All Saints

Propers: All Saints (Hallowmas), A.D. 2017 A

Homily:

Grace, mercy, and peace to you from God our Father and from our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.

In most cultures it is difficult to distinguish between the divine and the dead. Ancestors are assumed to have a direct line to the powers that be, given that they are now become spirits themselves. And it is only natural, only human, that in time of need or joy we would appeal to a parent or grandparent who loved us in life, and assuredly still loves us in death.

So we have always had this confusion, this intermingling, of the pantheons of all religions with the great men and women of history. The Egyptians worshipped their pharaohs; the Greeks worshipped their heroes; the Romans worshipped their Caesars. The Norse and the Celts, the Africans and the Asians, all do likewise.

Americans are no different. We build temples to murdered Presidents. We read their prayers upon their feast days. One of the most famous works of art in the Capitol Building in Washington, D.C. is the Apotheosis—that is, the deification—of George Washington, a larger than life painting of the father of our country ascending into heaven as a god. As I said, it’s only natural, it’s only human, that we strive to maintain, with those whom we love and admire, a continued and meaningful relationship beyond the grave.

Christians are no different. We do, in a sense, worship our ancestors. But the Christian Cult of Saints is no hangover from a pagan past. It is, in fact, the longed-for fulfilment of the hopes and dreams of all of humankind. No longer is the grave our end. No longer must we say goodbye. In Christ, the dead live—and living, shall never die.

Death has always been a stumbling block for Christians, starting with Jesus’ own. It’s safe to say the Apostles did not see the Cross coming, despite Jesus explicitly warning them on at least three separate occasions. We did not expect God on earth to die, let alone be murdered and betrayed by those whom He loves and came to save.

But the Resurrection changed all that, transforming our despair into joy and death into new and everlasting life! The Cross, a weapon of agony and despair, became the very ensign of our hope in the Risen Christ! And all the things we used to fear—darkness, disease, death and the devil—none of these shadows were as anything before the infinite Light of Jesus on that glorious Easter morn.

And so when death came to the Apostles, each in their own good time, they greeted her without fear, as a defeated enemy, as an empty shell. They knew that were they to be united in a death like the Lord’s, they would surely be united in a resurrection like the Lord’s. They would live on beyond death, while death itself would die.

Those early centuries of the Church were a remarkable time. The Martyrs, those murdered for their steadfast faith in the Resurrection of Jesus, were hailed by friend and foe alike both for the dignity with which they met their gruesome ends, and also for the magnanimity that they lavished even upon those who killed them, forgiving those murderers who were sending them on to true and everlasting life.

The Church seemed almost morbid in the way that she gathered up the bones of her saints, washing and dressing them, venerating their relics, dabbing handkerchiefs in their blood. But you see, they believed—truly believed—that the death of these martyrs, these witnesses, was one in the same with Christ’s own death on the Cross, from which He poured out His life for the world. Because of this, their deaths were sanctified, were made holy, by their participation in the death and life of Jesus. And their bones were reverenced, because someday those bones would rise again, at the Resurrection on the Last Day: the mending of the world, when God at last will be all in all.

If you’ve ever gone to an old church, and thought the altar looked rather like a tomb, that’s not a mistake. The early Church did worship in tombs, in secret, celebrating the Lord’s Supper atop the bones of the saints. And to this day, cathedrals still bury the bones of their bishops beneath the altar, whence they cry out to God for justice, as we read in the book of Revelation.

Eventually Christianity was legalized, and chances to die for the faith became fewer and farther between. So people lived for the faith instead. Some became bishops, priests, or deacons. Some swore themselves to a life of service to the poor. Most led normal, everyday, holy lives by dedicating their work and their homes to the greater glory of God. A Christian shoemaker does not show his faith by putting little crosses on his shoes, Luther wrote. He shows his faith by making good shoes for an honest price.

These are the people we remember at the Mass of All Hallows, the Day of All Saints. We remember all those who have gone before us in the faith: bishops and beggars, missionaries and monks, scientists and soldiers; Christians all—sinners all!—hallowed, made holy, by the grace and mercy of Jesus Christ, by their participation in His life, death, and Resurrection. They were baptized at that same Font in which all of us are baptized. And they gather at this same Table at which all of us gather, to be fed and blessed and raised to new life, by the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world.

The dead are not dead! They are alive in Christ! They join us at this altar, the other side of which we cannot see. But they see us. And they love us. And they pray for us. And they do so not as rivals to the glory of God and the love of Jesus Christ, but by the Holy Spirit who is the love of God poured out upon the churches. They were our guides and companions and witnesses upon the earth, and now that they dwell directly in the ineffable Goodness and Truth and Beauty of God, they are more powerful and more alive than we can possibly imagine here below.

There is nothing wrong with praying to the saints—praying to the saints to pray for us! We are all to pray for one another. We are commanded to. This is how we participate in the Body of Christ. Because of course, we are all saints as well.

Not because we’re famous, or virtuous, or dead. We aren’t any of those things yet. But we are all saints because while we were yet sinners Christ first loved us. He claimed us as His own when we had not the power nor the wisdom nor the love to claim Him. Jesus makes us holy, because Jesus makes us Him.

And someday, when the veil of this broken world has passed, we will at last see things as they truly are. We will see the dead raised. We will see the world renewed. We will see all those whom we ever knew and loved, and we will know them and love them in ways we never dreamt possible. And we shall all be healed. And we shall all be forgiven. And we shall all be saints.

And on that day, our joy will know no end.

In the Name of the Father and of the +Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.