Breathtaking and Bare

The Red Maple in our front yard waits all year to live up to its name. Somewhere behind the ordinary green it prepares to become more. More brilliant. More fiery. More breathtaking. It plays the part of ordinary things, day after day, month after month, until it just can't do it anymore. The greens fade to yellows. The yellows warm into oranges.

Then, one day when the sun sinks into just the right spot in the sky, we can see it. Like Moses at the burning bush, we turn aside to see what has been there forming all along.  Like Icharus flying too close to the sun, its colors flame against the sky, only surrender to the wind and fall--back to the ground; back into the ancient cycle of things.

Somewhere behind the ordinary, we long for more. We long to become more brilliant, more beautiful, more captivating. More. We try to capture moments at the height of perfection, hoping that maybe, if we do everything just right, we won't have to let go. We won't have to surrender to the seasons and be laid bare. But we weren't made to stay the same.

We aren't build to withstand the consuming fires of perfectionism. Our beauty comes from the letting go; from our willingness to turn aside and behold the breathtaking and the bare. The brilliant and the ordinary. Day after day, month after month, we are made to keep becoming. We are made, not to live up to anything, but to live into our belovedness--the most breathtaking identity of all.

Dear Parents of Littles

Parents of littles, when someone tells you that, once they're older, they won't need you as much anymore, don't listen. Don't believe them. It's true you won't need to spoon-feed them, change their diaper, or keep them from eating or playing with things that are dangerous (well, you will, in a way). But they will need you to feed them with your presence, to change your schedule, change your mind, and to keep them from consuming and internalizing the judgments of others. They won't need you to sort their laundry (ok, so they probably will, unless you're ok with day 2 of the same underwear. Which, at least once, you will be). But they will need you to help them sort their feelings about themselves, about their friends, and about the swirl of changes they experience. They won't need you to hold their hand while they walk across the street, but they will need you to hold on to them when they're raging mad at you, or at the world. They will need you to walk them through hard things, promising that nothing they say, do, or are could EVER change your love for them. They may not need you to give them a time-out, but they will count on you to create boundaries and limits that teach them to tune in to the right things. They may not need you solve their math problems, but they will depend on you to multiply your patience, when they have to argue; when they believe differently than you about some things; when they embrace things you're uncomfortable with. Some people will say they don't need you around as much when they're older, but they do. Just because they can cook their own food, and handle things on their own, doesn't mean they want to. A plate of homemade cookies and and some downtime next to them on the couch can be exactly the sanctuary they need to let everything else melt away. So don't believe them. Don't believe yourself when you hear that voice say, "they don't need me." They do. They always will. But it's not easy. Parenting little people into big ones means we can't control them. It means we have to keep learning how to become what they need. There are as many ways to do it as there are people. But we owe it to them to always show up. To never stop trying. To never stop calling, and to never stop learning who they are. When they tell you, through their words or through their actions, listen. Listen to them. Show up for them. Believe me, they always need you.

Breaking and Entering

(Art by He Qi (ho chee). You can find more of his               art at www.heqiart.com.)

Today, on this first Sunday of Advent, we gather in beautiful buildings where sunlight pours through stained-glass windows, candlelight illumines the altar, warm coffee brews in the common room, and purple banners, paraments, and vestments clothe us with reminders that this is a season of anticipation and hopeful expectation.  At home we prepare our favorite comfort foods, frost our homes with lights, build crackling fires in our fireplaces, and buy gifts for people we love. In stores and restaurants the aromas of cinnamon and pine wrap themselves around us like invisible security blankets. As we prepare for the birth of Christ—a baby in a manger who will be the Prince of Peace— we long for the comfort and security associated with the this season.

            So why does the gospel of Matthew disturb our sense of comfort and security with the image of a thief in the night; of a God who will come at an unexpected hour? Why this image of household invasion? We don’t typically think of breaking and entering when as we prepare for the birth of Christ. We are used to thinking of God’s presence as green pastures, still waters, the peace that passes understanding—but the ultimate “come to Jesus” moment when we have let our guards down? This feels like the very opposite of comfort and security, and inspires more fear than hope, more doubt than certainty.  How can we possibly prepare ourselves?

