Be On Alert! (Reflections on Advent One, Year A 2022)

 

“Keep awake therefore, for you do not know on what day your Lord is coming.” (Matthew 24:42) 

I always find the First Sunday in Advent a tad vexatious. I’m just not comfortable with this Second Coming stuff, and I don’t imagine many people are. The texts are always so confusing. For several years I’d find a guest preacher to give the Advent One message so I wouldn’t have to deal with all this disagreeable “The-End-Is-Coming-And-It’s-Going-To-Suck!” stuff.[i] 

If we read a little further back from where our gospel pericope (Matthew 24:36-44) starts, we’ll hear Jesus making some really frightening predictions about what’s about to hit the fan. This will include warfare, famine, the destruction of the Jerusalem Temple, natural disasters, persecution of the faithful, mass apostasy, the increase of lawlessness, and a huge desire among the faithful to get the hell out of Dodge before stuff gets any worse. The result of all this, besides some terrible suffering inflicted on just about everybody, will be a bunch of idiots claiming they know what this is all about. Jesus warns the apostles—and us—not to listen to any of these false messiahs or false prophets. 

The problem we have with all this tribulation described in Matthew Chapter 24 is all the aforementioned awfulness is always happening, and some idiot is always trying to tell you they know why God’s allowing it to take place. “We are in the End Times,” they’ll tell you. Well, maybe we are and maybe we’re not. 

What we do know is that something really terrible did take place in Judea from 66 to 72 CE. It involved the destruction of the Temple and a war with the Roman occupiers which ended really badly for the Jews. I can only imagine what these folks suffered. We don’t think Christians—being Christians and committed to non-violence—participated as belligerents in the Jewish uprising, but that doesn’t mean they didn’t suffer. Anytime you get caught living in a war zone, things are going to be really, really bad. The Romans didn’t have the sort of awful weapons the Russians are currently using on Ukraine, but they were just as merciless. They didn’t give a rip if someone was a pacifist Christian or a Jewish revolutionary. They destroyed infrastructure and cut off food supplies and killed indiscriminately. When it was all over, there was nothing left but wreckage and rubble and hunger. The way it is with all wars. 

Jesus may have seen this coming, or Matthew might be attributing the prophecy to him in hindsight. In any event, the message is this: tribulation will be unpredictable, and the ones who tell you they have it all figured out are feeding you nonsense. We all need to keep our hearts alert for the things of God, because we cannot control what will happen. 

This is the great paradox of Advent. We’re supposed to prepare, but how do you prepare for that which you can’t control? And how do you keep alert when you’ve got so much preparation to do? I’ve already strung up my Christmas lights and done a little shopping, but I still have Christmas Eve sermons to write, music to select, visits to make to shut-ins, and a bunch of other things to do to get ready for Christmas. I’m one of those dudes who actually likes going to the mall at the last minute. I kind of thrive off of the chaos of this season. But with so much busy-ness, how do we stay alert? 

Have you ever found yourself so involved in the preparation for an event that you don’t actually experience the event when it arrives? I’m always amused when I see concerts on TV and people are holding up their phones to record the moment, but they don’t seem to be living in the moment they’re recording. 

Our time of preparation needs to have some time to be alert to the things of God. It’s time to find the quiet moment to ask yourself what this season truly means to you. Don’t just give the catechism, doctrinal answer. Who is Jesus to you? What difference does it make that God became flesh and entered this world? Why does it matter that you are a Christian? You’ve heard the Christmas story a million times, so what is it about this story that makes you want to hear it again? If we’re going to spend the next 29 days going crazy, is it just so we can have a winter party? 

There’s a popular term I’ve heard in the last few years: mindfulness. I think it just means keep alert. Keep alert to how you’re feeling. Keep alert to the feelings of the people around you. Keep alert to the world, to the color of the sky, the breeze, the naked trees, the smells of the season. Keep alert to what God has already done in your life. 

Slow down. Be aware. Because God has a way of showing up unexpectedly.

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[i] I thought this year I’d just fob this off on Pastor Natt, my distinguished Liberian colleague who has been serving as our Assisting Minister, but since I’ve been out two Sundays on vacation and then missed two more because I got COVID, I figured I’d better Pastor-Up and preach on this one before the congregation forgets what I look like!

