November 7, 2010
Ephesians 1.11-23
+ Last Sunday we had a visitor in church. Actually, over these last few Sundays, we’ve had quite a few visitors in church. But last Sunday, one of our visitors, from out of town, was talking with me in the Narthex after Mass. I was mentioning that, since it was Reformation Sunday—a Sunday we don’t officially commemorate here—because many of us here (including yours truly) are former Lutherans, James very appropriately sent us out to the beautiful strains of that Lutehran standard Ein Feste Berg ist Unser Gott—A Mighty Fortress is Our God.
The visitor jokingly told me: “I came here to escape the Lutherans who surround me.”
I, also joking, but not really, drew her attention to our All Saints altar in the Narthex and said, “Yes, but we do pray for our dead, unlike the Lutherans.”
Her face brightened up and she smiled and she said, “Oh, I know! And that’s what I love about you Episcopalians!”
Yes, we do pray for our dead as Episcopalians. You will hear me make a petition when someone dies that you won’t hear in the Lutheran Church, or the Methodist Church or the Presbyterian Church (or even the Unitarian Church). When someone dies, you will hear me say, “I ask your prayers for the repose of the soul of…”
I like that idea of praying for those who have died. Because we are uncertain of exactly what happens to us when we die, there is nothing wrong with praying for those who have crossed into that mystery we call “the nearer Presence of God.” And I would even go so far as to say I also don’t believe there is anything wrong with asking those same people to pray for us.
After all, they are still our family and friends. They are still part of who we are. And just as we would ask one another here on earth to pray for us, I don’t think there is anything wrong in asking those who are in a better place than us—who are certainly in closer proximity to God than us—to pray for us as well. And I know that makes some of us very uncomfortable. And I understand why.
I understand that it flies in the face of our more Protestant upbringings. This is exactly what the other Reformers rebelled against and freed us from. But, even they never did away with this wonderful All Saints Feast we are celebrating this morning.
This morning we are commemorating and remembering those people in our lives who have helped us, in various way, to know God. As you probably have guessed from the week-long commemoration we have made here at St. Stephen’s regarding the Feast of All Saints, I really do love this feast.
With the death of my father this past year, or with the deaths of several friends and parishioners from St. Stephen’s, this Feast has taken on particular significance for me this year. What this feast shows me is what you have heard me preach in many funeral sermons again and again. I truly, without a doubt, believe that what separates those of us who are alive here on earth, from those who are now in the “nearer presence of God” is truly a very thin one. And to commemorate them and to remember them is a good thing for all us.
Now, I do understand, as I said before, that all this talk of saints makes some of us more “Protestant minded” a bit uncomfortable. We don’t need intercessors, I have heard people say. And I agree completely. We don’t need anyone to pray for us. And, I guess, we don’t need to pray for them. God takes care of them, with or without our prayers.
But what I like about this whole commemoration is not the “praying for” so much, as the remembering in prayer. Now, even that makes some of us uncomfortable. It just all smacks of too much “praying to the saints” mumbo jumbo that my good Lutheran grandmother would frown at.
Even the early Anglicans and Episcopalians had issues with this saint business. Now, as I like to do occasionally, I would like us to take a nice leisurely walk to the back of the Prayer Book once again. But we’re going to go to a place we’ve never gone together to. It is the so-called Articles of Religion, which, as they say in the Prayer Book, were “established by the Bishops, Clergy, and the laity of the Protestant Episcopal Church in the United States of America, in Convention, on the twelfth day of September, in the Year of our Lord, 1801.” We’re going to go to page 872. And we’re going to go to Article XXII (22) which is labeled “Of Purgatory.” There, you will find this:
“The Romish Doctrine concerning Purgatory, Pardons, Worshipping and Adoration, as well as of Images, and also Invocation of Saints, is a fine thing, vainly invented, and grounded upon no warranty of Scripture, but rather repugnant to the Word of God.”
Those early Protestant Episcopalians did not mix words. They were quite clear about this matter of the saints.
My dear friend, Fr. John-Julian, an Episcopal priest and a member of the religious Order of Julian Norwich, whom we hear from on a regular basis since I often share his thoughts and reflections on saints during the homily at our Wednesday night Mass here at St. Stephen’s, says this about Article 22 of The Articles of Faith:
“Since the 19th Century…Anglican theologians have understood this to condemn the ‘Romish’ exaggerations and superstitions, rather than proscribing the actual practice of invocation itself, and under the influence of the Oxford Movement from the mid-19th Century onward a broad revival of the orthodox and ancient practice spread, until it is now a completely acceptable and ordinary custom throughout the entire Anglican Communion.”