We like to arm ourselves with certainty. We secure our homes with elaborate security systems. Our cars have howling alarms. Our phones and computers are password protected. Even our animals can be protected with an injectable microchip to locate them if they get lost. Every fiber of our being is wired to avoid risk and vulnerability. So we tend prepare ourselves by trying to create fortified places—majestic cathedrals, organized committees, fool-proof programs, and well cared-for sanctuaries. God does certainly show up in all of these places. But in today’s gospel reading we find a people hard at work, busy preparing the fields, preparing their homes, and preparing their food when God breaks in to find that some are ready and some are not. It leaves us asking just what kind of preparation does this God of unscheduled inspections require of us?

            Shortly after the devastating typhoon in the Philippines, I saw a photo in the newspaper of a religious procession in the badly damaged province of Leyte. This was not a grand procession in the traditional sense. In the foreground of the photo are four women processing through the typhoon’s aftermath. The women at the front of the procession carry statues of saints bearing large crosses. These women are vested, but only short-sleeved t-shirts, shorts, and expressions of exhausted determination. The women’s dirt-sleeved arms hold the statues close to their bodies like mothers carrying their children out of an apocalyptic wasteland. In the background of the photo lies the wasted land itself, heaped with the splintered remnants of households and buildings—the scattered oblations of so many lost lives. This seems like a place God forgot—a place where pain and destruction had the last word. But God is in the business of breaking and entering. God broke through the harsh darkness of what seemed beyond repair and entered the hearts of women who found the courage to rise up and walk, putting one foot in front of the other, carrying the symbols of the source of their hope. These women expected that hope, not pain and destruction, would have the last word. Perhaps these women understood what the apostle Paul meant when he called early Christians to “put on the armor of light.” With all of their fortified places strewn beneath their feet, they lead us in procession as instruments of  Light—the light of Christ that grew in their hearts around so many Holy Eucharists, baptisms and prayer circles.

            The community for whom Matthew wrote faced similar displacement after the death of Jesus, then the fall of the temple at Jerusalem. Without their Messiah or a central gathering place to give them an identity, they could no longer point to a building and say, “that is where our God lives.” In Jesus Christ they had witnessed the Kingdom of God breaking and entering. He broke down the barriers between Jews and Gentiles, between clean and unclean, between the powerful and the powerless. He entered the homes of tax collectors, ate with sinners and washed people’s feet. Now in this in-between time, a time of unbearable conflict and strife,  they probably asked themselves, “Is the God of Israel still powerful and faithful to his promises? How long must we wait before God restores peace?”

            We are no strangers to these in-between places. We each make our own pilgrimages through conflict and struggle—we pray for hope after loss, for wisdom in difficult decisions, for resolution to painful transitions, for forgiveness in broken relationships, and for healing of physical and emotional pain. Where the weight of inequity and injustice seems overwhelming, we pray “Lord have mercy.” In all of these in-between places of our lives we wait with expectation and hope that God will break in and enter our struggles, healing, restoring, and redeeming them all.

Then the gospel of Matthew warns us, in so many words, be careful what you pray for! For God is coming in an unexpected hour! Keep awake and always be prepared! This second-coming that Matthew describes, often referred to as the “rapture,” is really about hope and fulfillment. It’s a vision that calls each of Jesus’ disciples to become more than just people who believe things about God while they go about the business of life. This vision calls them, and calls us, to become a word of God spoken forth for the sake of the world. It calls us all to “put on the armor of light.” While creating beautiful, secure, fortified households and churches can be a part of this preparation, we are called in our baptism to an even higher vocation. We are called, both individually and corporately, to create space for God—a place where awe and wonder, compassion and hope, find a home.  