No Worries (Reflections on Thanksgiving 2022)

 

Text: Matthew 6:25-33

“…and can any of you by worrying add a single hour to your span of life?” (Matthew 6:27) 

What do you do when you’re isolating with COVID-19? Watch old movies on Youtube, of course. During my recent quarantine I found this old rom-com from the ‘90’s called It Could Happen to You. The plot is about this NYC cop who splits a lottery ticket with a coffee shop waitress as a tip, and they end up winning millions of dollars. Silly, I know, but there’s this one scene in the coffee shop where the officer watches the waitress being particularly kind to a sickly looking young man. He whispers to her, “He’s got it, hasn’t he?” She nods in assent. 

He’s got it? It took me a second or two to remember. “It” was HIV/AIDS, the pandemic which ravaged entire neighborhoods back in the mid1980’s. After two and a half years of COVID, George Floyd’s death and Black Lives Matter, an attempted coup and attack on American democracy, innumerable climate disasters, an immigration nightmare, a war in Eastern Europe, and gargantuan inflation I’d almost forgotten about that diabolical virus which killed so many and had us so worried back in the day. 

Funny, isn’t it, how one disaster or crisis can make us forget the disasters and crises which came before it? It also makes us forget that we somehow manage to survive each of these existential threats as they come along. Martin Luther reminds us the very confession of God as Father Almighty and Creator is a declaration that “God protects me against all danger and shields and preserves me from all evil.” Which is not to say that bad things won’t happen to us. They certainly will, but we are shielded from despair and eternal destruction. Knowing this and trusting in this gives us the courage to go on even in the face of disease, violence, and the spookiness of inevitable change. 

Why a national holiday just for giving thanks? Why not? I’ve often called Thanksgiving the “forgotten holiday.” It gets squished between the over-the-top gaudiness of Halloween and the over-the-top commercialism of Christmas. That’s a shame, because, if we look at how this holiday came to be, we will certainly find some really inspiring stuff. Yeah, we all know about the First Thanksgiving back in 1621. School kids see their classrooms decorated with pictures of those Pilgrims in their tall hats, feasting on turkey, and showing remarkable neighborliness with the Native Americans whose land their descendants are about to steal. But that first feast—which may or may not have involved turkey—came after a brutal year in the wilderness when the Massachusetts Bay Colony lost one half of its members. Think about that: one in every two of those brave seekers of religious freedom was dead before the first year was over. 

Now, I’m thinking there must’ve been a pretty strong desire among those folks to turn the Mayflower around and decide the Church of England wasn’t so bad after all. But instead of mourning their tragedy, they decided to stick it out and offer thanks to God that they were still there, still alive, still provided with food, and still able to worship as they chose. 

So the harvest feast of gratitude became an American tradition. It didn’t become a national holiday until Abraham Lincoln signed it into law in 1863—right in the middle of the Civil War. Lincoln gave in to a lady named Sarah Josepha Hale who had been lobbying for 17 years to make a day of Thanksgiving an official, national observance. If we consider the soul-crushing violence of those days, we couldn’t imagine a crappier time to say, “Thanks, God. Everything’s swell.” But Lincoln had a little more vision and insight. I guess he knew that, as bad as things were, they could’ve been a lot worse. He figured that, if God was inclined to punish America for slavery and bloodshed, this would certainly be the time. But God was still good. There could’ve been a famine, but there wasn’t. European powers could’ve taken this opportunity to attack and claim territory (which really kept old Abe up at night), but they didn’t. All northern industry could’ve collapsed, and the Union could’ve been destroyed, but it wasn’t. So Lincoln told the nation: 

“I do therefore invite my fellow citizens in every part of the United States… to set apart and observe the last Thursday of November next, as a day of Thanksgiving and Praise to our beneficent Father who dwelleth in the Heavens, and fervently implore the interposition of the Almighty Hand to heal the wounds of the nation and to restore it as soon as may be consistent with the Divine purposes to the full enjoyment of peace, harmony, tranquility and Union.” 

Such a prayer would not be amiss today. 

