Monthly Archives: November 2024

My kingdom is not of this Cosmos: A Sermon for Proper29B, 2024

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What comes to mind when you think of the word “King?” Is it of King Charles III, the British monarchy, the ritual and splendor of his coronation? Or perhaps of the more sordid details of the royal family as depicted in the TV series “The Crown” or the tabloids? Maybe you think of the “Game of Thrones” and the bloody battles over succession and dominance. Or maybe even the King himself—Elvis, either at the height of his career and charisma, or his later years.

What about “Christ the King?” What images does your mind conjure up? Did you know that there’s an image of “Christ the King”—Christus Rex, displayed prominently in our worship space. Christ on the cross, depicted not in his humility and suffering, but reigning in majesty, from the cross.

Today is the last Sunday of the liturgical year. Since 1925 it has been designated as “Christ the King.” It was instituted by Pope Pius XI in 1925 as an effort to resist the rise of secularism and the decline in the political power of the papacy. But it arose in the wake of the devastating First World War and in a time of growing nationalism and fascism. Mussolini had come to power in Italy in 1922, creating a crisis with the papacy.

Christ the King is problematic in several ways. Many people find the use of “king” language off-putting, because of its patriarchal and militaristic connotations. Those interested in fostering egalitarianism or undermining authoritarianism rename it as “The Reign of Christ.” But the name change doesn’t really help matters. As is clear in all of our readings, Jewish and Christian scripture is replete with imagery of kingship, especially in reference to God. In the Psalm, for example, God is depicted as a king seated upon a throne, and the language here suggests an analogy between the rule of God and the rule of Israel’s king, an analogy that has been adopted and extended by Christians down through the centuries. At the center of the Psalmist’s vision is an image of the king ruling in splendor and majesty, on a throne. 

Similar images dominate the readings from Daniel and Revelation. Both of them, as I mentioned last week, are apocalyptic texts, and in these excerpts we are treated to images of the world as the authors imagine it might become or will be, or even perhaps is, if we see the world as it really is, ruled and governed by a righteous and just God. Although we don’t see those themes in any of these three texts, the notion that God’s reign is a reign of peace and justice is self-evident. All of these images are meant to emphasize the fact that Christ’s kingship, though accompanied and understood with imagery from human experience of kingship, is of a totally different order. Christ’s kingship has no beginning or end; it will not fail or falter. 

 Whatever the imagery comes to mind: from human history, scripture, or even Hollywood spectacle, the reality of human kingship is rather different than its display. For that, the small portion of John’s gospel that was read serves us quite well. For that is how kingship has played out in human history, in oppression, injustice, and violence.

As Procurator or governor, Pilate was the most powerful person in this little corner of the world. He had come to Jerusalem, as he did every year during the Passover to be present during a time filled with tension. The Jewish community was remembering and celebrating God’s deliverance of the Hebrews from an evil and oppressive ruler, and given that they were living under an equally evil and oppressive tyranny, tensions always ran high. That explains, at least in part, the charge that was brought against Jesus—King of the Jews. It was not simply a mistake, or an effort by his Jewish opponents to get the Romans to do their work for them. It was, quite frankly, accurate. Jesus did pose a political threat to the Roman Empire. By preaching the coming of God’s reign, Jesus presented a direct challenge to Roman power, and to the local leadership who both benefited from, and helped to exert that power.

We see that confrontation front and center here. When Pilate asks Jesus, “Are you the king of the Jews? Jesus, and we suspect that Pilate is not asking the question honestly. He does not know, or care who Jesus is. In fact, he seems most interested in finding some way to avoid responsibility for what is taking place. And Jesus seems willing to help Pilate avoid what is to come. As the gospel of John tells the story, Pilate will make every effort to avoid condemning Jesus to death. He moves back and forth between Jesus and the other players in the drama—the crowd that according to John seeks Jesus’ death. He offers to free Jesus, but the crowd will have none of it. Then he stages a mock ritual of coronation with the purple robe and the crown of thorns. 

Pilate asks Jesus, “Are you the king of the Jews?” Jesus puts the question back on him, asking him his motives for the charge. But Pilate will have none of it, and so Jesus responds, “My kingdom is not of this world—cosmos, to use the Greek word. And here, our western, 21st century conceptions get in the way of understanding what’s at stake. For when we hear Jesus saying, “My kingdom is not of this world,” we are inclined to think of the contrast between spiritual and material realms, or perhaps between political and religious, projecting our notions of completely separate spheres of human experience and human power back on to the first century.

