For All the Saints (Reflections on All Saints Day 2026)

 

“Of the Worship of Saints they teach that the memory of saints may be set before us, that we may follow their faith and good works, according to our calling…” (Augsburg Confession, Article XXI)

It’s autumn once again. Before our thoughts turn to turkeys or gift-buying sprees, or the fact that we don’t have any money to afford turkeys or gift-buying sprees because our gasoline and utility bills are too high, we are reminded to pause and give thanks for the people who enriched our lives but will no longer be watching the leaves fall or sharing a pumpkin pie with us.

We Christians have been observing this time of year for this purpose for a very long time. The nascent Christian communities remembered those who had been martyred for the faith on the anniversaries of their deaths. I suspect the end of the harvest season and the coming of winter must’ve turned our ancestors’ thoughts to the impermanence of life. In 735 CE Pope Gregory III instituted November 1 as the day to remember all the departed heroes of the faith. In later medieval times, some monasteries began to offer prayers and psalms for all the departed—even the average Joes—on November 2. As Lutherans, we combine these two ancient festivals into one celebration. After all, what is a saint but an average sinner redeemed by God’s grace?

Sometime in the Middle Ages the Church began using the Beatitudes (Matthew 5:1-12) as the gospel text for remembering the departed. O. Wesley Allen, a professor of homiletics at the Perkins School of Theology in Dallas, Texas[i], points out that these blessings Jesus announces aren’t suggestions. They’re guarantees. Jesus doesn’t tell his listeners, “Look: If you’re pure in heart you may see God.” No. He tells us, “Because you are pure in heart, you will see God.” Jesus reminds us God’s love is for the poor, the mourning, the meek, those who try to do what’s right and encourage others to do the same, those who show mercy and kindness, those who strive for peace, and those who are persecuted. You don’t need to perform miracles, convert the pagan masses, or have the Vatican declare you a saint. God sees you striving and sees you failing and loves you abundantly regardless. On All Saints we remember those adorable if unremarkable sinners and saints God put in our lives. We celebrate and admire all they shared with us during their journey on earth, and we rejoice they are now enjoying that which Jesus promised us all.

Blessed are the meek. I don’t know if I’d call Jean Markelwith meek exactly, but she was certainly demure and ladylike, and less flamboyant than here gregarious husband, Bud. For years the Markelwiths occupied the aisle seats in the last pew on the pulpit side during the 8:15 AM mass. They were here every Sunday. If you met them as a couple, you’d probably get to know Bud a little better. He was an usher and a greeter and member of the men’s group. But Jean had a quiet sweetness which seemed to compliment her more outgoing partner. They were a devoted couple. They had no children of their own but adopted the family which shared the stoop of their Northeast Philly row home. The young couple next door had a son named Michael, and Michael became their unofficial grandson. Jean would follow Michael’s exploits and tell everyone about him just as if he were her own flesh and blood. She’d go to his games and remember him at holiday times. She proved there are a lot of different ways to be a family.

We didn’t see Jean after Bud passed. I called often, but I couldn’t get her back to church. Possibly, she was afraid to drive Bud’s huge Cadillac, but I think her reluctance to return to us was because church just wasn’t church without Bud. Church is, after all, the place where all of life’s major transitions are celebrated. Babies are baptized, adolescents are confirmed, couples are married, and the dead are memorialized. We come here on holidays and, sometimes, in times of national catastrophe. It’s easy to feel the ghosts of our memories all around us. I would wish, however, that we wouldn’t fear those ghosts but rather feel that here the mourning are loved and understood, welcomed, and blessed.

To say Harvey Slegel “hungered and thirsted for righteousness” sounds a bit hyperbolic if you knew Harvey. Harvey was a pretty laid-back guy. Nevertheless, old CPA that he was, he had very definite ideas about what was right and what wasn’t. He didn’t feel it necessary to express every opinion he had. That’s probably why he avoided a seat on the church council even though his knowledge and expertise would’ve been an asset. He didn’t like unnecessary conflict. To the end, however, he stuck to his principle that a church should be 100% self-supporting by member contributions alone. Any additional revenue should be directed to the poor and the needy. Unfortunately, in these modern, post-religious times, such an ideal may not always be practical, but Harvey never let this principle get in the way of his personal generosity.

Harvey loved his fellow Vietnam vets, doo-wop music, classic cars, and re-runs of Perry Mason. Mostly, Harvey loved his family and his church. Harvey’s wife, Kate is Roman Catholic, so she and Harvey split up every Sunday morning and reunited every Sunday afternoon. They made this arrangement work for over half a century, each respecting the religious practice of the other. When Harvey passed, each of his grandchildren took part in his memorial. Each shared a memory of this dedicated, devout man. There is no greater testament to the righteousness of a man than the love, dignity, and decency displayed by his family.

