I sing a song of the Saints of God
All Saints’ Day, November 6, 2022
Daniel 7:1-3,15-18 • Ephesians 1:11-23 • Luke 6:20-31
I sing a song of the saints of God; patient, and brave, and true. Amen.
How many have seen Disney’s Coco? Way back, before the Pandemic, before we stopped talking about Bruno, no, no, no, Disney released another great animated film based in the magical realism of Latin America. Coco is a story about stories, particularly the stories we tell about our family and friends after they have passed. In the world of the movie, which takes place on Dia de los Muertos, our family members fade from their afterlife as their stories are told less and less frequently. From the famous to the forgotten, when your story stops being told, you drop out of existence once your name is no longer on the lips of the living.
The movie recounts a boy who has uncovered the truth about someone in his family whose story has been stolen, and misunderstood. He takes on the mission of making this right, just in the nick of time before his great, great grandfather is about to fade away from the memory of the world.
In my family we do this, too, at the holidays, or sometimes just spontaneously, we recount stories of those who have died. Often we tell the funniest stories about them, which could be naughty or nice, and we laugh. Sometimes we laugh so hard, it hurts our sides, we gasp for breath. These relatives are still alive when we are telling their stories. I know the stories of relatives whose lives were lived fully before I was born because I have heard how my family talks about them. And so we tell stories to the youngest in our family about people they will never know, and they become a part of the lore.
What is it that makes a person’s story worth telling, passing down to the next generation? What makes us memorable, worthy of being remembered?
Today we heard proclaimed Luke’s version of the Beatitudes. Goodness, they are tougher to hear than the prettier ones in Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount from Matthew’s Gospel. Where Matthew says “Blessed are the poor in spirit,” Luke outright blesses the poor, full stop. We might think of ourselves from time to time as lacking spirit or faith, as Matthew suggests, but we don’t often like to contemplate ourselves as poor.
Similarly, Matthew would have us hunger and thirst for righteousness, which, when it comes down to it, is something we should all be doing. This feels much better than the hunger pangs that Luke blesses.
The blessings and the accompanying woes that Luke proclaims in his Gospel serve as a reminder that what the world celebrates and remembers about us is different, perhaps even opposed, to what God celebrates and remembers about us. All throughout these last Sundays of the Church year, Luke’s Gospel has continued the message that following Jesus leads to surprises, turning social convention into countercultural reckoning.
If one is known now for being rich, how will they be remembered? Said in another way, if your wealth is what is remarkable about you, and not how you shared it, or gave it away, or made the world a better place, then just how long into the future will we be recounted? How will we be judged at our time of accountability? And so it is with being well-fed, yet not sharing our abundance with the hungry, or with standing in the spotlight now and not acknowledging the people who have shouldered the work with us, or any of the dichotomies listed in the text.
According to the Gospel, what makes us remarkable is doing the things that are unexpected. When we do what is unexpected, we create the opportunity not just that the right thing will happen, but that others will learn and follow the example. That is the point of this Gospel - our actions aren’t done in secret, they are witnessed by the whole world. And our actions have impact - in our most heroic moments they can inspire others to be their best, or perhaps our example can serve as a warning, or perhaps, at our most destructive, we could even lead others astray by what we say or do.
In my experience, it is the people who stepped in to help course correct for whom I am most grateful, and remember as saints. My grandmother who taught me that I could believe in God and Science. A boss who called me out for a destructive pattern that forced me to deal with my own stuff and make a change. A priest who helped me find compassion in scripture instead of judgment. A vision of a person in a moment when I came as close to God as I have ever been, when I knew by the warmth in my chest which path I should follow. These are the saints in my cheering section, the ones to whom I offer prayers of gratitude.
At this time of year, when the veil is particularly thin, we feel the communion of saints more closely than usual, at least I do. The liminal space of All Saints tugs at me, whispers stories, reminds me of the people living and dead who have inspired me. It calls to mind another similar time of year - Holy Week, and our beloved Maundy Thursday meal.
On that evening, as we commemorate the Last Supper, we tell stories. Having been to twenty four Maundy Thursdays at Holy Innocents I testify that every one of them is beautiful and memorable. We tell of marriages and breakups, of pregnancies and cancer diagnoses, of comings and goings, of trials and successes. Every year has its share of laughter and its portion of tears. And we keep memories alive.
I never met the Lattimore family, whose name is on the nativity window on the East wall. I don’t know why Louisa Brown, whose name is on the marble plaque on the North wall, gave this plot of land in 1890 to build Holy Innocents. And I do not know why the priest’s crucifer memorialized on the font, died at age 12.
But I do know that Julia and David Colvid’s dog, while anointing the front bushes of the church, caused them to stop and hear the choir one day, leading them to years of faithful participation in our church. And I can remember the voice of Ken Washington at potlucks, and his low laugh. And I remember Brian Barnes, whose voice trembled with humble power every time he dismissed us to love and serve the Lord. And Sister Ceclia, whose quick wit made our hearts sing with joy. And Cindy, Oh Cindy, mother to all who lived on Fair Oaks Street, whose wine glass was the biggest and whose smile was the brightest. She would also have voting tips ready for us as we go to the polls this Tuesday.
And so many other people who live on in our communion of saints.
What story will people tell about you? Will there be one that summarizes all of who you are, or will there be many stories, told by many people, embellished a little each time, that recount your time on earth? On whose lips will your name remain, and for what reasons?
They were all of them saints of God, and I mean, God helping to be one too. Amen.