But when Jesus says, “my kingdom is not of this cosmos” he is using a term that in the Gospel of John is introduced in the very first chapter, and recurs throughout. The world, the cosmos, is inveterately opposed to God: “He was in the world, and the world came into being through him; yet the world did not know him” (John 1:10). At every turn, the world rejected Jesus, yet throughout the gospel Jesus again and again expresses his desire and intent to save the world. 

For example, John 3:17: “God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him.” And John 12:47: “I came not to judge the world but to save the world.”

But Jesus’ efforts came to naught. As we see in this passage, his apparent attempt to sway Pilate away from the predetermined course of events was a failure. Pilate was enmeshed in the world, he saw things only in terms of power and self-protection and in the end, condemned Jesus to death.

This gospel story presents us with a grave temptation. It is likely that we see the confrontation between Pilate and Jesus as a historical event, with a clear winner and loser, and with no implications for our own lives, except that it resulted in the crucifixion.

Christ the King Sunday is a problem because it allows us to elide the distinction between the reign of Christ and the kingdoms of this world. Our king may not wear purple or a carry a crown, or even sit on a throne, but imperial power still holds sway and may be more brutal today than at any time in recent history. 

When we think of the kingship of Christ, our attention and focus should be, not on images of Christ ruling in majesty. Instead, what should come to mind are images of Jesus in the dock, facing the oppressive power of an unjust and evil regime. When we think of the kingship of Christ, we should think of Christ, not elevated or seated on a throne in majesty, but hanging on a cross, dying at the hands of oppressive, imperial power. 

When we think of the kingdom of Christ, we should contrast it with the kingdoms and empires of this world, fighting unjust and meaningless wars that claim millions of innocent victims. We should think of the devastation in Gaza, a brutal campaign of retribution and destruction waged by, yes, an imperial power. 

Over against those forces of evil and domination, we should think of Christ’s reign. We should think instead of Christ the victim, suffering at the hands of an imperial power, suffering with and for, those innocent victims, for refugees and asylum seekers, for prisoners and captives. And if we want to live under Christ’s reign, live in Christ’s reign, we should take our place beside those innocent victims, and work for justice and peace. For that is the nature of Christ’s reign, a reign not of this world, not of hate, or violence, injustice or oppression, but a reign of love, justice, and peace. May Christ’s reign come soon!

Beauty in the Rubble: A sermon for Proper28B, 2024

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Proper 28B

                                          November 17, 2024

It’s more than a little ironic that every three years we hear this gospel reading on what is for us the day of our Annual Meeting. After this service, we will gather in Vilas Hall to elect lay leadership for the coming year, to discuss our operating budget, and this year to get updates on the roof project and to embark on a fundraising campaign.

It’s doubly ironic this year because Jesus’ prediction: “Not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down!” is heard against the backdrop of masonry repairs taking place on our exterior to ensure the continued presence of Grace Church for future generations. Grace Church has stood on this site for 185 years now and we hope that what we are doing now and planning to do next year will preserve it for another century.

To top it all off, as I wrote these words, I could hear the sounds of demolition taking place in advance of the construction of the new History Center. Talk about not leaving one block upon another…

It may be tempting, though, in light of today’s gospel reading, to discredit the work we are doing, the money we are spending. Jesus’ prediction of the destruction of the temple; his earlier actions in overturning the tables of the moneychangers; and the attack on those who were donating to the temple treasury may led us to include that buildings like temples are misguided. And there are certainly plenty of verses in scripture that might lead one to that conclusion: “I desire mercy and not sacrifice”—for example. Protestant Christianity has often disparaged beautiful buildings; worship that includes beautiful vestments; images; even the music of organs and choirs. 

The verses we heard, the first verses of Mark 13, are an introduction to what scholars call “the little apocalypse.” It’s a genre of literature that emerged in the Hellenistic period, combining biblical symbolism and imagery with elements from other cultures and religions. While modern readers tend to assume that apocalyptic provides a guide to future events—the end times—in fact it’s coded language to help its readers understand their current historical context. 

For the gospel of Mark, that context was the Jewish revolt of 66-73 and the destruction of the temple. While scholars debate whether Mark was written just before or soon after Roman legions under the General, later Emperor Titus destroyed it, the conflict and the destruction loom over the gospel and especially this chapter. Later in the chapter come predictions that the followers of Jesus will be persecuted; that the temple will be profaned; that there will be earthquakes and signs in the heavens, and finally the Son of Man will come.

