YEAR C christ the king

Christ the King, 2025
Jeremiah 23:1-6
Psalm 46
Colossians 1:11-20
Luke 23:33-43

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

So, this is the last Sunday before Advent starts.  No more green . . . for a minute.  And it’s the end of our year spent hearing from the Gospel of Luke.  We call this day Christ the King Sunday, and it signals the close of the church year.  And knowing that it’s Christ the King Sunday might lead you to ask the obvious question:  Why is our king hanging on a cross?  Why don’t we hear instead about Jesus’ resurrection?  Or, you know, some part of the story that looks a little more like reigning victorious rather than dying beside a couple two-bit thieves?

Well, since we’re right on the verge of Advent, it will probably help to start with how God arrives on the scene in the beginning.  The Jewish people were waiting since forever for the Messiah, the anointed one.  Someone to knock the oppressors off their perch and throw off the yoke of oppression.  You know, someone riding in on a white horse with a blazing sword who could set things right.  A king of restoration, when it comes right down to it.

But let’s take our minds back to what we remember from the Hebrew scriptures.  God told Moses, if the people would serve God as King, they would have no need for kings. They needed a leader, yes, but not a king.  (And Moses, you’ll remember, was a shepherd, not a king.)  So God says, I the Lord shall be your king.  And Israel was led by prophets and judges—not kings—for generations.  (I’m paraphrasing whole books here, so bear with me.) 

After 400 years of being led by those prophets and judges, the people approached the Prophet Samuel, clamoring for a king “like all the other nations.”  This desire to be like other nations is the root of the problem for them.  God didn’t want them to be like other nations; God’s ways were not their ways.  And having a king (as they would soon find out) would lead them right down that same path as their neighbors.  Then we get Saul, and David, and a whole list of kings who do what is evil in God’s sight.  The kingdom splits in two:  Judah and Israel.  The people are taken away to foreign lands in captivity, and the Jewish people start coming back five hundred years before the birth of Jesus

(Almost done.)  Then Alexander the Great takes over Palestine in 331 BC; then the Jewish people revolt and take it back (which you’ll find in the books of Maccabees); then the Romans take over, the Parthians invade, and Herod gets the Romans to support him in taking it all back.  Herod dies, and his three sons take over (two of whom also named Herod, because he was so darn creative), and this leads us right up to what we could call year zero.  Or, maybe more accurately, 4 AD, but who’s counting?

After all this violence and oppression, God’s chosen people again want a mighty warrior king who will overthrow the Romans and restore them to their land and heritage as a free people.  And what do we get?  A baby.  Born to an unwed mother.  In a feeding trough, behind a sold-out hotel.  This Jesus cannot possibly be the Messiah they’ve been waiting for.  He’s a defenseless baby.  He is no king.  But that’s for next month.

Now . . . fast forward 2,000 years and here we are.  Gathered on a Sunday morning, and looking for a king.  It’s Christ the King Sunday.  And what do we get?  Not a king lifted up in glory, but a man on the verge of death, hung between two thieves.  One who is beaten and mocked and disgraced.  God’s people wanted a king, and instead they got a baby.  We want a king, and instead we get a man about to die.

You know what we have in common with God’s people across the ages?  We don’t understand kingship the way God shows kingship.  We associate being kingly with being powerful and getting our way.  We expect a ruler to force their will on others, for better or worse.  In fact, we have come to expect a leader to act like the people all around Jesus in this gospel reading.  Mocking, taunting, humiliating, full of arrogance and spite.  We expect the king to be the one who sentences someone to death. 

But, turns out, the King is the one on the cross.  The King is the one who is willing to suffer, and willing to lay down his life for others.  Not what we would expect.  And that leads us to the disconnect in this gospel we just heard.  

Notice how everyone is setting up these if/then scenarios for him.  
The people say, If he is the Messiah of God, let him save himself.  The soldiers say, If you are the King of the Jews, save yourself.  One of the criminals says, Are you not the Messiah? Then save yourself and us.  And we might also say, if you are a king, come and save us too!  Come and make things better.  Come and save us from the senseless violence and creeping despair.  Come and save us from the pain and darkness in our world.  If you are the Messiah, come and save your people!

