Sermon for All saints: The Hope of the Saints

John 11:32-44

Rev. 21:1-6

            “What is heaven like?”  They said it in unison – just as the pastor walked in the door.  

            They were two daughters, and they were standing at their mother’s bedside.  99 years old.  And this was their question.  “What is heaven like?”  

            Well – what would the pastor say?  

            What could the pastor say?  

            To be truthful, there is not much description of heaven in the Bible.  There are a few images in the Revelation of the saints worshipping at the throne of the Lamb, and the one who will wipe away every tear from our lives. 

            There is the apostle Paul, struggling to describe our resurrected bodies, which will be bodies, but imperishable, immortal, changed – in the twinkling of an eye.  

            There is Paul’s conviction that if we hope for this life ONLY, we are most to be pitied.  There is more to life than this life.  

            But about heaven – we do not know much.  So what would the pastor say?  “What is heaven like?”  

            Well, she said, finally, I think heaven is like a great banquet  -- -like those holiday meals that we get together for – when everyone is happy to see each other – and no one is fighting – and there is a place for everyone at the table – and there is enough for everyone, too.  

            And then the sisters remembered the holiday meals in their own family, at Christmas or Thanksgiving or at Easter.   

            They remembered the feasts and the fancy tablecloths, and the care their mother took to welcome everyone home.  

            And they remembered with hope – hope for their mother and hope for themselves.  When someone you love is dying, you need to have something to hope for.  

            And that is part of what All Saints Day is about.  It is about the hope of the saints – our hope.  “What is heaven like?  What do you hope for?”

            In a book by Barbara Kingsolver, “Animal Dreams”, two sisters are separated when one of them decides to go to Nicaragua to live and work.  

            Her sister can’t understand her decision – thinks she’s crazy.  

            In one of her letters home, she tries to explain.  She writes: 

            “The very least you can do in your life is to figure out what you hope for.  And the most you can do is live inside that hope.  

            Not admire it from a distance but live right in it, under its roof.  What I want is so simple I almost can’t say it:  elementary kindness.  Enough to eat, enough to go around…. That’s about it.  

            Right now I’m living inside that hope, running down its hallway and touching the walls on both sides. I can’t tell you how good it feels.” 

             That’s it.  The very least you can do in your life is figure out what you hope for.  

            What do you hope for? 

            Eternal life -- The hope of the saints –– but what does that mean?  “What is heaven like?”  

            And what does it mean to live inside this hope every single day – while we live?

            When I think about the gospel for today – and the hope of Mary and Martha – I first think of Mary’s words, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.”  

            Their hope is for their brother’s life – their hope is they not be separated.  

            Their hope is to sit down once more at the table with him, eating and talking and sharing – life. Life.  

            That’s the hope of the saints – is that life – goes on – and that we share it together with those we love.  

            It is the question from the old gospel song, “Will the circle be unbroken?” and the hope that the answer is a resounding “No!”   

            The hope of the saints -- is the hope that  life, not death will have the last word, hope that we will be together – again –to sit at the table and eat and talk and share.  

            The hope of the saints is the hope of the great reunion, where death and crying and pain will be no more and where we will be together – again.

            I can’t help thinking right now about Oscar Romero – who was martyred back in El Salvador in 1980 but who just became a saint.  

            He was murdered while he was saying Mass in a small chapel.  

            He had not been a radical priest by any means.  

            He was quiet and bookish, and he had a deeply traditional faith.    When someone told him that there were two churches – the church of the poor and the church of the rich, he answered, 

            “No, there is only one church, the church which Christ preached, the church which adores the living God.” 

            “Will the circle be unbroken?” 

            But he loved the people, the poor who were hungry, those who were longing to be free.  

            And so he spoke on behalf of them,  spoke up for the violence to stop, spoke on behalf of their hunger.  

            Because the hope of the saints is not just for that great reunion after we die.  

            The hope of the saints is also for a reconciliation of all the things that divide us.  

            It is the vision of the reunion of the living and the dead, the rich and the poor, the privileged and the outcast. 

            What is heaven like?  

             It is a great reunion, where death will be no more.  It is the unbroken circle with those we love. 

             It is the banquet table where there will be enough, where we will sit down and eat and share.   

             It is the unbroken circle with those God loves.  And it is wider than we imagine.  

            Once in awhile we catch a glimpse of it.  

            I remember once long ago – we went up to a concert where someone we loved was playing in a band.  

            We went up to hear him pay even though the event he was playing was somewhat unusual:  a tattoo convention. 

             I remember wandering around the smoke-filled room, hearing the bands, watching people get tattoos, and thinking, “these are not my people.”  

            And then as soon as I had that thought, I saw a display, “Bikers for Jesus.”  and I thought,  “hmmm. Maybe they Are my people.”  

            “What is heaven like?” 

            Close your eyes and imagine the banquet table, the great reunion, that the circle is unbroken.  

            Mary and Martha and their brother Lazarus, Oscar Romero the poor of El Salvador,  bikers for Jesus,  your father, your uncle, your son – people you love, people you don’t know, people you don't love, friends, strangers, all, beloved by God.