Now, I’m not commending any of us to start invoking saints. And I won’t start doing it here. But…I do want us to think long and hard about the saints we have known in our lives. And I want us to at least realize that ministry doesn’t stop when we die. Hopefully, ministry continues, even following our deaths. Hopefully, we can still, even after our deaths, do good and work toward furthering the Kingdom of God.
For me, the saints—those people who have gone before us—aren’t gone. They haven’t just disappeared. They haven’t just floated away and dissipated like clouds out of our midst. No, rather they are here with us, still. They join with us, just as the angels do, when we celebrate the Eucharist. For, especially in the Eucharist, we find that “veil” lifted for a moment. The Anglican Service Book puts it this way:
“In the communion of saints we, the Church on earth, are joined with the Church Triumphant and Expectant in worshipping before the same Throne of Grace. In the Holy Eucharist, which transcends all time and space, we are closest to our faithful departed loved ones, joining our prayers and praises to theirs. We pray for them, as we believe they pray for us, so that all may strengthened in their lives of service.”
“We pray for them, as we believe they pray for us, so that all may be strengthened in their lives of service.”
I love that! In this Eucharist that we celebrate together at this altar, we find the divisions that separate us are gone. We see how thin that veil is. We see that death truly does not have ultimate power over us.
I can’t tell you how many times over the years I have heard stories from one priest or layperson or the other who have said they have experienced, especially during the Eucharist, the presence, in a sometimes nearly empty church, of the multitude of saints, gathered together to worship.
You have heard me reference this image before, but one of the most powerful scenes I have ever witnessed in a film was at the end of the film Places in the Heart. The film is about a housewife in 1930s Texas, played by Sally Field. At the beginning of the film her sheriff husband is accidentally killed by a young drunk black man, who is then lynched by a group of vigilantes. At the end of the film, we find Sally Field’s character, gathered with her children and hired hands in a Baptist church, sharing Communion as the choir sings “In the Garden.” As the plates of bread and juice are passed from person to person in the pews, we find the camera panning to each person. Finally, we see the camera stop at that last two people who are sharing Communion with each other. Those last two people who share in the communion are Field’s dead husband and the young man who shot him. As the scene fades, they are sitting side-by side, sharing Communion. That scene gets me every time, because that is the way it is.
That is the way Holy Communion should be. It’s not just us, gathered here at the altar. It’s the Communion of all the saints. In fact, before we sing that glorious hymn, “Holy, Holy Holy” during the Eucharistic rite, you hear me say, “with angels and saints and all the company of heaven we sing this hymn of praise.” That isn’t just sweet, poetic language. It’s what we believe and hope in.
In these last few months since my father died, I think I have felt his presence most keenly, at times, here at this altar when we are gathered together for the Eucharist then at any other time. I have felt him here with us. And in those moments when I have, I know in ways I never have before, how thin that veil is between us and “them.”
You can see why I love this feast. It not only gives us consolation in this moment, separated as we are from our loved ones, but it also gives us hope. We know, in moments like this, where we are headed. We know what awaits us. No, we don’t know it in detail. We’re not saying there are streets paved in gold or puffy white clouds with chubby little baby angels floating around. We don’t have a clear vision of that place. But we do sense it. We do feel it. We know it’s there, just beyond our vision, just out of reach and out of focus. And “they” are all there, waiting for us.
So, this morning—and always—we should rejoice in this fellowship we have with them.. We should rejoice as the saints we are and we should rejoice with the saints that have gone before us. In our collect this morning, we prayed that “we may come to those ineffably joys that you have prepared for those who truly love you.” Those ineffably joys await us. They are there, just on the other side of that thin veil. And if we are only patient, we too, as Paul tells us in his letter to the Ephesians this morning, will obtain that inheritance that they have gained and we will live with them in that place of unimaginable joy and light.