You see where that puts us, of course.  If we are expecting that Jesus, the Christ the King who will squash our enemies and stamp out evil . . . well . . . we kind of end up sounding like the people mocking Jesus, don’t we?  Jesus has to prove himself to us through his mighty deeds.  And we end up speaking the words of the angry crowd, the mocking soldiers, the taunting thief on the cross.  And that’s the natural reaction to this scene, isn’t it?  Jesus never claimed to be a king.  But the people wanted a king, like the Israelites wanted a king, and so they made him a king.  And when the king can’t defend even himself . . . well, what kind of king is that?  Off with his head!

But today we see God offering us a different way.  We see that victory is through surrender.  We see that serving is winning.  If our way of life requires others losing, others dying, others suffering, then it is not the way of God.  Because here we see that God loses, God suffers, God dies.  God sacrifices for us.  This is kingship.  This is royalty.  Christianity turns everything on its head, every time, and God’s ways are not our ways.

And this is the point where you say, okay Father Preacher man, that’s all well and good.  But it sure doesn’t sound like . . . you know . . . good news.  We get that Jesus came to serve, and we get that Jesus is willing to lay down his life, but . . . well . . . so what?  But maybe we ask those questions because we’re still thinking like the crowd, and the soldiers, and the mocking thief.  So let’s look at the other person in this story.

Then he said, "Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom."  Jesus replied, "Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise."

When we set aside our natural drive to get Jesus to prove himself, when we set aside our quid pro quo of “if you really are who I say you are,” when we step back and focus on what we really need from a savior rather than from a king, then we can say to Jesus what we really need to say.  And it is just this:  Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.

That’s the one request that matters.  That is the true sign of faith in the midst of turmoil and despair.  If we ask one thing of Jesus, it should be this:  Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.

And it is interesting, to me, that this other thief on the cross should word it this way.  The others are saying, if you are a king, then save yourself.  And if you are a king, then save us.  But the thief on the cross is saying, when you are a king.  When you come into your kingdom.  When you come into your kingdom, remember me.  When you are seated at the right hand of God, remember me.  When the angels and archangels and all the company of heaven forever sing this hymn . . . remember me.

Which brings us to this Altar.  That hymn, that song, is going on at this very moment.  You and I are remembered in that kingdom, a kingdom that is not of this world.  And in a few minutes, you and I will once again join in the timeless stream of that eternal hymn.  It is not a song sung to a leader on earth, as though we were just paying homage to some temporary ruler.  No, it is a song that goes on forever, to a Savior who rules our hearts forever.  It is a song that unites us with people of every time and every place.  A song of praise to the King of heaven, and the Savior of the world.  Christ the King, who rules this Sunday, and all the days to come.  Lord Jesus, ruler of our hearts, remember us in your kingdom.  Remember us all in your kingdom.

Amen.

Elizabeth of Hungary

Elizabeth of Hungary, Princess, 1231

Wartburg Castle, in Eisenach, sits in the Thuringia region of Germany.  I have visited this castle several times.  To Lutherans, it is something of a Mecca, being the place where Martin Luther hid out from the Pope after he was excommunicated.  While there, Luther translated the New Testament into German for the first time.  So it’s kind of a big deal for Lutherans.  On my many visits, I have always been taken aback by the mosaics that cover the walls and ceiling of what was once Elizabeth’s bedroom in the castle.  Dating from 1904, they really are quite stunning, as befits the bedroom of a princess.

But as one looks closer at the details of the mosaics, you see that they do not depict the life of most princesses, riding horses and doing cross stitch.  Rather, they show poverty and disease, and Elizabeth doing her best to tend to those in need.  They are beautiful, and colorful, and tragic, and surprising.  In short: they depict a life well lived.

As we heard in her hagiography, Elizabeth was a literal princess, being the daughter of the King of Hungary.  And yet she showed concern for the poor at an early age.  She married the Landgrave of Thuringia, which only elevated her position, and moved into Wartburg Castle where she could have lived a lavish life of luxury.  Instead, she began giving away her dowry and possessions to feed and nurse the desperate peasants living around her.

Her generous acts were deemed “extravagances” by those at the Wartburg, and she was forced to leave the castle.  Extravagances.  When you and I hear that word, we probably think of a bedroom needlessly covered in mosaics.  We might say it is extravagant to buy expensive jewelry, not sell it to build a hospital for the poor.  We think of extravagance as wasteful spending, not overwhelming generosity.