Thank you, Lord, for Harvey and Jean and all the saints we remember today. You have surrounded us with so great a cloud of witnesses. Grant that we, encouraged by the example of your servants, may persevere in the course that is set before us, to be living signs of the gospel[ii].

Let the Church say, “Amen!”

                                                                                            

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[i] See Dr. Allen’s article in the Working Preacher website at https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/all-saints-sunday/commentary-on-matthew-51-12-12.

[ii] This prayer is taken from the Prayer of the Day for saints’ days in Lutheran Book of Worship (Minneapolis: Augsburg Publishing, 1978) Pg. 36.

Giving Caesar the Things of God (Reflections on Pentecost 21, Year A 2026)

Then he said to them, “Whose head is this and whose title?” They answered him, “Caesar’s.” Then he said to them, “Give therefore to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s and to God the things that are God’s.” (Matthew 22:20-21)

I keep noticing that our Lord rarely gives a direct answer, even to a question as straight forward as the righteousness of paying taxes. His answer to the scheming Pharisees in the gospel reading for Pentecost 21, Year A in the Revised Common Lectionary (Matthew 22:15-22) has to make us ask, “But what really is Caesar’s and what is God’s? Are the two always mutually exclusive?” Admittedly, not every religious question is a matter of public policy, but isn’t every matter of public policy a religious question because ultimately everything is a religious question?

I know. Some people just don’t want to hear about politics in church any more than others want to hear religion in their politics. But sometimes the church and state collide. Sometimes the best way to give to Caesar is to remember everything belongs to God.

A recent news event here in the U.S. has brought to mind an example of what I mean. As you may know, it has been announced that the perpetrator of the mass shooting at Ft. Hood, Texas in 2009, a crime which took the lives of thirteen individuals and wounded thirty-two others, is scheduled to be executed in December. I don’t want to discuss here the rights or wrongs of capital punishment or livestreaming of the execution except to say I am morally opposed to both. What I want to do is share an example of a moment when what Luther called the Kingdoms of the Right and Left Hands—the church and the state—came together in an appropriate way.

I remember my wife and daughter and I were going out to dinner on the night news of the Ft. Hood shooting broke. Earlier that year my daughter Sandra, at age 34 and feeling that being a senior systems analyst for a major television network was not a sufficient contribution to society, had joined the United States Army Reserve as an enlisted soldier. Sometime during the evening, she received a text from a friend in her unit telling her the Ft. Hood shooter had been captured. Sandra exclaimed with disbelief, “It’s a f------g officer!” I think her mother and I both realized at that moment that whenever a young person puts on the uniform of our country, death and injury can come in so many different and unexpected ways. There needn’t be a war.

Some weeks later, in November, I was on my rounds as a volunteer chaplain at the Delaware Valley Veterans Home. I passed through the large activities room as many of the veterans watched the live broadcast of the Ft. Hood memorial service on a large screen projector television. I stopped to watch, and I was arrested by the way one of the army chaplains, Colonel Michael Lemke, an ELCA pastor, led the invocation.

The memorial was an outdoor event. As such, the uniform of the day was the ACU—the camouflage army combat uniform. I always thought that, as a rule, soldiers were not to embellish their dress, but Chaplain Lemke had draped a tippet over his camouflage. A tippet is a long, black, scarf-like vestment similar to the stole worn around the neck of the officiant. It is unique to the Anglican denomination, but I’ve learned that, on U.S. Army bases, Lutherans and Episcopalians often have chapel together. This breach of sartorial regulations said two things to me. First, Chaplain Lemke was there in his capacity as a pastor. This may have been an official U.S. Army ceremony, but it was also church. It was a holy moment, and God was present. Second, the black tippet served as a mourning shroud, its blackness expressing the grief and pain of the community.

The chaplain’s dress was not his only breach of army tradition that day. When Pastor Lemke read the names of those who had been killed, he read only their given names. No ranks. No surnames. The military, by using exclusively ranks and surnames, purposely removes the soldier’s individuality. Pastor Lemke, however, observed the tradition of the Church in which all are remembered and prayed for only by the name given them at baptism—the name known and spoken by their parents, spouses, siblings, and friends. As he slowly read the names—“Juanita. Michael. John”—the dead became people and not merely victims. Listening to these names spoken aloud, I felt the enormity of the tragedy. I felt the humanity. I looked around the hall, and I could feel the veterans were feeling it too.

Shortly thereafter I wrote Pastor Lemke a letter telling him how much I appreciated the way he’d handled the ceremony and how his piety and respect for liturgical tradition had moved the veterans at Delaware Valley. He phoned me at my church office and thanked me for the letter. “It means a lot,” he said. “More than you know.” We chatted for a while and discovered we’d both studied at the same seminary. He told me he would soon be reassigned and deployed to the Middle East. I told him my daughter was slated to be deployed soon too. He told me his daughter was about to start her studies at the Lutheran Theological Seminary at Philadelphia, and we promised to pray for each other’s girls.