            A place for everyone. And there is enough.

            The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness does not overcome it.

            “What is heaven like?”

            Amen 

             

            

Communion

I held two small first communion classes for a few students from the church.  It had been awhile since I organized a class like this, so I felt a little rusty.  The book that I used to use (and that I loved) had gone out of print.  I cobbled together some resources and we talked about baptism and sacraments and words along with things that you can touch.  We drew pictures and watched a scene from the movie "Holes", and read a couple of stories about meals in the Bible.  We talked a little bit about the Passover, and we ended up talking about trusting God, that God comes to us in this meal.

It was not everything but it was something.

Holy Communion is a meal with many names, I said.  There is more than one meaning to it.  It is life and forgiveness, communion with God, bread for the journey, and even more.  Someday you will know.

We made tiny individual cups at a place called the Potter's Wheel.  We did not bake bread.  I made note to include bread-making the next time I have a first communion class.

And then on Sunday at church two of the three young people were invited to put out their hands and eat the bread and drink the wine.

Then, today, I sat down with two women from my congregation and we talked about taking communion to shut-ins and people in the hospital.  We want to put together a workshop so that a few people from the church can engage in this ministry along with me.  One of the two women talked about how it was important to know who can receive and who can't receive communion.  Her words brought back a memory.

I came with communion to a woman in hospice care.  Her daughter and her daughter's best friend were there.  So were other members of her family.  Her husband was there too.  He had been pretty open with me about his questions about the Christian faith and about his exploration of other spiritual traditions.  So, when we all gathered around in a circle to begin the communion service, I did not know what he would do.

I was surprised when he joined the circle and decided to have communion with us.

It was a long while later that I found out two things:  he was getting remarried, and he was re-commiting to the Christian faith.  He was becoming Catholic, in fact.

What was it that drew him back?

It was the Mass.  Holy Communion.  That's what he said.  There was something about taking communion.  What was it?  Was it life or forgiveness?  Was it bread for the journey?  Communion with God?  Or even more than that?  A foretaste of the feast to come -- all of us sitting in a circle, hands outstretched, the borders between life and death erased?

Someday you will know.

In the meantime, take and eat.

It is Holy Communion.

It is everything, in your hand.

Escapism and Hope

This year we are trying to offer opportunities for faith formation on Sunday morning and Wednesday evenings.  So, in the fall, we had an introduction to Spiritual Formation, a course called "Making Sense of Scripture" and the DVD series "Animate: faith."  I wondered what to do for the short weeks of Advent, and hit on the idea of a carol study.

So every Sunday morning and Wednesday evening we sing, and study a different Christmas carol.  We learn a little about the text and the tune, and the story behind it.  We look up the Bible passages associated with the text.  We talk a little bit about what the carol means to us, when we first heard it, how we might hear differently now than we did when we were five years old.

We also sing the carol.  Twice, if there's time.  It's a little subversive pushback to the "no Christmas carols until Christmas" meme.

The first carol we sang, and studied, was "Once in Royal David's City."  It's a song I didn't really know as a small child; I didn't get accustomed to it until I started buying the choral albums from the famous choirs in Great Britain, and listening to the Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols on the radio.  Some of our group had known it for a long time; others were just singing now, tonight, for one of the first times ever.

None of us knew that Cecil Alexander was a woman, a young woman who liked to write poetry, and was worried that her father would disapprove.  We didn't know that the carol was originally written for children, to help teach them a portion of the Apostles Creed.

Though this is not one of the carols I grew up with, and know by heart, I found myself unexpectedly moved to tears at that last verse, thinking of my father and his recent death:

Not in that poor lowly stable, with the oxen standing by,
we shall see him; but in heaven, set at God's right hand on high;
there his children gather round, bright like stars, with glory crowned.

I couldn't help thinking about my father, now shining with glory.

Another person noted the line in the second verse, "with the poor and meek and lowly, lived on earth our Savior lowly." She thought it was a good idea that the hymn writer reminds us that Jesus lived not among the rich and powerful, but with the ordinary and the struggling.

Yet another person expressed some frustration with the hymn though.  Sure, Jesus lived with the poor and meek and lowly while he was on earth, she said.  But then it seems that in the next verse, it's all about Jesus leading his children on 'to the place where he has gone.'  What about, instead of singing about us all following Jesus to heaven, we could sing about all of us following Jesus to be with the poor and the meek and the lowly?  What about acknowledging that Jesus still lives among the poor and meek and lowly, even now?

She has a point.

I can rationalize that these carols were written at a time when infant and child mortality was higher; I can also point out that probably the children who gather round in glory at the last verse are also some of the poor and meek and lowly.  At least I imagine it that way.  Those who follow Jesus, living plain and unlettered lives, will someday shine like the sun.

But, maybe I'm reading between the lines.

There's a fine line between escapism and hope.  The hope of the resurrection makes us yearn to see creation restored, to long for the time when the lowly ones will shine, will be seen for who they really are.  My passion for social justice does not preclude the hope that I will be reunited with those I love (and those I don't love, to be honest) as we gather around the throne of the Lamb.  But when does that hope become escapism?  When do we use the promise of heaven to ignore the hurts and injustices on God's beloved earth?