Is it extravagant to save hungry children, or to care for the needs of the dying?  Before we answer “NO!” we should consider where our money actually goes: as a nation, as a congregation, as individuals.
Is it extravagant to feed children and build hospitals?  The court at Wartburg thought so.  Do we?  Does our parish?  Does our government?  It’s an uncomfortable thing to ponder.  What at first seems obvious isn’t necessarily the case on closer inspection.

Which brings us back to those mosaics covering the walls and ceilings of Elizabeth’s bedroom in Germany.  Though they seem extravagant—maybe even wasteful—on closer inspection, they show a life of intentional poverty, giving up riches in order to save the lives of the poor and outcast.  
And maybe that’s the key to seeing God at work in the life of Elizabeth and those like her.  Beautiful mosaics created to show us true selfless giving.  A woman born into the lap of luxury pouring out her life to serve her neighbors.  Are these wasteful or extravagant?  Certainly not, especially if they inspire us to go and do the same.

Which in a way points to our Eucharistic meal.  Beautiful precious chalices pouring out the blood of the crucified Jesus.  Gorgeous architecture dedicated to proclaiming the unconditional love of One who gave up his life for us.  

From a distance, these extravagant beautiful things might seem wasteful.  But if they inspire us to serve our neighbors as Elizabeth did, then they are no extravagance at all.  They almost seem too humble, given what they offer to the world.  May Elizabeth’s life inspire us all toward extravagant, selfless giving: of ourselves, of our time, and of our possessions.

YEAR C 2025 pentecost 23

Pentecost 23, 2025
Malachi 4:1-2a
Psalm 98
2 Thessalonians 3:6-13
Luke 21:5-19

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

Well, this is quite a collection of readings this morning, I think you’ll agree.   We don’t have sufficient time to fully deal with the reading from second Thessalonians, but I feel like I have to say something. Because it really needs its own 40 minute sermon, which you won’t be getting from me.  But it is important to remember that not everything in the Bible has equal weight.  A letter written by an apostle to the church in some city is not the same as the words spoken by Jesus in one of the four gospels.  Whatever this Thessalonians reading is, it is not the heart of Christianity.  And it most certainly is not what Jesus taught.

As we heard, “Anyone unwilling to work should not eat.”  It sounds like something we intuitively agree with, which is exactly why it’s so dangerous. It fits with how we view the world. We pass laws saying parents receiving government assistance must also work, while somehow also watching their children.  And it’s a quick slippery slope to talking about the “worthy poor,” which implies the existence of the “unworthy poor.”  And don’t even get me started on that blasphemous concept!  But we can see that this is not the message of Christianity by just asking a few questions . . .

If those who don’t work should not eat, explain to me the parable of laborers in the field, where those who show up at closing time get the same amount as those who worked all day.  Or, how has Mary “chosen the better way” by just sitting at the feet of Jesus while Martha toils in the kitchen?  Or, taken to it’s extreme, why should we ever feed babies or our pets, since they clearly haven’t worked a day in their lives?

This reading is a red herring for Christians. Don’t believe the hype.  When Paul wrote this letter to the Thessalonians, he was writing to a specific group of people, experiencing specific problems, in a specific time and place.  We are not those people.  So let me just say this:  People who do not work still deserve to eat, no matter what you just heard from this reading.  Rant over.

Now, about that Luke reading.  In some ways, this is the perfect Gospel text for our politically divided times.  Some people see what has been happening in our country as a good and proper thing.  And others sense that everything has been torn down.  We are in one of those times where two people can look at the same exact thing and yet somehow see exactly the opposite.  Some see a restoration to goodness, and others despair over something that has been thrown down.  And the problem with both those views is that we are putting our trust in things human.  We are putting our hopes in things that will ultimately pass away, whether those things are currently ascending or descending.  We cling to what is fleeting and temporary, just as the disciples did.

