All Saints Sermon, November 5, 2006

Isaiah 25:6-9, Pslam 24; Revelation 21:1-6a; John 11:32-44 Yesterday at about 11 AM, Bishop Katharine Jefferts Schori knocked three times on one of the doors of Washington National Cathedral. The door was opened by the Bishop of Washington and the Dean of the Cathedral. Bishop Jefferts Schori was presented to be our 26th Presiding Bishop. The 25th Presiding Bishop Frank Griswold greeted her with these words, “Katharine, Bishop in the Church of God, we have looked forward to your coming with great joy. In the name of Christ, we greet you.” “I hope to serve among you in Christ’s name and in the joy of the Spirit,” she said. Only God could have imagined this. The first woman in Anglicanism’s 5-century history to serve as presiding bishop. The first-ever woman primate (primates in Anglicanism are the species who head up our communion’s 38 member provinces). Only God could have imagined this. At a General Convention anguishing over the proper response to the Windsor report. Struggling to figure out how to honor the criticism coming from parts of the wider church of our decision three years ago to approve the ordination of a gay bishop in New Hampshire. In the midst of that came this unlikeliest of elections of our Presiding Bishop. God moves in mysterious ways. Ways that so often defy our wildest imagination. This woman, former university professor, oceanographer, airplane pilot, ordained not that long ago, and Bishop of one of the smallest Western dioceses in our church for five years. . . Talk about Daniel in the lion’s den. Here she is—cheered by thousands at the Cathedral, but 7 American dioceses have requested alternative oversight from the Archbishop of Canterbury—because they can’t bear to have this woman as their Presiding Bishop. Here she is—heading off to meet with her fellow Primates—some of whom refuse to be in the same room with her. . . . Only God could have imagined this. “Katharine, we have looked forward to your coming with great joy. In the name of Christ we greet you.” “I hope to serve among you in Christ’s name and in the joy of the Spirit.” “Unbind him and set him free,” Jesus tells his friends after calling Lazarus out of the tomb to new life. Those words sum up our hope and our calling. The hope and calling of all who have sought to follow Christ. The hope and the calling of the saints who surround us— This is All Saints’ Day—and as our new Presiding Bishop takes her seat at Washington Cathedral for the first time, we gather to celebrate the saints, those who have sought God in their lives by following along the Way. We come here to give thanks for the famous saints like Francis, and Martin, Mary and Mother Teresa. We come here to give thanks for other lesser known saints—people in our own lives who have loved us, forgiven us, challenged us, nurtured us, taught us, shown us the way. In little ways and big ways. The saints are a motley crew. The famous ones—if you’ve read about them or come to know them--are a weird lot. Some did outrageous, crazy things, they fasted forever, wore strange clothes, and occasionally, no clothes, some spurned marriages, gave away fortunes, marched into coliseums with smiles on their faces and songs in their hearts only to be ripped apart by wild animals. Some were scholars, some were big deal politicians, some were almost unnoticed in the annals of history, they washed dishes, fed the poor, said their prayers, and visited the sick. Some were geniuses and some you wonder about. The same might be said for the ones we’ve known personally—the lesser saints you might call them. The people of faith who have impacted our own lives. Our grand mothers or fathers, aunts, cousins, a parent, a teacher, a frail child battling a big disease, neighbors, friends, elders, youngers. A few of them well-known perhaps. Most not. Yet to us—they are saints. Only God could have imagined them. Consider for a moment: God’s imagination: God’s wild dream and promise—that banquet table where all are invited, all are fed—no one’s full stomach the result of someone else going hungry. That place where peace is found—not the peace that comes when the guns stop firing—but the peace that is found when all are set free—when all are welcomed home—when all know deep in their bones that God’s love and forgiveness, God’s wild abundant table is set for every last one of us. None are left out. That’s the dream and the vision. The new heaven and the new earth. The home of God is among mortals. God dwells with us and we are God’s, and God will wipe away every tear from our eyes. Yours and mine. The tears you’ve cried, and felt like crying, the ones you’ve choked back, the ones you dare not start crying because you’re afraid that if you do, you’ll never stop. Those tears. Tears for yourself—your losses, your own brokenness. Tears for your family and friends—for broken relationships and a lack of forgiveness. Tears for our cities—for the homeless-for the mentally ill who roam our streets—and for families one pay check away from being on the streets—tears for the elderly home alone, and hungry—tears for that man on the corner begging--tears for the world—for the people killing each other—for innocent victims—for refugees and migrants. Tears for the earth, for the ways we’ve damaged it, for the animals and the forests, and the air and the water. Tears. Jesus cries too. In this story about the raising of Lazarus Jesus begins to weep. Tears. The tears that God will wipe away. Jesus weeps. What do you make of all of this? The promise of God—the dream of God—and our reality—that brings us to tears and makes it so hard to hold onto the promise—to entrust ourselves to it. The reality that stunts our thinking and shrivels up our imagination. leaves us expecting the worst, and the least. We’re fearful and numb. No hope. No imagination here. Only tears. Jesus tears were maybe frustration—his imagination was so hooked into God’s dream that it was hard for him to be surrounded by people so focused on death. The gap between God’s dream and vision and the fear and the numbness of the people was maybe almost more than he could bear. My tears are not like Jesus’. I am not like Jesus. I’m much more with Martha at the tomb focused on the smell of death. I am often in the fear or the numbness. So overwhelmed by bad news that I’ve stopped my subscription to the PD——I’m so consumed by this culture of consumerism and my own sense of complicity in the forces of death that I just shut down and do nothing. I’m so numb I’m like Lazarus--the walking dead. Other times, I’m so fearful of all the things I’m told to be fearful of that I forget the dream of God. When I act out of that fear, I act in very unimaginative ways—judging others, rejecting, blaming. You know what I mean—small-minded. Unimaginative. Saints are people with imagination. They have a hold of the dream. That wild imagination of God that is always at work bringing life out of death—reconciliation out of division. Freedom out of imprisonment. They are ones who entrust their lives to the imagination of God. They refuse to see as others see. They see beneath the superficial—and they dare to act on what they see. They dream impossible dreams and act as though their dreams were realities. They go about unbinding others—sharing the dream of new possibilities. Some of them do big deal things—others maybe those in your life just held on to their dream that you could be more of a person than you imagined, saw you through God’s eyes and loved you with God’s heart. Wiped away your tears. Where is God’s dream, God’s imagination or one of God’s saints calling you out of your fear or numbness? Calling you to unbind another and set him or her free? Calling you to join in God’s raising of the dead—calling you in your daily life to reach out to serve, to love, to reconcile, set free. Look at you! Only God could have imagined you! [You can’t argue that point!] Only God could have called you, loved you, forgiven you, enspirited you. Only God welcomes you home. Who can imagine our church in the years ahead? Could its future be something we haven’t yet imagined? Perhaps only God can imagine the people of God. I don’t know, but I do know one thing: As God has called Katharine, God calls us—you and me. We share in her calling and her hope. The dream—the vision—held deep in our bones--assures us of that. We are in this together. And, so I greet you this morning: “We have looked forward to your coming with great joy. In the name of Christ we greet you.” And, in your hearts, you say: “I hope to serve among you in Christ’s name and in the joy of the Spirit.” AMEN AMEN