?  If the majority are happy, why should we care about the trans kids, and the gay community, and the people of color?  In fact, why not use them as scary distractions in our attack ads to get elected to office?  If everything is fine for me, why should I pay attention to anyone else?  Let me just walk around in my flashy robes at the banquets and say my long prayers!  Who’s gonna even notice what happens to these other people?

Well.  To those other people, let me say clearly: Jesus notices you.  Jesus sees you when you don’t fit in.  Jesus sees you when the larger society would rather cast you off.  Jesus sees you when you find it is hard to have hope.  

Jesus saw the widow who gave everything she had.  And Jesus sees you when you think you have nothing left to give.  No matter what society is telling you, Jesus sees you.  Jesus loves you.  And Jesus is here for you.  No matter what you are going through right now, Jesus sees you.  And Jesus is here for you.

Amen

YEAR B 2024 all saints

All Saints, 2024
Wisdom of Solomon 3:1-9
Psalm 24
Revelation 21:1-6a
John 11:32-44

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  Amen.

Since this is the feast of all saints, we will once again renew our Baptismal covenant. Because it is the feast of ALL saints. And if you are bothered by anything I’m about to say, I encourage you to think deeply about why you are bothered.  And then I strongly encourage you to come and talk to me about it.  My door is always open.

There is no denying that the past decade has coarsened our rhetoric, expanded our divisions, and heightened our worst impulses.  In the past week, we’ve witnessed profoundly hateful campaign rhetoric, which—as usual—was then retrofitted to be called "jokes." And these are not even funny jokes. And these not-funny jokes are especially not funny for the people on the other end of what are very real threats to their personal safety. 

So today we will affirm our faith using the Baptismal covenant, because it is the feast of ALL saints.

Together, we will promise to respect the dignity of every human being,  Every person is made in the image of God.  And—in case it’s not obvious—human beings, made in the image of God, are not vermin.  Human beings, made in the image of God, do not poison our blood.  And Americans who vote differently than you do are still human beings made in the image of God, and they are not enemies. 

The dystopian hellscape we keep hearing about is not there. When you pull back the curtain, what you find is . . . people. Just people. Fellow Americans.  People like my immigrant great grandfather who came to this country because it is a good place, and is not the world’s garbage can.   People.  Beloved children of God. People in whom we have sworn to seek and serve Christ.  People whose dignity we have promised to respect. 

Whatever your politics, calling other people animals and vermin and poison and enemies is not the language of our baptismal covenant.  It’s just not.  Every single person is created by God, made in the image of God.  A beloved child of God. And when you call people—who are made in the image of God—anything other than made in the image of God, you are blaspheming the God who created them.  Since every person is made in the image of God, whatever you say about them, you are saying about God.  Whatever you say, you are saying about God.

Way back in 2020, we put a sign in our own private yard endorsing a particular candidate we favored for office. People left this church over that sign. Not because we had  A  sign, but because of whose name was on that sign. It wasn’t the sign; it was the name.  I will not make that mistake again, because our congregation is already a mere remnant of what we were before the pandemic. But if a sign in my yard makes you leave your church . . . . well, I don’t know what to say.

Today, we will affirm our faith using the Baptismal covenant, because it is the feast of ALL saints. 

We are going to need to start looking for unity no matter who wins this election. And—in some outcomes—there are people who will need extra protecting in the days and months ahead. The LGBTQ people whose dignity you have promised to respect. The people of color you have promised to seek and serve Christ in. The immigrants and strangers and widows and orphans whom God tells us over and over are God’s FAVORED children will need extra protecting.  And, to be completely honest about it . . . so will women.  

When the flames are burning this hot, it is our Christian duty to turn down the gas, and to shelter those the fires are aimed at. We are a sanctuary from politics, not an accelerant for it.  We are a place of shelter for the needy, not a fortress against the world.  As Episcopalians, we are people who are held together by our baptismal covenant, and we make very specific promises . . . with God’s help. 

On this feast of all saints, we will once again affirm our Baptismal covenant. Because it is the feast of ALL saints. 

We make these promises with God’s help.  And if you have trouble keeping the promises you are about to make with God’s help, ask God for help. Because with God’s help, we can do better. With God’s help, we must do better. With God’s help, we will respect the dignity of every human being.  With God’s help we will seek and serve Christ in every single person, known and unknown.  Because with God’s help we are the body of Christ in this world.

On this feast of all saints, we will once again affirm our Baptismal covenant. Because it is the feast of ALL saints.  And with God’s help we will make good on the promises we make.

Amen.