This is what the Incarnation is all about. Brazilian theologian Rubem Alves describes the purpose of the Incarnation as “the way that God chose to reach out to creation and establish  relationship and connection…a divine act of solidarity with humans and an investment in our realizing what God intends for humans to become.” When the gospel of Matthew implores us to “be vigilant” he is not imploring us to just think about being good Christians. He is calling us to fulfill the vocation to which we are all called in our Baptisms: to feed the hungry, give water the thirsty, clothe the naked, nurse the sick, befriend the stranger, and visit the imprisoned. These acts of compassion, mercy and love are how God’s Kingdom breaks in and enters the world.  They are what the armor of light is made of.

In church we practice these acts of love every day. When praise bands play and sing at homeless shelters, God breaks in. When an outreach team delivers 120 back snacks, God breaks in. When we provide hundreds of pounds of food for  food pantries, God breaks in. When we care for the children in our church’s Day school, God breaks in. With each act of compassion, mercy, and love, God becomes what author Melissa Tidwell calls “Embodied Light.” God breaks in and enters the world through us—His body gathered.

We are used to thinking of preparation as working harder, doing more, producing more. We think we need to have something to show to prove that we have been vigilant. But our God of unscheduled inspections hasn’t come merely to judge us, he has come to redeem and transform us. Like a handmade pottery candleholder with slight crack in it, our identity as God’s children comes from our willingness to receive and share God’s light, not from being without cracks. In fact, God uses our cracks and imperfections. As songwriter Leonard Cohen puts it, “there is a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.” So when we prepare for the birth of Christ, God-with-us, it may not feel comfortable at first. Every fiber of our being resists vulnerability. But this is precisely what God asks of us. God calls us to practice grace, to be “embodied light.”

That is what spiritual formation is: practicing God’s grace and giving Christ’s light hands, feet, mouth, eyes and ears for transforming the world.  To help with this, print out this Advent calendar with simple spiritual practices for each day of Advent. (www.thomasmousin.wordpress.com) They are radical because they ask us to participate in making a space for God to break in and enter the world. With each practice the light grows, making all around it light.

Each time we come to Christ’s table for Holy Eucharist we are united with all of those disciples who came before us in receiving Christ’s redeeming presence. Here we are fed with spiritual food that strengthens us to carry the light of Christ’s presence out into the world. Here we catch a glimpse of the fullness of God’s Kingdom not yet revealed. As the first Advent candle burns in our midst today, may it remind us of the God who is in the business of breaking and entering. May God’s presence at an unexpected hour find us on our knees engaged in acts of justice and compassion, mercy and love. May God find us rising up, after our fortified places have broken down around us, and carrying the Light of Christ into the world.

Like a Child At Home

My Godmother always called me her precious girl, no matter how old I got. She always made me feel, deep in my bones, that she was privileged to be my Godmother. We never used the front door entrance to go into her house. We always came in through the kitchen. In an Italian family that means something. If you’re family, you come in through the kitchen. Food meant love. The biscotti and amaretti cookies never came from the grocery store. They took time and patience to make. When I pushed the creaky storm door open, that aroma of almond and confectioner’s sugar met me first. I always knew the cookies would be waiting on that same fall-floral patterned china platter, decorated with a hand-embroidered white doily. In that moment, all of my moodiness and awkward tweenage insecurity evaporated. I felt loved and precious even before her words reached me. She didn’t just reach in for a hug. She cradled my face with both of her hands, paused to take me in, smiled and said those words I knew she would say, “My precious girl.” She made me feel like I had done something amazing for her just by showing up. There, in that dark, wood-paneled kitchen, with that same crisply-ironed rust-colored tablecloth, I felt privileged. I felt spoiled. I felt at home with myself. I came in through the kitchen and love made its way in through all of my senses and settled into my marrow.
                                                                     

       On the day my Aunt Eleanor—my Godmother—died I held her hand and sung my favorite setting of the 23^rd Psalm. She had become unconscious. Her breaths had become short and more rapid. I trusted that hearing was the last sense to go, so I sung:

“My Shepherd will supply my need;

Jehovah is his name:

In pastures fresh he makes me feed,

beside the living stream.