Such language both terrifies and fascinates us—to be clear, apocalyptic imagery and thinking are the ancestors of contemporary horror and fantasy literature and film. And we see how that imagery plays out in other segments of our culture, even in our political life.

In spite of the fact that apocalyptic has tended to be a fixation of conservative Protestantism in the US, it may seem like it is especially apt for the rest of us. It does seem like we are in the end times, with wars and rumors of war, collapsing cultural norms and institutions, climate catastrophe, and profound divisions in society that are often depicted in starkly oppositional terms: light v. darkness; good v. evil. It may seem like false prophets have arisen, claiming to speak in Jesus’ name, claiming “I am he” and leading many astray.

And it may feel like the stones are already crumbling around us, as the institutions we hold dear are being attacked and destroyed from inside and out. As we contemplate that destruction, both real and metaphorical, it may seem like there’s nothing we can do, that hopelessness, helplessness, impotence, despair, and acquiescence are the only options available.

In my sermon last week, I referred to small acts of defiance and hope—like the widow putting her two pennies into the temple treasury while the billionaires threw in their millions. But there are other, less confrontational things as well. 

Several recent post-service comments from visitors got me thinking. They all mentioned the beauty of our worship, our building, our music. It has occurred to me over the last couple of weeks that perhaps the most faithful, the most counter-cultural thing we can do is to create and sustain beauty. Beauty connects us to God, who created this universe and us in all our beauty and diversity. 

We might consider the place of our church in its built environment; surrounded by uninteresting buildings, opposite a state capitol built in the neo-classical style. The spire, tower, and walls of our church stand apart from other buildings; our courtyard gardens offer natural beauty in the midst of a brick, concrete, asphalt, and stone landscape. The interior of our nave lifts our eyes and hearts toward the heavens; the stained glass transforms sunlight into something ethereal, magical. Our music, the choir, organ, and hymns make our hearts soar into heavenly spheres.

In the midst of the demolition that surrounds us; the chaos in our world. In the presence of all the pain and suffering—the ongoing wars in Gaza and Ukraine; the destruction caused by Hurricane Helene; the threats to our common life and to the social safety net on which so many of us rely, to appeal to beauty may seem like a frivolous, even futile thing. 

But beauty can restore us; sustain us, strengthen us. And beauty draws us to God. Perhaps no one said it better than St. Augustine of Hippo, who wrote in his Confessions: 

Late have I loved Thee, O Beauty so ancient and so new; late have I loved Thee! For behold Thou were within me, and I outside; and I sought Thee outside and in my unloveliness fell upon those lovely things that Thou hast made. Thou were with me and I was not with Thee. Iwas kept from Thee by those things, yet had they not been in Thee, they would not have been at all. Thou didst call and cry to me and break open my deafness: and Thou didst send forth Thy beams and shine upon me and chase away my blindness: Thou didst breathe fragrance upon me, and I drew in my breath and do now pant forThee: I tasted Thee, and now hunger and thirst for Thee: Thou didst touch me, and I have burned for Thy peace.

As we plan for the coming year in the parish, and as we consider the future of our nation and the world, we may feel that Jesus’ words in Mark 13 speak directly to, and for us. The signs of apocalypse seem to be all around us. In that chaos, in the rubble, beauty still beckons to us, inspires us, draws us to God. May our desire and nurture of beauty in our building and our worship, draw others to God as well.

Small Acts of Defiance and Faith: A Sermon for Proper 27B, 2024

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Proper 27B

                                          November 10, 2024

I’ve got to confess something to you all. I was feeling a bit guilty earlier this week. A couple of months ago, I had asked Margaret to preach and preside at services today. Corrie and I were thinking of going away for the weekend. Our plans changed and we were going to be in town, but I would still take the day off. After the election, I was feeling guilty that I wouldn’t be with you all today, to share in your fears, anxiety, and hopes, to pray with you and to celebrate the sacrament of Christ’s body and blood.

But then Margaret called me on Thursday morning to tell me that she wasn’t feeling well and didn’t think she would be able to serve today, so here I am. 