I can't say that things haven't been tough here at Faith these last few years. We’ve had to make due with a lot less than we’ve had in the past. Since the start of the pandemic in 2020 twelve of our members have passed away, some have moved away, and some have gone to nursing facilities. Things change, but God doesn’t. 

We give thanks tonight for our friendship with the Beersheba Seventh Day Adventist congregation, the Auctus AA group, the Golden Age Seniors, our Girl Scouts, the Never Surrender Hope support group, our Sunday School and VBS, our partnership with our Synod, the 355 pounds of food and personal supplies we just sent to Feast of Justice, and the abundant produce from our vegetable garden which feeds the hungry in our neighborhood. And we can be thankful for our new friendship with the Grace and Truth Bible Church whose members will begin worshiping here starting next month. God has used and continues to use this facility to God’s purpose and to God’s glory as a place of compassion here in Northeast Philadelphia. 

We can’t see what lies before us, but we can look back and see what’s behind us. As Americans and as members of this congregation we have been through so much in the past. Surely, there will be hard times ahead. But we will endure. God is good. ALL the time. 

No worries. Only thanks.

God Save the King! (Reflections on Christ the King, 2022)

 

“Then Jesus said, ‘Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing.’” (Luke 23:34) 

Several times in my theatrical past I had the bizarre pleasure of working with a brilliant but totally eccentric lunatic named David Perry. David was one of the senior tutors of the British Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts and a wonderful—if completely unpredictable and quixotic—director of classical theatre. He frequently flitted back and forth between America and the UK.  Don’t get me started on David Perry stories—the man was nuttier than squirrel poop—but I must say I learned a lot from him. 

I recall taking one of David’s classical acting courses and watching him demonstrate to a timid student how to play a Shakespearean king. Nobody was as grand, elegant, or flamboyant as David, and I doubt he’d have any trouble passing for royalty. He even boasted (I suspect after he’d made a careful perusal of Burke’s Peerage) that he was, himself, something like seventy-fifth in line to the throne of England. I entertained myself with the notion that, should seventy-four British aristocrats meet an untimely demise, the British public would be in for one wild ride with David as their king. 

One of the students asked David if the British monarch had any actual governing authority. He informed us the monarch still possessed two sovereign powers—the power to grant pardon and the power to bestow honors. 

In the gospel lesson appointed for Christ the King, Year C (Luke 23:33-43) Jesus appears at his least regal if judged by the standards of this sinful world. Here is the Lamb of God hanging helpless, impaled on a piece of wood to be scorned and ridiculed and left to die as an outcast and a criminal. Crucifixion was the punishment for those the Romans didn’t view as being quite human enough to deserve a more dignified or humane form of execution. A Roman citizen like Saint Paul, if found guilty of a crime (as Paul was), could be swiftly beheaded. Disgraced aristocrats even had the option of committing suicide. There was nothing so swift or painless for foreigners and peasants. The criminal justice system, then as now, was always more lenient for the wealthy and well-connected. A pesky Galilean like Jesus was not only put to a gruesome death, but one which involved the utmost shame. The sign reading “This is the King of the Jews” is meant as a disdainful mockery of both the condemned and those who called him Lord. 

And yet, it is here in this moment of weakness, pity, and horror that Jesus’ royal authority is most on display. The King has the power to grant pardon, which Jesus does, not only for the penitent thief, but for all of those who have participated in his execution. “Father, forgive them,” he says. Additionally, it is the King’s prerogative to bestow honor. Jesus does not offer the un-named thief a knighthood, but he promises this dying man that he will soon have his portion in Paradise. The King remembers the sinner and grants him full citizenship in the Eternal Kingdom. 

Even one who is a king in name only has the power of presence. During the London blitz in World War II King George VI and Queen Elizabeth were sequestered away from London each night for their protection. Every day, however, they returned to their bomb-damaged residence and made frequent personal tours of the devastation caused by the bombing raids on the city. The king believed it was important for the people to see the monarch was with them, that he cared about them, and that he was enduring some of the same hardships. The king had to show up. From the cross Jesus shows up for us. Here Jesus shares all of our hardships—betrayal, abandonment, failure, physical pain and weakness, humiliation, helplessness, and impending death. This is where Jesus meets us. This is where the royal presence is felt. 