But, Jesus says, “do not be terrified.”    We are used to Jesus saying, “Do not be afraid.”  He says that a lot.  But here, he says “do not be terrified”—or, what he actually says is, “may you not be terrified.”  These things will happen, yes.  And when they happen, may you not be terrified.  Personally, I love that Jesus says “may you” here.  Because when he says “do not be afraid,” that sounds more like a command . . . like it’s up to us to do that thing.  But “may you not be terrified” sounds more like a blessing to my ear.  “May you find peace” as opposed to “FIND PEACE!”  But I digress.

When we hear or read this part of Luke, it’s easy to get focused on the destruction and despair.  The wars and insurrections, the nation rising against nation, and kingdom against kingdom.  We fixate on the great earthquakes, and famines and plagues, and dreadful portents and great signs from heaven.  You know, the timeline we’ve all been living in since around 2020.

It is an unsettling text, yes.  But it is meant to be settling . . . or, I mean, reassuring.  Bottom line: Jesus is not telling us what the future holds.  He is telling us who holds the future.  He is not saying, “Though there will be suffering . . . you got this.”  He is saying, “Though there will be suffering, God has got you.”  God holds the past; God holds the present; God holds the future.  Our story is God’s story; the two are interwoven from the very beginning, and God will not let us go until after the story is entirely written.  Jesus is saying: what is important is not what the future holds, but who holds the future.  Remember that.

When bad things happen (and they will), may you not be terrified.  You and I are not likely to be dragged before kings and rulers.  We probably will not be handed over to prison for our faith.  And some of the things Jesus describes will probably never happen in our lifetimes.  But there will be suffering for each of us, in one way or another.  Marriages will fall apart; family members will disown one another; jobs will be lost, and loved ones will pass away.  These things will happen . . . and may you not be terrified.

We want to be saved from suffering.  We want God to prevent sorrow and pain.  But God does not save us from suffering.  God saves us in the midst of suffering.  Since our story is God’s story, God continually meets us in our pain.  I don’t need to tell you that suffering is part of life.  Being a Christian does not mean you will not suffer.  In fact, based on what Jesus says to us today, being a Christian just might be the cause of suffering.  That was certainly true for his disciples, who suffered under Roman persecutions.  Our suffering is different from theirs, but it is still our suffering, and we still need God to meet us in our pain, just as much as the disciples did.

We look for God in our suffering.  But we should never look for God as the cause of suffering.  Some people who like to say, “God doesn’t give you more than you can handle.”  
Please.  Just.  Don’t.  

God is not sitting around handing out suffering to see how much you can bear.  Let me say this clearly:  God does not cause the suffering in your life.  God meets us in our suffering; but God does not cause it.  Sometimes it’s us; sometimes it’s other people; and sometimes it’s just the way things are.  But no matter the cause of our pain and grief and sadness, the important thing to remember is this:  God does not cause it; but God meets us there.  

In today’s gospel text, Jesus tells the disciples, “make up your minds not to prepare your defense in advance; for I will give you words and a wisdom that none of your opponents will be able to withstand or contradict.”  He has just warned them about the persecution they will face, and says that persecution will give them a chance to testify.  But he tells them not to plan what they will say in advance, because he will give them the words they need.

How does that relate to us?  Well, let me suggest something like this:  Maybe we should avoid having prepared bumper sticker slogans, like “God doesn’t give us more than we can handle.”  Maybe we should resist the temptation to always have a pat answer to explain away evil, and pain, and heartbreak.  God does not cause the suffering in your friend’s life; but God meets them there, and we meet them there.

Maybe we should face whatever suffering comes our way by finding where God is meeting us in that pain.  Because God is there.  Perhaps it is more helpful and faithful to seek God in the moment, trusting that God is there.  That God will give us a word when we need it.  Rather than preparing in advance to explain God’s absence in our pain, maybe we can look for God’s presence in our pain.  Trusting Jesus when he says, “I will give you words and a wisdom that none of your opponents will be able to withstand or contradict.”

But enough of that.  Here’s what I really want to get to this morning.  This section of Luke’s Gospel finishes with Jesus telling the disciples, “You will be hated by all because of my name. But not a hair of your head will perish. By your endurance you will gain your souls.”  Let me start with that last sentence.  Though the translation we get sounds like a thing we have to do—that is IF we endure, then we will gain our souls in the future—the actual wording is more like, “keep your souls in patience.”  Which is more akin to saying, “do not let your soul be anxious.”  It’s not an if/then, meaning “If you want to gain your soul you must endure.”  Rather, it is more like, “Keep your soul at peace.”  Two very different things.