How many times over the last fifteen years have we gathered together after some natural disaster, or national trauma, elections, gun violence, outbreaks of war, or terrorist attacks? How often have we come together, our hearts broken, our spirits crushed, not knowing how we’ll survive, whether we have the strength and courage to carry on? How often have we been in despair, beaten down, full of rage and sorrow? And how often have my words seemed wholly inadequate to speak to the moment, to connect us with the divine life that can sustain us in times like these?

Carry on we must, and carry on we will in the face of whatever comes and for however long we must. We must persevere for our God is one who perseveres. In Christ, we see one who responds to God’s call and follows that call to the bitter end, to the cross and to death. But that is not the end of the story. Even in Christ’s death, even in the tomb, God is working God’s purpose out, vindicating Christ, raising the dead, bringing new life and hope in the midst of death and despair.

There are ironies that we heard this particular gospel reading on this day. I know that if you’ve ever heard a sermon about this passage, it’s been a stewardship sermon—holding up the widow as one who gave her last penny, everything to God, and urging you to do likewise. Now, we’re in our stewardship campaign, we are asking you to consider how you might support Grace’s ministry and mission in the coming year, and hoping that you will contribute generously. We are also about to embark on a capital campaign to fund our new slate roof. You’ll be hearing more about that at our annual meeting next week. And I hope you will give generously to that as well.

But this story is not about financial stewardship. It’s about something quite different. Jesus is in the temple. Remember, it’s the last week of Jesus’ life on earth. The gospel of Mark for all of its brevity and urgency, suddenly slows down in these last chapters and goes into great detail about these days leading up to Good Friday. This is the third day that Jesus has come into the temple. The first day, the day of the Triumphal Entry into Jerusalem, Mark says he came to the temple, looked around, and left. The second day, he went to the temple and staged what is called the “cleansing of the temple” overturning the tables of the moneychangers.

The third day Jesus teaches in the temple. Keep in mind, it’s just a couple of days before his arrest—to put it in the chronology of Holy Week: this is Tuesday after Palm Sunday. Jesus will be arrested on Thursday, crucified on Friday. On this day, he is confronted by a series of opponents or questioners, and this comes at the very end of that day.

It’s hardly surprising that these last days of Jesus’ life are centered on the temple. It was the religious center of first-century Judaism. It was also a key element in the projection of Rome’s imperial power. Judaea, unlike Galilee, was under direct imperial control and Rome used the temple and its bureaucracy to control the populace. The temple leadership were deeply implicated in the Roman occupation, and they profited from it.

As a class, the scribes were entrusted with the interpretation and implementation of Jewish law. Jesus’ condemnation of them is consistent and pointed throughout the synoptic gospels: They: “like to walk around in long robes, and to be greeted with respect in the market-places, and to have the best seats in the synagogues and places of honour at banquets! They devour widows’ houses …”

Among the responsibilities of scribes in that period was to act as trustees of widows’ estates, since women could not act on their own legally. As compensation, they would get a percentage of assets; a situation ripe for embezzlement. The Torah repeatedly demanded the protection of “widows and orphans.” In today’s Psalm (146:8), w heard: “The Lord cares for the stranger; he sustains the orphan and widow.” Iinstead these most vulnerable in society were exploited by the scribes. The ones entrusted with the interpretation and adherence to the law were the lawbreakers. 

One way of reading this story is to see the widow as a victim of both the scribes and of the temple system. Down to her last two pennies, she gives them to the Temple treasury, in meek obedience to the system that has exploited her to the bone. And the contrast couldn’t be greater. The treasury was something like a bank. According to the Jewish historian Josephus, the temple treasury “was the repository of all Jewish wealth.” 

A victim, but perhaps not powerless. As all the wealthy people, clad in their finery, ostentatiously deposited their vast sums of money into the treasury, for all to see; this destitute woman comes and gives her last two pennies. A demonstration? An act of defiance? Drawing attention to her plight, to the vast inequities in the system? And Jesus commending her even as he laments: “she did what she could.” Remember, Jesus had entered Jerusalem on a donkey, a staged demonstration of royal power in the face of overwhelming imperial force. Rather similar to the widow’s act, both impotent and demonstrative. 

There are dark days ahead, difficult times. We don’t know what’s coming. We do know that the election has laid bare the deep fissures in our society and the fragility of our democracy. The myths that have sustained many of us for decades have been shattered in an instant; the shining beacon we thought we were revealed as something quite different.

As I said in my sermon last Sunday, the Church has been in situations like this before—perhaps not in the US, but often in its history. And it has often succumbed to the seduction of power, influence, and wealth. At the same time, it has also nurtured resistance and hope.