Ephesians 1.11-23
+ Last Sunday we had a visitor in church. Actually, over these last few Sundays, we’ve had quite a few visitors in church. But last Sunday, one of our visitors, from out of town, was talking with me in the Narthex after Mass. I was mentioning that, since it was Reformation Sunday—a Sunday we don’t officially commemorate here—because many of us here (including yours truly) are former Lutherans, James very appropriately sent us out to the beautiful strains of that Lutehran standard Ein Feste Berg ist Unser Gott—A Mighty Fortress is Our God.
The visitor jokingly told me: “I came here to escape the Lutherans who surround me.”
I, also joking, but not really, drew her attention to our All Saints altar in the Narthex and said, “Yes, but we do pray for our dead, unlike the Lutherans.”
Her face brightened up and she smiled and she said, “Oh, I know! And that’s what I love about you Episcopalians!”
Yes, we do pray for our dead as Episcopalians. You will hear me make a petition when someone dies that you won’t hear in the Lutheran Church, or the Methodist Church or the Presbyterian Church (or even the Unitarian Church). When someone dies, you will hear me say, “I ask your prayers for the repose of the soul of…”
I like that idea of praying for those who have died. Because we are uncertain of exactly what happens to us when we die, there is nothing wrong with praying for those who have crossed into that mystery we call “the nearer Presence of God.” And I would even go so far as to say I also don’t believe there is anything wrong with asking those same people to pray for us.
After all, they are still our family and friends. They are still part of who we are. And just as we would ask one another here on earth to pray for us, I don’t think there is anything wrong in asking those who are in a better place than us—who are certainly in closer proximity to God than us—to pray for us as well. And I know that makes some of us very uncomfortable. And I understand why.
I understand that it flies in the face of our more Protestant upbringings. This is exactly what the other Reformers rebelled against and freed us from. But, even they never did away with this wonderful All Saints Feast we are celebrating this morning.
This morning we are commemorating and remembering those people in our lives who have helped us, in various way, to know God. As you probably have guessed from the week-long commemoration we have made here at St. Stephen’s regarding the Feast of All Saints, I really do love this feast.
With the death of my father this past year, or with the deaths of several friends and parishioners from St. Stephen’s, this Feast has taken on particular significance for me this year. What this feast shows me is what you have heard me preach in many funeral sermons again and again. I truly, without a doubt, believe that what separates those of us who are alive here on earth, from those who are now in the “nearer presence of God” is truly a very thin one. And to commemorate them and to remember them is a good thing for all us.
Now, I do understand, as I said before, that all this talk of saints makes some of us more “Protestant minded” a bit uncomfortable. We don’t need intercessors, I have heard people say. And I agree completely. We don’t need anyone to pray for us. And, I guess, we don’t need to pray for them. God takes care of them, with or without our prayers.
But what I like about this whole commemoration is not the “praying for” so much, as the remembering in prayer. Now, even that makes some of us uncomfortable. It just all smacks of too much “praying to the saints” mumbo jumbo that my good Lutheran grandmother would frown at.
Even the early Anglicans and Episcopalians had issues with this saint business. Now, as I like to do occasionally, I would like us to take a nice leisurely walk to the back of the Prayer Book once again. But we’re going to go to a place we’ve never gone together to. It is the so-called Articles of Religion, which, as they say in the Prayer Book, were “established by the Bishops, Clergy, and the laity of the Protestant Episcopal Church in the United States of America, in Convention, on the twelfth day of September, in the Year of our Lord, 1801.” We’re going to go to page 872. And we’re going to go to Article XXII (22) which is labeled “Of Purgatory.” There, you will find this:
“The Romish Doctrine concerning Purgatory, Pardons, Worshipping and Adoration, as well as of Images, and also Invocation of Saints, is a fine thing, vainly invented, and grounded upon no warranty of Scripture, but rather repugnant to the Word of God.”
Those early Protestant Episcopalians did not mix words. They were quite clear about this matter of the saints.
My dear friend, Fr. John-Julian, an Episcopal priest and a member of the religious Order of Julian Norwich, whom we hear from on a regular basis since I often share his thoughts and reflections on saints during the homily at our Wednesday night Mass here at St. Stephen’s, says this about Article 22 of The Articles of Faith:
“Since the 19th Century…Anglican theologians have understood this to condemn the ‘Romish’ exaggerations and superstitions, rather than proscribing the actual practice of invocation itself, and under the influence of the Oxford Movement from the mid-19th Century onward a broad revival of the orthodox and ancient practice spread, until it is now a completely acceptable and ordinary custom throughout the entire Anglican Communion.”