And secondly, the hair thing.  Jesus promises, “not a hair of your head shall perish.”  This is a metaphor.  As before, I point to my own head here.  Much of my hair has indeed perished.  So this statement is obviously a metaphor.  And the metaphor can be interpreted as something like this . . . 

Whether or not elections turn out the way you wanted, and whether or not you got the job, or kept the marriage, or the treatment worked . . . you are never lost to God.  The Temple that Jesus talks about was the center of Jewish worship—the very place where God was thought to dwell.  People marveled at its beauty  And it was utterly destroyed. 

Yet even in the destruction, it is still known to God.  Just as you and I are known to God.  The hairs on your head, and the love in your heart, and the despair you may sometimes feel, all of these are known to God, and all held close at hand.  God knows you intimately, because your story is part of God’s story, and that story is still being written.  And for that reason, no matter what may come, the blessing from Jesus remains:  may you not be terrified.  

May you never be terrified, because God holds your past, God holds your present, and most importantly, God holds your future.  God has you, just as God has always had you.  And for that reason, may you never be terrified.

Amen

YEAR C 2025 pentecost 22

Pentecost 22, 2025
Job 19:23-27a 
Psalm 17:1-9 
2 Thessalonians 2:1-5, 13-17 
Luke 20:27-38

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

My oh my. That was quite a gospel text there, wasn’t it? As with so many of the readings we get on any given Sunday, the first step is to break it down and get the context, so we know who is who, and what they’re saying.

So, the Sadducees. We don’t often hear about these guys, and we don’t know much about them. We usually hear the Sadducees grouped together with the Pharisees, because they were both leaders in the Jewish community of Jesus’ day. Painting with a broad brush, we could say the Pharisees typically had the regular folks on their side, while the Sadducees had the wealthy elites backing them. The Sadducees controlled the Temple during this time, while the Pharisees sort of handled education and daily laws. 

As a result, the Pharisees embraced many writings and books of the prophets, whereas the Sadducees only accepted the Torah, or the Law of  Moses . . . which we call the first five books of the Old Testament. Now the reason that is important to know is because nowhere in the first five books of the Bible is there any reference to life after death. If we only had Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, and Deuteronomy as our scriptures, then you and I would say that when you die, you die. You go to Sheol which is the land of eternal sleep. "There’s nothing past this," in the words of the band Deathcab for Cutie. 

So, there’s your background. Now a group of these Sadducees comes to question Jesus. And they proceed to lay out what sounds like an algebra problem about two trains leaving Chicago, but is really about what happens after death. It’s important to remember that they personally don’t believe anything happens after death, so it’s not like they’re trying to clear something up. This is more like trying to poke a hole in someone else’s beliefs by applying logic to it. You know like asking, “If angels play harps of gold, then how can they possibly float in the clouds, since there’s nothing to support such heavy instruments, huh Jesus?” At which point, I want to read you something written by C.S. Lewis . . .  

"There is no need to be worried by facetious people who try to make the Christian hope of 'Heaven' ridiculous by saying they do not want 'to spend eternity playing harps'. The answer to such people is that if they cannot understand books written for grown-ups, they should not talk about them. All the scriptural imagery (harps, crowns, gold, etc.) is, of course a merely symbolical attempt to express the inexpressible.” 

Lewis continues, “Musical instruments are mentioned because for many people (not all) music is the thing known in the present life which most strongly suggests ecstasy and infinity. Crowns are mentioned to suggest the fact that those who are united with God in eternity share His splendour and power and joy. Gold is mentioned to suggest the timelessness of Heaven (gold does not rust) and the preciousness of it. People who take these symbols literally might as well think that when Christ told us to be like doves, He meant that we were to lay eggs." 

I just love C.S. Lewis. But, let’s go back to the reading we heard. So the Sadducees sure sound like they’re mocking Jesus, and probably trying to let him know that they don’t believe in this life after death stuff, like he and the Pharisees do. But then Jesus answers them, using their own scriptures—those first five books of the Bible—by referring to the story of Moses and the Burning Bush. Remember that story? Of course you do; it’s kind of an important one. 