 We may feel powerless; we may be in despair. It may feel like it’s Good  Friday as we  hope and love being crucified by the forces of evil. It may like there’s nothing we can do that will matter; that all of our efforts are futile. But in the midst of our fear and despair, God in Christ is present with us. Good Friday is not the end of the story. There is hope; there is resurrection. And in the meantime, there are small acts of defiance and faithfulness: building community; being the body of Christ across division; sowing love against hate; binding the wounds of the suffering; feeding the hungry; witnessing to the grace and mercy of God. It may all seem like nothing, like little more than two pennies in an offering plate but I pray Jesus will say of us, “They did what they could.”

The Men’s Drop-In Shelter at Grace, 1985-2020

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I was asked to share a bit of the history of the shelter at Grace for Porchlight’s annual gala last evening. Here’s what I said:

                     The History of the Homeless Shelter at Grace

I would like to thank Karla Thennes for inviting me this evening to share a bit about the history of the Men’s Drop-In Shelter at Grace Episcopal Church. I became Rector (Senior Pastor) of Grace in 2009 and for much of my tenure the homeless shelter was an integral part of our identity and mission. Even now, when I introduce myself to long-time Madisonians, they are likely to mention the shelter and reminisce about volunteering there over the years. Though I’ve been at Grace and lived in Madison for more than fifteen years, I’m still considered by many to be a newcomer, and my presentation this evening will necessarily be heavily weighted toward my own memories and the events of the last decade and a half. I will also offer a warning before I begin. I am a trained historian so my account this evening will try to be objective, to paint the full picture, warts and all.

Still, it’s worth recalling how it all began. Those of us of a certain age may be able to remember back to the early 80s, to the era of Reagonomics. There had been a strong push toward deinstitutionalization of mentally ill people beginning in the Carter administration but the planned development of community-based mental health facilities never came to fruition. With the shrinking safety net under President Reagan, urban redevelopment that demolished rooming houses like the YMCA here in Madison, deinstitutionalization, cities across the country were seeing a dramatic rise in unhoused people, especially single men.

In Madison, Madison Area Urban Ministry (the forerunner of Just Dane) organized a temporary shelter ion University Ave in 1984. In 1985, the shelter relocated to Grace Church, where it remained until 2020. In the early years, it provided accommodation for both men and women. While there were paid staff, meals were provided by volunteers and volunteers also staffed the facility overnight. 

As demand for services grew, overflow shelter was provided at St. John’s Lutheran Church on East Washington Ave. and in the winter at First Methodist. In later years, intake took place at Grace, where evening meals and breakfast were provided for all guests. After dinner, groups would be accompanied to St. John’s and First Methodist where they would spend the night. By the 2010s, the shelter would open its doors at 5:00 pm in the winter, and later in the summer, closing after breakfast at 7:00 am. The line of guests waiting for entry on cold evenings was an uncomfortable reminder to passersby of the inadequate facilities and services on offer.

From time to time, there were efforts to move the shelter or to force its closure. City officials cited it for code violations in the 1990s which led to a renovation spearheaded by then Governor Tommy Thompson. An article in Isthmus in 2010 by Joe Tarr exposed a new generation to the challenges presented by the shelter. Entitled “Bleak House: Grace Episcopal’s Homeless Shelter is a Dispiriting Space” caught the eye of Epic employees and led to another major renovation of the facilities funded by Epic.

But there were things that no amount of renovation could fix. The space was in a church basement, inaccessible to mobility-challenged guests. It was much too small for the need. 48 beds with room on the floor for an additional twelve. In the winter, the total number of  guests often exceeded 150. There was limited space and funding to offer essential services like case management while the shelter was open. Medical care was provided by volunteer medical students two evenings a week. 

Another enormous challenge was the fact that the shelter was only open at night. Hospitals regularly discharged homeless patients directly to the shelter. Often they would be dropped off by taxis in the middle of the day when there was no one to receive them, in wheelchairs, on oxygen or with catheters. The same was true of the Dane County Jail and the state prison system.

In 2011 and 2012, the jerry-rigged system of providing for unhoused people during the day collapsed when the basement of the State Capitol was declared off-limits and the Central Library underwent renovations. After a couple of years of temporary day shelters, Dane County and Catholic Charities opened the Beacon on E. Washington Avenue, which helped to address that crucial lack of services.

