Sermon for All Saints Sunday

Here is my sermon for All Saints--when I deliver it, I anticipate that the ending may be slightly different.  In other words, I'm still not happy with it, but I'm leaving room for the Holy Spirit.

 November 3, 2024, All Saints Sunday

By Kristin Berkey-Abbott

John 11:32-44

In today’s readings, we get a beautiful vision of a world being prepared for the saints, a life of the world that hasn’t yet been born.  Notice how much of the imagery is similar in both the book of Isaiah and the book of Revelation:  tears being wiped from every eye, death being banished, God coming to dwell with God’s people.

And then we get to the Gospel, which gives us a different view of being a saint.  It’s a curious story, both in light of our festival Sunday and in the book of John.  In the beginning of the 11th chapter, Lazarus is sick and the sisters have sent for Jesus.

What does Jesus do?  Does he rush right to the bedside of the one he loves?  No, he lingers where he is for a few days—and thus sparks centuries of debate about why he does this.  The easiest explanation is one that paints Jesus in a strange light:  he lets Lazarus die so that he can show how powerful he is.  But why would he need to prove his power this way?  He’s healed many people, he’s taught in multiple places,  he’s done miracles like multiplying food, and he’s answered question after question.  By now, people are going to believe or they won’t.  By now, he’s attracted the attention of the people in charge, and they are already plotting against him.

Unlike other stories where we see Mary and Martha, in this story they behave similarly—there’s a measure of reproach when they interact with him.  And who can blame them?  They must have questions about what has kept Jesus away.  Once Lazarus dies, they must know that the miracle they hoped for won’t be theirs.

I’ve come to think of these sisters as some of the pillars of the faith—our Christian foremothers, every bit as praiseworthy as the disciples, and frankly perhaps more deserving of praise.  And yet, they show themselves to be very human here in this story.  Mary says that if Jesus had gotten himself to them in time, her brother wouldn’t have died.  Martha is her typical Martha self, trying to micromanage Jesus, worrying about the social niceties like the neighbors smelling her dead brother.  

In a way, though, who can blame them? They’re not expecting Jesus to raise the dead—that seems outside of the realm of possibility.   Throughout the ages, people experience healing and other types of miracles, but it’s the rare person who believes that a person has been dead for 4 days can be brought back to life.  Mary and Martha must have wondered what on earth Jesus is thinking by rolling back the stone from the tomb. 

The Gospel today is a condensation of each of the Gospels, in microcosm, like seeing the story of an entire forest in a single pinecone, like a sonnet that sings a love song in just 14 lines of iambic pentameter.  In today’s Gospel, we see Jesus who is in relationship with humans, who walks beside them, who experiences their sorrows and  weeps with them.  In today’s Gospel reading, we see Jesus delivering the Good News that death will not have the final answer.

Today’s Gospel story is also a microcosm of the larger story of Creation, the story that is heading towards the vision depicted in Isaiah and Revelation:  tears wiped from every eye, and death has lost its sting.  But we’re certainly not there yet.

Like Mary and Martha, we don’t not fully understand why the world is set up the way it is.  We might see miracle after miracle, teaching after teaching, healing after healing and wonder why, if Jesus can do all of these great things, why let death have any power at all?  We might wish that the redemption that Jesus offers us would look different than it does.

Like Mary and Martha, we, too, might want to micromanage the miracles:  heal Lazarus while he’s sick and don’t expose us all to the smell of miracles at work.  But just imagine if Jesus had allowed himself to be controlled this way.  Mary and Martha have a vision, but it’s puny compared to the vision that our Triune God has for creation, a vision where death no longer has the ultimate say.  Why does God’s vision and hope for creation need to unfold in this way, a way that includes both miracles and sorrow?  I don’t know, but I’m sure that God does know.

Jesus promises us that death is not the final answer. We do not fully understand how Jesus will fulfill that promise. Some will argue that we go directly to Heaven, and some will tell us that we'll wait in a safe place until the final coming of Christ. And in the meantime, Jesus invites us to participate in the creation of the Kingdom, right here, right now. We don't have to wait until we're dead.

On this Sunday where we celebrate the saints, where we remember all who have come before us, let us also remember the ways that they showed us how the Kingdom of God isn’t here yet, but the Kingdom of God is breaking into our lives in new ways.  Let us remember the ways that they showed us how we can unbind ourselves from all the forces of death that have wrapped their clothes around us.  Let us remember all the ways that the community of God shows us a new way, a way out of all that holds us in a tomb.  

Along with all the saints, Jesus stands at the door of our tombs and calls to us.   I know that some days it may seem like too much—we might want to stay in the comfort of the graves that we know and understand.  But today and every day, I hope that we hear the call to a new life, one that can start right now.  Today and every day, I hope that we arise from whatever death holds us in its grips, that we leave the grave cloths behind, that we emerge from our gloomy places ready to experience new life.