To refresh our memories, in the book of Exodus, Moses is up on the mountain, tending the flocks for Jethro. He sees a burning bush, and God calls to him from out of it. When Moses asks who God is, the reply is “I am the God of your father, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.” Keep that story in mind as we go back to Jesus’ reply to the Sadducees . . . 

Jesus says to them, “the fact that the dead are raised Moses himself showed, in the story about the bush, where he speaks of the Lord as the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob.” You'll recall that, by the time Moses shows up in the stories, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob are long gone from this earthly plane. 

We get a little tripped up here because of how we typically use phrases about the past. Like we might say, “St. Timothy’s is the church of my great grandfather,” meaning it’s the church that he went to when he was alive. But it doesn’t work that way for God. As Jesus says, “Now God is God not of the dead, but of the living; for to God all of them are alive.” St. Timothy’s  Church doesn’t work that way, right? This building doesn’t think of your great grandfather as being alive. But to God, he is. Which means to us, he is. And for that reason, when we celebrate Holy Communion at this Altar together, your great grandfather is celebrating with us. As is my great grandfather, who never set foot in Massillon.  The saints of every time and every place, every time we gather around this Altar. 

And even though Jesus doesn’t start talking about the time-space continuum and the mutability of time, it does kind of enter into this. And here’s what I mean by that. 

For you and me, time passes in a straight line. We are born, we live our lives, we die. And we can only experience things that happen within our lifetimes. As far as any of us knows, once we’re dead, we are dead. And yet, we talk about the dead as though they are currently alive, somewhere else, don’t we? Right in our Book of Common Prayer there are all sorts of places where we pray for the dead, that they would go from glory to glory, that they would increase in perfection, that they are with us on another shore, that they might pray for us. It’s as though they are dead, but they are not dead. A Schrodinger’s cat of eternal life, if you will. 

But now listen again to the words of Jesus: “God is God not of the dead, but of the living; for to God all of them are alive.” 

You and I do not know what happens after we die. I mean, we don’t really know, you know? We have faith. We have belief. We have trust. But we don’t have knowledge. Not true, factual knowledge. 

But what we do have is faith, and hope, and trust in God. We trust in the promises of Jesus that, just as Jesus was raised from the dead, so we too will rise from the dead. We don’t know when, and we can’t say how, but we live our lives trusting in that promise. That’s all we have to go on, but we trust that it is enough. 

And in the meantime, we remember the words of Jesus: God is God not of the dead, but of the living; for to God all of them are alive. Today, we know we are alive, and we trust that we are in God’s hands. And one day, we know we will die, and we will still be in God’s hands. Because God is God not of the dead, but of the living; for to God all of them are alive, just as you will also be alive. We live our lives trusting in that promise. Our God is a God of the living, and as long as we belong to God, we are alive. You belong to God right now, and you will always belong to God. The God of the living. 

Amen.

YEAR C 2025 all souls

All Souls, 2025
Wisdom 3:1–9
Psalm 130
1 Thessalonians 4:13–18
John 5:24-27

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

Tonight we observe the Feast of All Souls, now unfortunately called the Feast of All the Faithful Departed.  That puts up something of a wall between ALL the departed, and the faithful departed.  I know that wasn’t the intention of the name change, but—in my opinion—it takes us a step backward.  But never mind all that; let’s take a moment to distinguish between All Saints Day and All Souls Day.

The Feast of All Saints is intended to honor all the saints who have gone before.  You can quickly get the gist of the intention by looking at hymn #287 in our hymnal, “For All the Saints.”  The Church sets aside All Saints Day on November 1st to remember all the heroes of the faith.  But it does not necessarily include all the heroes of our own personal faith.  The ones who drove you to Sunday School, or mentored you through middle school, or who brought you back to Jesus after your own personal time in a “distant land.”  Not to mention the people of a different faith or of no faith who still impacted your faith.

All Saints Day is a little muddy about whether my Uncle Grant and your Grandma Eunice are included in the feast.  And that’s why I’m so grateful that we have this day, All Souls Day, set aside to honor those we love but see no more.  These ones don’t enter into the level of having the Pope notice them, but if we’re honest, we might place them above the Pope.  For each of us, there are people we remember because of their incredible impact on our lives, whether or not anyone else remembers them at all.  In a sense, as long as we have breath, these loved ones will be remembered and celebrated, whether or not anyone else still remembers their name.

