All Saints Sunday
John 11:32-44; Isaiah 25:6-9; Revelation 21:1-6
Last Sunday after services, Pastor Chris and I made a quick trip to Minnesota to visit my family. We had not been there since before we went to Africa this past summer and we wanted to share a little of that trip first hand. On Monday we drove into Hartland (population 258) for lunch. It was Salisbury steak day at the main street cafe. Chris and I grabbed off the last two pieces of homemade pie in the display case just before the mechanic crew from the John Deere dealership across the street walked in. After lunch I told my parents to drive the car back to the farm, that Chris and I would walk the three miles of country roads back. It is only four blocks to the edge of town but Chris suggested we visit Ole so we added an extra block walking first south to the Cross of Glory Lutheran Church and the cemetery behind it that looks out over the surrounding farm land fields. It had been a couple of years since we were last at the cemetery. I didn't remember exactly where my grandparents were buried. As we looked for their grave marker I read name after name of distant relatives and local farm families that brought to mind a litany of stories and memories. There was my old great-uncle Knut, a real Norwegian bachelor farmer who always came to family gatherings in blue bib coveralls with his pockets filled with silver dollars that he gave to each of us great nephews and nieces if we had the nerve to spend a few minutes talking with old Uncle Knut. There were the graves of the two Clara Rugrodens who had been first cousins born only a month apart in the 1800's, named by mothers who each claimed to have picked the name first for their daughter. And there were the new additions since my last visit a few years ago, like my uncle Harold, whose grave marker I came upon situated near the edge of the cemetery only a few feet from the freshly tilled field that had been harvested of its corn only a week earlier. It always struck me as curious that my father had five sons and one daughter and Uncle Harold had one son and five daughters. Chris was the one who found my grandparent's resting place. As I paused looking down at the single marker with two names on it, I remembered that I was in Chicago when my grandfather Ole died. It was during my spring break from seminary in 1974. I was still single then. I lived my own life and if I wanted to visit a young lady in Chicago, well, I hardly needed my parent's permission. I remember returning to the seminary to find notes plastered on my dorm door. They told me to contact the guy in the room next to mine, the guy in the room next to his, my advisor, the dean, the switchboard operator. And everyone of them had the same instructions, "Call your mother." Everyone I met in the hallways asked me the same question, "Have you called your mother yet?" When I did call, I remember that it was one of my brothers who answered. All he said was, "You should have been here. Ole died. If you had been here you would have known what to say. You would have," and he paused and then added , "well, if only you had been here." And then he handed the telephone to my mother.
There are moments in life that are measured by "what ifs"; "if onlys"; and "the might have beens". Some are filled with emotion and sadness. Some are just part of the passages of life. Moments that seem so defining at the time often become, with the passing years, a forgotten memory to all accept those one or two who remember. Some of the "what ifs" and "if onlys" carry with them life changing impacts while others are now forgotten except for the miscellany of diaries and journals. This past Friday three area high school football teams lost playoff games. One team was overwhelmed. One team fumbled on the one yard line as they drove for the winning touchdown. And the third team expected to win it all, but lost to a field goal kicked with two seconds on the clock. After such games there are the inevitable imaginings of players, coaches and fans who measure out the memory of the game in terms that consider if only the ball had been held on to a bit tighter or the kick had drifted just a few feet further to the left. The wonder of life is the variety of moments that seem so ordinary, so predictable, and yet are moments that hold within themselves the whisper of hope, dream, miracle, something more. We all, at times, are drawn to believe that if things had not happened the way they did our lives would be significantly different. We might have had a better life, a different understanding of who we are, what we are doing and why we are here. It is tempting sometimes to think how different things might have been if we had selected a different college or major, accepted the other job offer, married the other person that you might have chosen, taken the other road than the one you took.
Our gospel lesson for today contains for most of us both comfort and promise that missed moments need not be an end in themselves. Our text captures a most human moment when Jesus came to Mary and Martha shortly after the death of their brother Lazarus who was also one of Jesus' closest friends. The setting for our lesson is that Jesus has already established his reputation as a Rabbi, a teacher, and also as a healer and miracle worker. The sisters send word to Jesus that Lazarus is ill but it would be two days before Jesus arrives and by then Lazarus is dead. Our lesson begins when Mary meets Jesus with the first words from her mouth being, "Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died."
"If you had been here..." Missed moments abound in our lives. Some are missed because they just pass so quickly. Things we always intended to do but the opportunity passed and now it is too late. Some moments are missed because we were too busy or maybe it was because we were unable to bring ourselves to actually...well...If only we had studied harder, if only we had made the phone call when we thought of it rather than putting it off, if only we had decided to go when we thought of it, been more willing, stopped talking and actually listened, committed ourselves then and there. "Lord, if you had been here..." God's presence is not always a part of the equation. Sometimes it is simply a matter of being in the wrong place or situation or time. The disease that kills just two years before the cure is found, if only he had been born two years later. The stray bullet, the accident at that certain intersection, two minutes sooner or later and she was safe. "Lord, if you had been here..."