Grace Church’s identity and mission had been intertwined with the shelter since the 1980s. When I came to Grace, there was enormous pride in the congregation that we were doing this important work, even if our efforts amounted mostly to serving as landlord for Porchlight which operated the shelter. In fact, as I did research for this presentation, I was surprised to discover that one of my predecessors as Rector at Grace, Bill Wiedrich, wrote in a report to the congregation in the late 80s that our involvement with the shelter amounted to little more than acting as landlord. Nonetheless, we received much of the praise and blame from the community for its presence on our property.

Still, I was moved by the extent to which Grace members embraced the shelter as an institution. They fiercely defended it against detractors and were often hesitant to admit to its shortcomings (as I personally learned in the wake of Joe Tarr’s article). More importantly, they welcomed guests to our services and programs. I was surprised by the compassion showed to guests who wandered into our 8:00 service on cold Sunday mornings and their efforts to connect guests with services.

Like many other congregations and community groups, over the years Grace provided regular meals to shelter guests. Early in my tenure, my wife had a vision for our monthly meal that would treat guests and other community members to a sit-down dinner with musical accompaniment. Out of that developed “First Mondays at Grace” which offered a scrumptious meal and musical entertainment ranging from Bluegrass to Opera. Guests would often linger at their tables long after finishing their meals to enjoy the music and sometimes sing along, and we had a dedicated team of volunteers who loved to help. Each December, members of the church choir would sing holiday songs and Santa would distribute warm winter socks to everyone in attendance.

By the late 2010s, it became clear to me and a number of Grace’s lay leaders that the shelter facilities had reached a point of non-viability. We gathered a small group of people to begin strategizing our options. It quickly became clear to us that while many in the community were aware of the inadequacy of Grace’s facilities, there was little political will to move forward with a new shelter. We were told flatly by city and county elected officials that unless we set a deadline for its departure, nothing would happen. My response was to say, “As long as I am rector of Grace, you will never see a headline in the paper: ‘Grace evicts homeless shelter’.”

As our work progressed, we contracted with Susan Schmitz, former President of Downtown Madison, Inc, to gauge interest in the community for a new men’s shelter. We formed a committee made up of community members, homeless advocates and providers, city and county staff to begin working on this difficult issue. Our first meeting was in November, 2019. 

Then came the pandemic, and on March 30, 2020, the shelter closed its doors at Grace for the last time, relocating first to Warner Park, then to what will become the Madison Public Market, now to Zeier Rd before its new facilities are completed. Not only did it leave empty space in our building; its departure left a hole in our identity and mission.

In spite of that, Grace’s commitment to unhoused members of our community remain. We continue to serve them, through our Food Pantry which has been open since 1979 and serves housed as well as unhoused populations. A year ago, Off the Square Club moved into the space vacated by the shelter. It serves mostly unhoused people with a clinical diagnosis of mental illness, providing all kinds of support including meals, laundry and shower facilities, assistance with job training and housing placement, and with medical issues. Ironically, our records indicate that Off the Square Club used space at Grace back in the 1970s.

         Even as memories of the Drop-In Shelter at Grace begin to fade, the need to provide shelter for our unhoused neighbors does not. With the deepening crisis of affordable housing in our city and growing uncertainty about the federal social safety net, it is likely that there will continue to be many people who live on the streets. And unlike 50 years ago we won’t be able to rely on congregations to address unmet needs as membership in religious organizations plummets and grows older. 

All that’s for another day to discuss. For now, let us remember and celebrate those visionary folk who saw the need and created the shelter, brought it to Grace Church. Let’s also honor the other churches who contributed space, like St. John’s Lutheran and First Methodist, and the countless volunteers from those churches and many others, as well as civic organizations who provided meals every night, 365 days a year, for all of those years. All of them deserve our hearty thanks and gratitude, as does Porchlight and its predecessor agencies who operated the shelter for many years, and will operate the new shelter when it opens in 2025.

Saints’ Stories, our stories, God’s story: A Sermon for All Saints’ Sunday, 2024

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November 3, 2024

         All Saints’ Sunday is one of my favorite Sundays of the year. We get to sing one of my favorite hymns: “For all the Saints” Sine Nomine.  In recent years, it’s also the Sunday that marks the end of Daylight Savings Time; not something to celebrate, even if we’re supposed to get an extra hour of sleep. We have cats, so that doesn’t happen. Suddenly, darkness descends earlier in the evening and it feels like late fall, even if the temps don’t. For me, All Saints’ Sunday marks the beginning of the end of the liturgical year; we’re moving away from reading the gospel stories of Jesus’ ministry and over the next few weeks hearing from his final sermons in the temple, full of apocalyptic imagery.