And so All Souls Day is set aside for us to remember and mark them as beloved of God, and beloved of us.  They may not have a feast day in the Church, but they have feast days in our hearts.As we heard, Paul writes in his first letter to the Thessalonians:
We do not want you to be uninformed, brothers and sisters, about those who have died, so that you may not grieve as others do who have no hope.

That can sound strange to our ears, as though Paul is telling us not to grieve for those we have lost and loved.  But that is not what he is saying at all.  When Paul writes, “so that you may not grieve as others do who have no hope,” he is not suggesting that we should not grieve.  The key to that sentence is the phrase “as others do who have no hope.”  

It’s a different kind of grieving, you see?  We all mourn losing the ones who mean the world to us—the All Souls for whom this day is named.  We grieve and we mourn because it is how God created us to be.  It is right and good that we should grieve, because the measure of our pain is an indicator of the depth of our love.

But we should not grieve “as others do who have no hope.”  We do not grieve as others do because we grieve with hope.  We grieve as people who have hope in the promises of God.  We grieve as people who have hope, because we trust that no one is ever beyond the reach of God’s loving embrace.  We grieve as people who trust that those who are lost to us are not lost to God.

It is good and right that we should mourn and grieve the absence of those whom we love yet see no longer.  But we grieve and mourn as people with hope, because we worship the God who created it all, redeemed it all, and saves it all.

“The souls of the righteous are in the hand of God, and no torment will ever touch them.”  All are made righteous in Jesus, and they are all, ALL in the hand of God.

Amen.

YEAR C 2025 all saints

All Saints’ Sunday
Daniel 7:1-3, 15-18
Psalm 149
Ephesians 1:11-23
Luke 6:20-31

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

You’re familiar with what we call The Sermon on the Mount.  Sometimes we call it The Beatitudes.  They pop up all the time, in greeting cards, on calendars, times when people want to say, “It gets better.”  Blessed are the sad people, for they will one day be happy, and that kind of thing.  But the Sermon on the Mount is found in Matthew.  Jesus climbs the mountain and delivers a lengthy encouraging poem to his listeners.

But this year, we’re using Luke, at least for a few more weeks.  And one of the characteristics of Luke’s Gospel is what we might call, The Great Leveling.  Luke is big on lifting the poor and pressing down the rich.  And today, we even see it in the landscape: Matthew’s Jesus delivers his words on a mountain.  But in Luke, this scene is called the Sermon on the Plain.  Luke levels it out.  No mountains here.  No valleys either.  Just level.

But we also a balance in Jesus’ words.  Matthew is all about encouraging the downtrodden, and Luke also gives us the four encouragements, to the poor, to the hungry, to the grieving, and to the outcasts.  But then Luke adds the Four Woes:  woe to the rich, woe to the well-fed, woe to the laughing, woe to the popular.  Blessed are the poor, but woe to the rich.  Blessed are the hungry, but woe to the well-fed.  Blessed are those who weep, but woe to those who laugh.  Blessed are the hated, but woe to the well-liked.

You know, it’s almost like our armchair view of karma, right?  This section could be summed up as, What goes around comes around. There’s a sort of circular thinking in this.

And even when we bring this lesson into the spiritual realm, it still holds true.  The poor, the hungry, the grieving, and the outcast will all have their redemption at the grave.  And, they’ll end this life with a focus on the things that really matter, rather than worrying about whether they have the latest i-Phone gadgets.  And the rich, well-fed, happy, popular ones will end up in the same state when they face the grave.  We leave this world with nothing, just as we entered it.  So, of course, we all leave on the same footing.  Simple, right?  Blessed are the poor, and since the rich will also one day be poor, they’re blessed too . . . just not quite yet.

But that isn’t what this gospel text really says.  Or, rather, this text says much more than that.  That simplified reading overlooks what comes after this section.  The blessings and woes are kind of the preamble to what follows.  They’re the set-up for this . . .

“But I say to you, “ says Jesus, “love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you.”  The blessings made some sense to us.  You know, for the poor, hungry, sad, and unpopular.  But, if anyone strikes you, offer the other cheek also?  If they take your coat, offer your shirt?  Give to everyone who begs, and when someone steals from you, don’t ask for your stuff back?  If we actually followed these rules, we’d end up . . . well, poor, hungry, sad, and unpopular.  