And when Jesus witnessed the place where Lazarus was buried he responds as any human being who loved another would respond. Jesus wept. But tears are not an end, they are the beginning of a bold hope and promise. Our Gospel lesson provides a miracle of grace. Jesus orders the stone rolled away from the grave and against the cautions of those around he commands that "Lazarus come out". Now we need to realize that this is NOT a resurrection story. Lazarus is not given eternal life as pictured in the resurrection images of the second lesson for today from the book of Revelation. Lazarus lives to die again. This is no heavenly miracle. This is an earthly moment of grace. It is a Lazarus moment. This is a moment of grace in the midst of the ever surging flow of time, inevitability and death. Every time a cancer goes into remission or the by-pass surgery is successful. Every time the seat belt "saves" a life or the child incredibly survives the fall, we have a Lazarus moment. A moment of more time and more life.
Today is All Saints Sunday. It is a day when the church invites us all to think again on the wonder of life. This is not a day to grieve for those who have died but rather to rejoice in the lives that were lived and the stories that were shared. The gift of this day is the gift of memories and futures. As I walked through that Minnesota cemetery and as I look our at the Holy Spirit Columbarium today the emotion that overwhelms me is not that of deep sorrow and loss but the wonder and joy of lives lived touching other lives. The church is a special place because it remembers. In a world that is always looking to the future, the church takes time to remember and to claim the moment. The saints of old are the foundation of the faith. They gave us history, identity and place.
That is what Jesus shared with Mary, Martha and Lazarus, a common history. He had been in their home on several occasions. He had spoken with them, challenged them, invited them to share with him a meal. He knew their names, their lives and their stories so that when one of them died, Jesus wept. I do not weep for those I do not know. As much as it saddened and upset me, I did not weep this week for the 50 civilians killed in Darfur or the 2 Palestinian women shot in Gaza or the 100 Iraqi bodies found near Karbala or even for the eleven US military killed. I hope and pray that there are those who do know names, tell stories and weep. Jesus wept. It is important that some one weeps. That is not easy in our global community. Our society and government have worked hard to remove the reasons for weeping. Deaths become fatalities reported as numbers. Few names, no stories, no weeping.
But Jesus called, "Come Out". One of the challenges of preaching is trying to connect ancient story to contemporary world. Mary approached Jesus with her version of "If only" but as we look to our times I am tempted by the "What if..." What if Jesus wept this morning. For what would he weep? And then I get more curious and consider, What if Jesus were to vote this Tuesday? or What if Jesus was making a commitment to Holy Spirit's ministry this morning? What if this morning Jesus said "Come out", where would we discover new life?
And I find myself remembering the saints. A grandfather who was injured by being gassed during World War One while saving a French farm family yet he never talked of the war or his actions. He always taught me that war is too awful. Honor those who serve, he would say, but do not honor the killing and the destruction. He taught me that there are very few just wars and no good wars. Violence and force only produces more violence and resistance. You must find another way. A farmer, he would remind me, does not force anything to grow. Life comes from God, at best nurtured by our human efforts. Peace is not something we can create but only work with others to discover as a gift from God. When I remember his words, I find myself living with the saints. The church celebrates All Saints Sunday to remind each of us that we need to remember. We need to remember ALL the saints, not just the famous martyrs. We need to remember those who marked our lives with the grace moments; Sunday school teachers, youth leaders, neighbors and coaches, professors and friends. Our lives are filled with those who we do not remember with regret or identify as the might have beens. Our lives are shaped by those who were and are fully present to us. These are the ones who invited us to come out of the dead places of our lives. The ones God provided to teach us about caring, sharing, forgiveness, justice, peace and love. There is a temptation to think of this day as a time dedicated to those who are dead. But saints are those who live in Christ. Saints never die. Their witness and stories live with us. The community of faith is a living community renewed by the grace of God. The witness of the saints is a witness to the power of God to bring meaning to moments that appear meaningless, hope to situations that appear hopeless. A voice calls, come out. And Lazarus came forth. Life restored to the lost.
When my grand father died I was in Chicago. By the time I arrived in Harland, Minnesota for the funeral all the arrangements had been made. My grandmother, who would live another 25 years after that day greeted me by saying simply, "I'm glad you are here. It is good that you are all here." On this All Saints Sunday it is good that we are all here, ALL the saints. The witness of the saints is a witness to the power of God to bring meaning to moments that appear meaningless, hope to situations that appear hopeless.
When Jesus arrived he wept. He wept because he had always been there but no one had realized it. The saints are never lost or alone. A voice cries once again, "Come Out" and we hear and feel the stirrings of new life.
Amen