He brings my wandering spirit back,

when I forsake His ways;

and leads me, for His mercy’s sake,

in paths of truth and grace.
(Hymn here: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=YUvxPGxZt-s)

As more space lingered between her breaths, I felt so privileged to be there with her. This woman God gifted to me, whose two hands and three welcoming words taught me how to feel about myself, was finding her way home. With each line of this old hymn I prayed that she felt loving hands cradling her face, pausing to take her in, smiling with pride saying, “my precious girl.” The last verse of the hymn stole my breath because I knew, even as her body slipped away from me, that I would have her forever. She had been my Godmother, my legal guardian in case something happened to my parents. She held me at my Christening. She made me Italian Cream cakes on my birthdays. She sent me dolls from the countries she had visited. She sent me cards at Christmas and Easter. But on this day I held her. I sung,

“The sure provisions of my God

attend me all my days.

O may your house be my abode,

and all my work be praise.

There would I find a settled rest,

While others go and come;

No more a stranger, or a guest,

but like a child at home.”

It took my breath away when I realized that she had been so much more than my guardian should anything happen to my parents. She was so much more than a sweet aunt I saw once a year.. Year after year, cake after cake, one plate of cookies after another, she had gathered my spirit into her two hands and spoken me into the heart of God. She taught me, not just how to see myself, but how God sees me. She taught me what the privilege of love looks and acts like. I think about her every day, but especially in November. As the rusty leaves let go of the branches, I picture her tablecloth. I remember the feeling when her soft hand let go of mine for the last time. Every time I smell an amaretti cookie I think of her table—the table where I learned that I was precious, just because I showed up. Just for being me.

            In these difficult days since the election, days fraught with argument about who belongs, who is loved, who is welcome at the table, I think of my Godmother and that last verse of the hymn, “There would I find a settled rest, while others go and come. No more a stranger, or a guest, but like a child at home.” We are all children in search of a home. Not a big box with four walls, but the home built in our souls when two hands cradle our face, take us in, and make us know that we are precious. That we are God’s. We know that we are home when we know that a place has been set for us long before we showed up. In these difficult days that is the kind of love we can bear into our small corner of the world. With each encounter we can make people know, deep in their bones, that they are no more a stranger, or a guest, but like a child at home.

Serenity Now!

God is our refuge and our strength, a very present  help in trouble.

Therefore we will not fear, though the earth should change,

though the mountains shake in the heart of the sea;

though its waters roar and foam,

though the mountains tremble with its tumult. --Psalm 46, verses 1-3

Most of us say some version of the Serenity prayer to ourselves at least once a day. Several times on some days. You know it: “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and  the wisdom to know the difference.”  It’s easy enough to say. Seems simple. But it’s really the hardest work of our lives because, if we’re paying attention, far too much happens that is unacceptable, horrifying, tragic, painful, and even evil. And as people of faith aren’t we called in our baptism vows to be instruments of God’s justice, mercy, and love in this broken and hurting world? Aren't we called to change the things we can't accept? We form committees, organize protests, write rules of order for governance, make casseroles, stock food pantries, feed hungry people, create safe havens for those who are unhoused or abused, and we create beautiful liturgy for worship. Our “change the things I can” list can get really long, really fast.

The Psalmist in Psalm 46 has nothing against faithful work and ambitious to-do lists, but he knows that we often forget the part of the prayer that is  just as important: “Accept  the things I cannot change.” This isn’t a call to be complacent  and let the chips of injustice fall where they may. But it is a call to remember that we are not God.  In much  more sweeping and poetic language than the serenity prayer’s, the Psalmist , much like a good sponsor, gives us a cheat sheet for navigating life: Scary things will happen that we can’t control; God is present for us and through us; As people of faith,  we are called to discern how to respond. So before we put everyone else’s oxygen masks on but our own, and  hit rock bottom  trying to prove that we aren’t  powerless and  helpless in the face of hard things, the Psalmist tells it to us straight: The earth changes. The mountains shake and fall into the heart of the sea. The sea’s waters roar and foam. Mountains tremble. Nations are always in an uproar. Kingdoms always totter. The things we think will last forever won’t. They can’t. Things pass away. Bad things happen to good people. We are not in control.