When I remember that ceremony at Ft. Hood, I remind myself how much it matters that we are the Church. The best way we can give to Caesar is to offer him the things of God.

God bless you, my friend. Keep giving the things of God. The world needs what you offer.

Come Dressed for the Party (Reflections on Pentecost 20, year A 2026)

 

I don’t know about you, but I love weddings. I guess it’s because I officiate so many funerals as part of my ministry that when I get the chance to perform a wedding ceremony, I start grinning like a six-year-old on Christmas morning. I even have my own special “wedding garment.” I have a clergy shirt with French cuffs and a rabat vest. I get a haircut and shine my shoes, too. My wife tells me I don’t have to dress up because, “nobody’s looking at you.” Nevertheless, I really enjoy sprucing up for a wedding. It’s one of the very few times people in our culture of casual indifference bother to make an effort. I want this occasion to be as special as possible, so I dress to honor the bride and groom and their families.

The guests invited to the wedding in the parable Jesus tells us in the Revised Common Lectionary gospel reading for Pentecost 20, Year A (Matthew 22:1-14) aren’t quite so thrilled. They’re not even casually indifferent to the invitation—they’re openly hostile to it and kill the slaves who bring it! Of course, it’s not too much of a stretch to say that Matthew is alluding to both prophets and Christian proselytizers who had been martyred for proclaiming the gospel where it wasn’t welcomed. Bible scholars also think the reference to the city the enraged king burns (v.7) is a reminder of how the temple of Jerusalem was destroyed. But if the King’s own subjects won’t come to a banquet in honor of his Son, then he tells his servants to invite everyone and anyone else—the good and the bad. Let’ em all come!

To many this invitation to Christ's banquet comes as a very welcome surprise, so they come in the spirit of celebration just as we might go to a friend’s wedding. There’s a sense of joy because this invitation is just so darn good. It’s an invitation to fellowship, forgiveness, meaning, and eternal life. That’s worth a haircut and a shoeshine, don’t you think?

There are, however, a few like the poor soul in the parable who treat it like it’s Casual Friday. They won’t refuse the invitation, but they won’t make a fuss over it either. They know they’ve been invited so they’ll be happy to snack on the lobster croquettes and drink at the open bar, but they show up in shorts and flip-flops. They’ve confessed Jesus, so they’re good to go. Church on Christmas and Easter or at weddings and funerals if necessary.

They’re still invited, of course. The church has no dress code. We have no rules about mandatory attendance or the amount of your offering or participation. There’s no threat of excommunication if you’re leading a life which is less than honest, kind, or generous. If you cheat on your spouse or cheat your employees or if you’re a racist or a homophobe we still offer you forgiveness.

But, as the old saying goes, that which is cheaply bought is cheaply esteemed. Our salvation is always a free invitation, but discipleship comes with a cover charge. We will benefit from our Christian life by what we are willing to invest in it.

Our wedding garment is our response to God’s invitation. Saint Paul wrote, “As many of you as were baptized into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ.[i]” In Romans he tells us to “put on the armor of light” and to “put on Jesus Christ[ii].” As a clergy person I, of course, have the benefit of wearing my Christian “uniform.” People see me in my vestments or my black clothes and clergy collar and assume I am a follower of Jesus. But, when I take them off, how can I wear Christ? I have to ask myself, “Am I clothed in righteousness?” is my life daily one of gratitude, love, kindness, generosity, and hunger for greater knowledge of my faith? Do I strengthen myself through an active time of prayer? Do I see the wonders of God all around me and live a life of appreciation in response?

Can you think of anyone in your life whom you knew to be clothed in Christ? I thought recently of Marlene Miller, a long-time saint of my congregation who passed away several years ago. She had been born with a condition which threatened to take her life before she’d be old enough to graduate from high school. In spite of this, she lived into her fifties but spent much of her adult life in hospitals and died from a massive brain bleed. The last time I saw her she was in a nursing home. She was bedridden, losing her eyesight and her memory, and was bruised terribly from IV needles. The last words she ever spoke to me—spoken honestly without sarcasm, rancor, or self-pity—were, “God sure is good, isn’t he?”

I feel for the casual Christian who finds themselves confronted by a family catastrophe or a devastating diagnosis and asks, “Why is God doing this to me?” but has no spiritual practice or theology or faith community from which to draw strength. For that person there will be darkness and wailing and gnashing of teeth.

God invites us to the wedding feast. Let’s come dressed in Christ Jesus, dressed in our best selves. And let’s come to party.

God bless you, my friend.

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[i] Galatians 3:27

[ii] See Romans 13:12-14