It’s a day when we remember those who have died, and hopefully, baptize people, bringing them into the body of Christ. It’s a day of reflection and celebration, of remembering and moving forward. It’s a Sunday when we connect the body of Christ as we experience it here at Grace Church, with all those who have gone before us in these pews over the last almost two centuries, and those who have gone before us across the globe and across two millennia.

It’s a commemoration that helps us to look beyond our own immediate lives and concerns and to put our lives and the lives of those we love in a much broader context, to see our connections across time and space. That may be especially necessary today with election day two days away—our fears and anxieties running rampant and keeping us awake at night.

However real our fears, whatever happens on Tuesday and the days that follow, today is an opportunity to remember that the Church and its members have survived through two millennia, sometimes in great suffering and against great odds. Indeed, the commemoration of All Saints’ is itself a witness to that untold, unremembered suffering, for it emerged as an occasion to acknowledge and honor those whose memory wasn’t preserved in story, legend, and saint’s cult, unnamed martyrs and eventually, in the commemoration of all souls, even ordinary, unremarkable Christians who lived and died faithfully and obscurely, remembered only by their family members, or perhaps, by no one at all.

On the surface, our scripture readings may not seem to have a great deal to do with the themes of the day. In fact, all three are among the suggestions for readings at the burial office—funerals; and the first, the reading from Isaiah 25, is among my favorites, if loved ones don’t have preferences, I always select it as the first reading.

In fact, something a bit strange happened just a couple of weeks ago. I was in Cleveland for my brother-in-law’s memorial service. My sister had selected readings and hymns, and I had put the service together. But as I listened to one of John’s friends share his memories of John, it occurred to me that I should have overruled my sister’s choices and used this reading. For John was a wine lover. He had cases of it in his cellar. But he was also a tinkerer and experimenter, and at some point he had begun to make wine; an elderberry sherry. 

Now, I love wine and although I’m no wine snob, I can tell a decent wine from a bad one, and I’m very suspicious of the products of amateur vintners. So when John first invited us to try it, Corrie and I were very leery. Boy, we were surprised. It was rich, subtle, complex, good enough to grace the wine list of a fine restaurant.

But the story doesn’t end there. After John’s death, there were about five cases remaining from vintages going back as far as 1980. My sister decided to bring all that wine to the memorial service and invited attendees to take a bottle or two home with them—and at the end of the day, there were none remaining. They will contribute to many feasts of well-aged wines in coming years.

Recently, I also entered into another story, one of Grace’s. I was asked to share a bit about the history of the men’s homeless shelter at Porchlight’s annual gala this coming week. So for the past few weeks, I’ve been digging through our archives, leafing through newspaper clippings, vestry minutes, and other sources on its history from the time it arrived in 1985 until its departure at the beginning of the pandemic. 

It’s a story of the vision and faithfulness of those who came before us: Fr. Wiedrich and the lay leadership who invited it here; to the volunteers who helped out over the decades, and those who defended it against its detractors. There are stories of the lives that were transformed as well as stories of unhoused people who died in extreme weather. And new stories are being written, with the presence of the Off the Square club now occupying the space where the shelter had been, and volunteers from Grace serving lunch at the Beacon regularly.

Today, we are writing the first chapter of another story—that of Leia Waldo who will be baptized in a few minutes. We don’t know what the arc of her story will be, even as we don’t know how any of the stories that we are inhabiting will develop. But even as her story is being written, with her baptism she is entering a much larger story that began with creation and is centered on the cross and resurrection of Jesus Christ. 

With her family, we will play roles in her story, at least for a short time. She will grow in faith, be nourished by the sacraments, experience the joys and heartbreak of life in community. Her story will be her own to live and to experience but through it all, she will be marked by Christ in baptism. There are many such stories here today, where our lives intersect with each other, and encounter Jesus, for a few weeks or months, or for many years. 

As we face the coming days, and all the uncertainties and anxieties that surround us, may we take heart that we are all carrying with us the sign of the cross, marked as Christ’s beloved forever, and that through his cross and resurrection, there is new life ahead, and that whatever comes Jesus will be with us.