But that's not the end of the story. It's not the last word. Here’s what we know about who God is: There is no where we can go, and no desolate valley we can go through, where God is not. God will always be God. He will always provide refuge. He will always be our strength. He will always show up and help us in our trouble. He will make us glad. He will always utter his voice in order to speak life into desolate places. He will be with us. We aren't left to wonder what God's dream for creation is, because the Psalmist reminds us: God makes wars to cease, breaks the bow, shatters the spear, and burns shields with fire,  In other words, our God works for peace and flourishing, not for war and division.  He is a God who creates, not a God who destroys. So now we know what we can’t  control. We know what God can do in and through us. Now for the most important to-do list of all— our response. This list is the short. but is so hard that we can't do it without God's help: Do not fear; Behold God’s works; and be still and know that God is God.

God is exalted in all the earth. God, not us. So when we find ourselves burned out, run down, overwhelmed by the hard things, and wondering what to do and where to turn, we need to pray through our cheat sheet—Psalm 46. We need to write it on our hearts. Hard and terrible things will happen,  but God is always at work in and through us bringing life into desolate places. Look for the helpers, the beauty, the compassion, and the peacemaking. Do not fear. Love one another.  Hold one another. Feed one another. Comfort one another.  Stand  up for one another. Pray with and for one another. Worship together. Reach out and be honest when you need  help. These are all beautiful ways of beholding and participating in God’s work in the world. These are the things we can control. But above all, we need to remember to be still and know that we are not God. We  need to be held. We  need to let go. We need to let God be our refuge. We need to quiet ourselves long enough to listen for God’s still, small voice, which whispers "You are my beloved. ALL of you." These steps require us to surrender control--to acknowledge that we have limits. Taking these steps requires the wisdom to know the difference between who we are and who God is. When we do, the hard things will not disappear, but we will find the strength, hope, guidance, and community we will need to speak love into the midst of those hard things. In those holy moments, heaven and earth mingle. Then we will know, deep in our bones, that the Lord of Hosts is with us. Therefore we will not fear. We will find serenity now.

Hope Waits

Hope waits through long, cold nights, for light to rise in the East.

It pours itself through color-drenched panes of hand-hewn glass.

It  gathers around  altars, breathing life into tongues of flame;

at home in the darkness, made beautiful by shadows.

Hope rises in the unmistakable scent of hand-kneaded dough,

watched over, waited on, covered, warmed, and faithfully tended.

Hope crackles in the fire, sparked within the wood of ancient trees,

divested of majesty to be warmth in frigid places.

Hope wraps itself in gifts freely given; in presence undistracted.

Hope clothes itself  in the holy vestments of comfort for the lonely,

solidarity with the suffering, healing for the afflicted, and confession for the burdened.

Hope blankets us with comfort, security, and peace.

It shelters us in safety when storms swirl around us.

But Hope does not leave us in the safe, warm, well-lit places.

Hope calls to us, “Rise, bear the light. Pour yourselves out into the world.

Bear the altar of Love out into the dark and shadowed places.

Knead compassion into the forgotten  places. 

Be yeast where there is not enough bread. 

Watch over those whom no one sees.

Wait on those who are regularly passed over. 

Cover those who feel exposed and vulnerable.

Warm those whose bodies and souls have grown cold on their journey.

Advocate for those who live without privilege, protection, or safety."

The Holy One comes at an unexpected hour and in strange places.

We live armed with certainty, wired to avoid vulnerability,

so hope must steal our attention like a thief in the night.

The God of unscheduled inspections shows up in plain clothes-- 

in the processions of barefoot pilgrims escaping wasted lands,.

in broken homes, broken hearts, and pillaged streets,

begging us to see that Love lives there.

The Prince of Peace is no stranger to the in-between places;

He dwells between despair and hope after a loss; 

between difficult decisions and resolution;

between broken relationships and forgiveness; 

between  inequity and justice.

Hope calls us to “put on the armor of light.” 

May we make of ourselves a safe space;

a place where both strangers and friends can feel at home.

May we feed the hungry, be a well for the parched, clothe the naked, befriend the stranger.

May we sit with those imprisoned behind bars, or caged by despair.