Just now I read a story about an incident in Iceland.  The police there killed an armed man.  This is a rare occurrence in Iceland.  It was the first time that police officers had killed someone since 1944.  And then the police actually apologized for killing a man.  You know what my first thought was, "Honey, let's move to Iceland!"  Escapism.

Escapism leads us straight to heaven.  But hope leads us back to earth again.  Hope sees the promise of the resurrection as a clue to abundant life right now.

Especially at this time of the year, with the message of the incarnation, maybe we should sings songs that tell us that, since God has come here and walked upon this beloved earth, let us plant our feet firmly on the earth, and walk in the ways of mercy and justice, as he did.

"What language will we speak in heaven?"

 I wrote this for the funeral of a church member.  I was not able to be at the funeral.  Writing this helped some.

Someone posed this question in an on-line conversation group, “What language will we speak in heaven?”  There were several good responses, I thought.  One person said that we will speak “with one voice”, another that we will speak the language of the angels.  Someone else said that we will not need language, and yet another person said that we will speak the language of love.  But the answer that most stuck with me is this one, ‘Music.”  In heaven we will speak music.

I suppose this answer stuck with me because last Thursday afternoon, I went to visit C.and A (his wife), and members of their family at Nursing Home, where he lived.  It was immediately obvious when I walked in the door that this was a place where C was known and loved; it was familiar and beautiful and filled with people he loved.  And I must confess that, though I have been in many nursing homes and many hospitals rooms, and I’ve prayed with many people, I had a moment of shyness when I saw C.  What kind of prayers should I pray?  What should I say?  Because of his Alzheiemers, C had not spoken for a while, and I didn’t know what he would understand.  I realized how much I depend on words to communicate.   What language will we speak in heaven?

For some strange reason (perhaps the Holy Spirit) I had picked up my small red hymnal when I left the church.  I sort of wondered if we should sing.  A thought we should sing.  So we sang – A's choice – “Beautiful Savior”  -- and everyone was singing, in harmony.  And about halfway through the song C was singing too.  After that we sang “What a Friend We Have in Jesus” in harmony, and some other hymns.  We closed with ‘You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,” although I do believe that there were a couple of encores.

I thought I was hearing the language of heaven that day.  Just a few people, gathered around a bed, singing songs of love, and C was singing along on every one.  You can forget a lot of things, but it turns out that music, like God’s love, gets so far down inside you that even if you forget, it won’t let you go.  It’s an imprint on our soul, like the sign of the cross is an imprint on our foreheads, “Child of God, you are sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked by the cross of Christ forever.”

I thought I was hearing the language of heaven that day.  I came to minister to C and A, and they ministered to me.  I thought about all of the times I have heard C and A sing duets, at Sunday worship, for funerals, at Matins.  I have been humming some of those songs these past few days, the language of heaven, which, as it turns out, is also the language of love, imprinted on our souls, that God won’t let us forget.

Yes indeed, music is the language of heaven, and, as it turns out, that is a language that C spoke well.  He spoke it so well he taught it to his family and he taught it to many, many children, including children in this congregation.  He taught it to me, too.

“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.”

You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you….”

The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.

What language will we speak in heaven?

Praise God from whom all blessings flow

Praise him all creatures here below

Praise him above you heavenly host

Praise Father Son and Holy Ghost.

why I like antiques I

I remember the first time I drove into the driveway of the big parsonage at my first church in Vienna, South Dakota. I was the last car in a caravan hauling all of my belongings from Minneapolis, and as I drove up there were at least 50 people standing in the front yard, waiting for me. They got everything unpacked and in the house in record time, and served sloppy joes (known in South Dakota as "barbecues") and lemonade besides. As everyone left that evening, I heard one of the men say something about me living in "that big house all by myself." And I didn't have much furniture either.

And I didn't have much money either. So I started shopping at antique stores. There were two advantages: I could get better furniture at a lower price, and I could pay a third down and wait until I had the rest. So I got an old dresser, a rocking chair, eventually even a desk. I also found a few old kitchen supplies (remember glass pyrex refrigerator containers?) and decorations.

I enjoyed looking for antiques as well because I often found things I remembered from growing up. Suddenly, those things had become valuable. My aunt's Fiestaware, which I loved for its bright colors, had become a treasure. Multi-colored pyrex mixing bowls, my grandmother's juice glasses (rare), aluminum iced-tea glasses: all were lovingly displayed as if they were not ordinary kitchen ware, but something dug up on an archeological expedition.

Depression glass is a great example. Oftentimes it was a premium. It came free with the purchase of something else. Now there are depression glass bowls worth $100 or more.

There's something gracious -- and hopeful to me in this. Especially in our time when it's so easy to throw things away when we are done. The idea that as things age, they may increase in value: that is a wonderful thing to believe. Because I think that now it's more common to believe that things (and people) become useless as they age, not more valuable.

I think that heaven is God's antique store -- and there we will all be displayed, we will be seen as the treasures we are in God's eyes. He'll blow the dust off us, tell us we're beautiful, and actually use us -- even if we aren't in mint condition.