Now, I’m not commending any of us to start invoking saints. And I won’t start doing it here. But…I do want us to think long and hard about the saints we have known in our lives. And I want us to at least realize that ministry doesn’t stop when we die. Hopefully, ministry continues, even following our deaths. Hopefully, we can still, even after our deaths, do good and work toward furthering the Kingdom of God.
For me, the saints—those people who have gone before us—aren’t gone. They haven’t just disappeared. They haven’t just floated away and dissipated like clouds out of our midst. No, rather they are here with us, still. They join with us, just as the angels do, when we celebrate the Eucharist. For, especially in the Eucharist, we find that “veil” lifted for a moment. The Anglican Service Book puts it this way:
“In the communion of saints we, the Church on earth, are joined with the Church Triumphant and Expectant in worshipping before the same Throne of Grace. In the Holy Eucharist, which transcends all time and space, we are closest to our faithful departed loved ones, joining our prayers and praises to theirs. We pray for them, as we believe they pray for us, so that all may strengthened in their lives of service.”
“We pray for them, as we believe they pray for us, so that all may be strengthened in their lives of service.”
I love that! In this Eucharist that we celebrate together at this altar, we find the divisions that separate us are gone. We see how thin that veil is. We see that death truly does not have ultimate power over us.
I can’t tell you how many times over the years I have heard stories from one priest or layperson or the other who have said they have experienced, especially during the Eucharist, the presence, in a sometimes nearly empty church, of the multitude of saints, gathered together to worship.
You have heard me reference this image before, but one of the most powerful scenes I have ever witnessed in a film was at the end of the film Places in the Heart. The film is about a housewife in 1930s Texas, played by Sally Field. At the beginning of the film her sheriff husband is accidentally killed by a young drunk black man, who is then lynched by a group of vigilantes. At the end of the film, we find Sally Field’s character, gathered with her children and hired hands in a Baptist church, sharing Communion as the choir sings “In the Garden.” As the plates of bread and juice are passed from person to person in the pews, we find the camera panning to each person. Finally, we see the camera stop at that last two people who are sharing Communion with each other. Those last two people who share in the communion are Field’s dead husband and the young man who shot him. As the scene fades, they are sitting side-by side, sharing Communion. That scene gets me every time, because that is the way it is.
That is the way Holy Communion should be. It’s not just us, gathered here at the altar. It’s the Communion of all the saints. In fact, before we sing that glorious hymn, “Holy, Holy Holy” during the Eucharistic rite, you hear me say, “with angels and saints and all the company of heaven we sing this hymn of praise.” That isn’t just sweet, poetic language. It’s what we believe and hope in.
In these last few months since my father died, I think I have felt his presence most keenly, at times, here at this altar when we are gathered together for the Eucharist then at any other time. I have felt him here with us. And in those moments when I have, I know in ways I never have before, how thin that veil is between us and “them.”
You can see why I love this feast. It not only gives us consolation in this moment, separated as we are from our loved ones, but it also gives us hope. We know, in moments like this, where we are headed. We know what awaits us. No, we don’t know it in detail. We’re not saying there are streets paved in gold or puffy white clouds with chubby little baby angels floating around. We don’t have a clear vision of that place. But we do sense it. We do feel it. We know it’s there, just beyond our vision, just out of reach and out of focus. And “they” are all there, waiting for us.
So, this morning—and always—we should rejoice in this fellowship we have with them.. We should rejoice as the saints we are and we should rejoice with the saints that have gone before us. In our collect this morning, we prayed that “we may come to those ineffably joys that you have prepared for those who truly love you.” Those ineffably joys await us. They are there, just on the other side of that thin veil. And if we are only patient, we too, as Paul tells us in his letter to the Ephesians this morning, will obtain that inheritance that they have gained and we will live with them in that place of unimaginable joy and light.
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2 comments:
Jamie, thank you for an insightful post. If we deny the saints' presence and relationship with us it seems we in some way deny the resurrection. We pray for others in this life and ask there prayers for us. If we truly believe the resurrection, that life has changed not ended, as the BCP says, how can we not pray for those who have gone before and ask their prayers for us?
Peace, Mike+
http://interruptingthesilence.com
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