May we break in and enter the hardest, darkest places with unbridled love and embodied light.

May hope find us restless in our safety, unsettled by our peace,

and unsatisfied  with our comfort,  not because we don’t deserve it,

but because so many others live without it. Hope waits. Hope lives. Hope rises.

How To Be A Saint

Hello Saints! No, it’s not still Halloween, and I’m not pretending you are all dressed up as saints. I’m addressing you as “Saints” because that’s exactly who you are in God’s eyes.  That’s exactly how God sees you. When we hear the word “Saints” we tend to think of people like Mother Teresa, St. Francis of Assisi, or the apostles, like St. Paul. So when we hear the word “saints” we tend to think only of the giants of the faith who cloistered themselves away from everyday life, dedicated themselves to Holy things, and achieved a kind of spiritual and moral perfection. So to call ourselves “saints” feels a bit like playing dress-up for Halloween. But long before we celebrated Halloween with costumes and candy, Christians around the world have remembered the dead, All the Saints, the Great Cloud of Witnesses who have gone before us. We have called these people “saints” because we have deemed them “holy.” The word Halloween comes from the same root word as “hallowed” or “halo” meaning Holy.  Throughout the centuries we have grown accustomed to hallowing other people as Holy—people who we think can sacrifice things we can’t, or pray in ways we can’t, or love and serve others in ways that we feel we can’t. We  put these Holy men and women on spiritual pedestals and revere them for doing God’s work, while we look on and talk about how Holy they are. It’s difficult for most of us to imagine that we could ever be counted among the saints.

But the truth is, in each of your baptisms, you were anointed with just this identity. You were sealed in the Holy Spirit and marked as Christ’s own forever. You, or your parents on your behalf, agreed to uphold a covenant— promises to continue in the apostles teaching, in the breaking of the bread, and in the prayers. You promised to persevere in resisting evil and whenever you fall into sin, repent and return to the Lord. You promised to proclaim by word and example the Good News of God in Christ. You promised to seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving your neighbor as yourself. You promised to strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being. But more important than all of these promises is the promise you made to do all of these things with God’s help. See, what makes us Holy, what makes us saints in God’s eyes, is not our perfection (for none of us can ever be perfect), and it’s not our moral purity (for we all know that we are human and will always struggle against our own brokenness and selfishness). What makes us saints is not how much we can isolate ourselves or separate ourselves from the world. What makes us saints has nothing to do with what we are able to do. What makes us saints is what God can do through us. Singer-songwriter Leonard Cohen says, “There is a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.” Saints, you and I and the great cloud of witnesses throughout history are all cracked, imperfect vessels. Spoiler alert: we will never be perfect or pure. We will never be without doubt and anger, without questions and fears. What makes you saints, what makes me a saint, and what makes our brothers and sisters and friends and family and heroes of the faith saints, is not our perfection, but God’s gracious love for us. What makes us saints is God’s gracious claim on our lives. God does not call us to “dress-up” as perfect, pure, people, unscathed by the tragedy, struggles, and challenges of this life. God’s claim on our lives calls us to hear His cry for healing, justice, and restoration of the world and to respond—to rise and to work with Him for that healing, justice and restoration, even when it seems futile; even when it seems that the odds are stacked against us; even when we think we are too powerless to make a difference. You see, “Holiness” is as much of a verb as it is a noun. Holiness happens whenever we are willing to sacrifice in order to love as Jesus loved and serve as Jesus served, even in the most seemingly hopeless circumstances.

Today’s gospel reading seems perfectly timed for Halloween. Lazarus, one of Jesus’ closest friends, and the brother of Mary and Martha, dies, and Jesus comes and raises him from the dead. When we first hear this story it sounds like something straight out of a fantasy or horror movie. Lazarus was dead. We are told that he had been dead for 4 days. The Jews believed that it took 3 days after a person’s death for their soul to leave their body. After 4 days, Lazarus’ soul had most certainly left his body and, as if that weren’t enough, we are told that there is already a stench. The gospel of John does not mince words here. John wants us to understand that Jesus’ power is greater than even the most futile, most hopeless, and most final losses of all. There is no “science-ing” our way out of this. This is no less than a miracle.