Society is based on doing the exact opposite of these things.  A good citizen goes to the police.  A good citizen defends her property.  A good citizen doesn’t give to beggars, since it might just be some kind of scam.  And being a bad citizen will make you unpopular.  If we follow the advice of Jesus, you and I will end up poor, hungry, sad, and unpopular.  That does not sound like a happy kingdom.
But let’s look at today’s other readings, with a mind toward God’s kingdom in the midst of our earthly kingdom, or—better yet—our earthly kingdom’s place within God’s eternal kingdom.

The reading from Daniel gives us a bunch of scary monsters, all seeming to put the story into the land of fairy tale, rather than some believable narrative.  And that’s sort of where this story belongs.  It’s not a newspaper account of the day scary monsters came to visit Daniel’s house.  But, at the same time, it’s more than a dream Daniel had.  There is an important truth at the end of that story: “the holy ones of the Most High shall receive the kingdom and possess the kingdom forever—forever and ever.”  

The four monsters in Daniel’s day were said to represent four oppressive kingdoms.  In our own time, they might be said to represent four things that oppress us on a daily basis.  You know, things like being poor, hungry, depressed, or lonely.  These four beasts might rule the earth for a season, and their kingdoms might rise up for a while, but the saints of God shall receive the kingdom forever—forever and ever.

And, from the reading in Ephesians, the writer hopes his readers might come to recognize the riches of glorious inheritance among the saints.  And I want to draw our attention to that phrase “glorious inheritance among the saints.”  An inheritance comes as an unearned gift.  Among the saints implies it is shared by all the saints.  We receive and we share this inheritance with all the saints, of every time and every place.  We belong together; we were meant to be together; we were meant to receive this inheritance together: In the Communion of Saints.

You’ve heard that phrase before, yes?  It’s in one of our ancient Creeds of faith.  But it’s not in the one we say every Sunday.  The Nicene Creed does not include the “Communion of Saints.”  But the Apostles Creed does.  We don’t use the Apostles Creed very often in the Episcopal Church.  But we say it at two crucial moments.  

As a community, we recite the Apostles Creed at baptisms.  And we recite the Apostles Creed at funerals.  When the Church welcomes a new member, we proclaim our belief in the Communion of Saints.  When we gather to commend to God’s care one who has passed from our midst, we proclaim our belief in the Communion of Saints.  At these bookends of the life of faith, we are reminded of our common inheritance, we are reminded that the saints of God shall receive the kingdom forever—forever and ever.  

And who are these saints?  Well, the short answer is, they’re everywhere.  Rich and poor, hungry and fed, grieving and rejoicing, lonely and popular.  There are saints who spend every possible moment in church.  And there are saints who spend Sunday mornings driving tow trucks and coaching soccer.  God’s kingdom includes all sorts of people, including ones we might not expect to be included.
And the way you know it includes so many people is because of the times when we proclaim the Apostles Creed.  A baby is baptized, and we might not see that saint again until the day when we gather to bury him or her.  A saint nonetheless, and one who receives that glorious inheritance, right along side us.  

We pray for one who has died, “Acknowledge, we pray, a sheep of your own fold, a lamb of your own flock, a sinner of your own redeeming.”  It is the prayer that will be prayed for you, whether rich or poor, hungry or filled, sad or joyous, outcast or welcomed.  When you enter the Church by baptism, and when you leave the Church at death, the Church gathers and proclaims your membership in the Communion of Saints.  Your citizenship in a kingdom that is not of this world, distracting though your time in this world might be.

And so I want to say to you what we heard from Ephesians this morning, “I pray that the God of our Lord Jesus Christ may give you a spirit of wisdom and revelation, so that you may know what is the hope to which he has called you, what are the riches of his glorious inheritance among the saints.” 

And in a little while, we will stand together before this Altar, with the saints of every time and every place.  Rich and poor, hungry and fed, grieving and rejoicing, lonely and popular, we all celebrate together our place in God’s kingdom, here among us now, and in the world to come.  Happy All Saints’ Day to all the saints.

Amen