 But the real miracle isn’t simply a dead body coming back to life. The real miracle is far more powerful. You see, this act is the final straw for Jesus. It is the healing that causes the Roman authorities to sentence Jesus to death on the cross. And Jesus knew, before agreeing to do it, that this would seal his fate. So the real miracle here is so much more than a man being brought back from death into life. The real miracle is Jesus’ willingness to use his power to bring life to another when he knew that it would mean giving up his own life. The real miracle is that, when Jesus heard Martha and Mary’s cries for healing, justice, and restoration, he responded. He knew that Lazarus’ death would leave Mary and Martha destitute, without any social status, and vulnerable. So he weeps with them. He grieves with them.  He faces all of Martha’s questions, accusations, and doubts, and then asks her to “roll away the stone.” Faced with the stench of hopelessness and grief she confronts Jesus at the end of her faith. Like each of us, when we are faced with unbearable loss, she wants answers and guarantees. Like each of us, when we are faced with unspeakable tragedy, she longs for promises and comfort, but finds herself hanging onto her faith by a thread. Through blinding tears she finds herself begging Jesus for hope. But the hope Jesus offers—the real miracle—can’t be completed by Jesus alone. The real miracle requires that Martha and Mary, and the gathered community obey Jesus’ command and participate in the miracle. Lazarus cannot find new life until they roll away the stone, unbind him, and let him go.

See, our calling as saints is not to be perfect, pure, or certain. Our real work as saints is to respond to cries for healing, justice, and restoration in the world with God’s help. Our work as saints is to roll away the stones of oppression, poverty, loneliness, and hopelessness wherever we may find them—in our communities, in our families, or even in our own hearts. Our work as saints is to call out to Christ even in the midst of anger, doubt, discomfort, and despair, and to ask him to help us make a space for healing, justice and restoration there. Our work as saints is not to avoid pain and suffering, but to recognize the presence of God in the midst of our pain and suffering so that God can use us to heal the pain and suffering of others. Our work as saints is to recognize that bringing life to others will always cost us something of our own life. To trust another always costs us something of our independence. But the great good news of the gospel is that, when we obey our calling to roll away the stones of hopelessness, by fulfilling our baptismal promises, we will be forever changed. It will come at a cost. We may have to lay down our own ambitions, and lay aside our allegiance to some of the world’s values. But when we believe—when we love as Jesus loved and serve as Jesus served—we will see the glory of God.

 We will see it in the eyes of a child when we volunteer at her underserved school to teach her how to read. We will see it in the eyes of the woman who has not had any visitors in a long time, and whose face lights up when we walk in the room. We will see the glory of God in the grateful hands of a neighbor who receives a warm meal after a an exhausting chemotherapy treatment. We will see it in the relieved eyes of a young single mother when we offer to take her children to the park while she takes a much-needed nap or gets a long-post-poned haircut. We will hear it in the voice of an estranged family member when we tell them that we forgive them.   

The true miracle of the resurrection is that God invites to share in it, participate in it, nurture it, create space for it, and proclaim it. The true miracle is that, in Christ, every day is All Saints Day. Every moment is a precious gift in which God’s love, healing, justice and restoration is possible. Every encounter we have with another person presents us with the opportunity to roll away the stones of hopelessness, suffering, and loneliness and to speak hope, healing, and community into those spaces. You don’t need to be perfect or pure to do this. In fact, you need to be cracked to let God’s Light in. So as you celebrate all of the saints in your own lives today, remembering the big and small ways they nurtured love and hope in you, remember that you are Holy. You are a saint. You don’t need a costume. You have everything you need. You are everything God needs. As our prayerbook’s funeral rite reminds us, “For none of us has life in himself, and none becomes his own master when he dies. For if we have life, we are alive in the Lord, and if we die, we die in the Lord. So, then, whether we live or die, we are the Lord’s possession.” Saints, you are the Lord’s possession. So roll away the stone. Believe. You will see the glory of God. Amen.