As loyal subjects of the King, we possess the royal authority and can exercise the King’s power in the King’s name. We each have the power to grant pardon to those who have sinned against us. We can forgive. We can let go. We can decide to be reconcilers and not blamers or grudge-holders. We also have the power to bestow honor. Whenever we decide to look at another human being and see Christ in them—the loving and the suffering Christ—we honor them. We honor them when we care for their needs, when we work to insure they are treated with justice, when we are willing to say to another, “You matter to me because you matter to Jesus.” 

Finally, we have the authority to show up as the King’s representative. We can be with one another in sickness, death, divorce, depression, job loss, or everyday confusion. We can do some grocery shopping, give a ride to the doctor or to the airport. We can help paint a house or move a houseful of furniture. We can make a meal, watch some kids for a few hours, shovel a walk, or rake a lawn. In all of these tiny ways we exercise a royal ministry of presence. We show up. It’s what our King does, and what He models for us. 

Jesus passes royal power to the Church. We have his power to forgive and pardon, to bestow honor, and to see even in our weakest moments—and, perhaps, only in such moments—where our real strength lies. 

A blessed Thanksgiving to you, dear friend, and an inspiring Advent season! 

Do We Need a Different House of God?

I smile when I think of the handful of times—over two decades ago—when I had the honor of preaching at the Cowboy Church at Woodstown, New Jersey’s Cowtown Rodeo. Truth be told, it wasn’t much of a church. It was a lean-to tent propped against the rodeo office. A congregation of ropers, rough stock riders, and barrel racers sat on bales of straw. Two 1” X 6” planks were nailed together to form a cross, and a karaoke machine served as the sound system. But it was still church. 

I’ve never seen the great cathedrals of Europe, but I’d willingly donate a kidney and possibly a portion of my liver for the opportunity to worship God in the majesty of Chartres Cathedral or Saint Paul’s in London or—dare I say it being a Lutheran?—even Saint Peter’s in Rome. These glorious houses of worship reflect a passion for the divine, an attempt, however inadequate, to reflect in art and opulence the wonder and mystery of God. I imagine I’d stand in these great monuments to faith with a really stupid look on my face whispering, “Dang! This is really church!” 

Alas, I don’t get quite that thrill in many of our American mid-century worship spaces. They have neither the homely simplicity of the little country clapboard church nor the powerful and exquisite inspiration of the cathedral. They seem to be stuck someplace in the middle. They strike me as big barns, simple, yet profoundly uninteresting. I have to wonder what we were thinking when we built these churches. We made them huge but totally lacking in aesthetic expression. It’s as if our post-war American hubris was at odds with our introverted Lutheran nature (Or maybe we were afraid too much artistic beauty might make us look like we were copying the Roman church—Haven forbid!). 

I’d be willing to bet many of these worship spaces—which make up the lion’s share of the footprint on any church property—stand empty Monday through Saturday and fill to only about 25% capacity on Sunday. We all know the crowds these halls were built to hold just don’t turn out like they used to. What’s more, the upkeep on such gargantuans is mind-blowing. The cost to heat and cool and insure and keep in repair must leave the congregants gaping in terror as they watch the bequests of previous generations of Lutherans get sucked away inch by inch, year by year. 

And yet, the parts of these facilities not consecrated for worship—the Sunday School classrooms, the fellowship spaces, the kitchens—may be anthills of activity on weekdays. They’re jammed with 12-step groups, childcare or adult daycare centers, food cupboards, or any number of local programs serving folks who will never venture into the cavernous worship spaces on Sunday morning.

It seems to me that many of our congregations, either from financial necessity or out of a sense of mission, have opened their doors to their neighborhoods and turned our churches into community centers. And that’s not such a bad thing, is it? If the church has now become the community center, why don’t we decide to build intentional community centers? 

So much usable area on church property is taken up by worship spaces which are both obsolete and intimidating. Many were constructed with the idea that they would always seat well over a hundred worshipers on a Sunday who would sing traditional Euro-centric hymnody with a 30-voice choir accompanied by a monstrous pipe organ. But current worship numbers have declined, and musical preferences have changed. Even some of our old liturgical practices have evolved. I think of the custom of having two reading desks in the chancel, a lectern for laity and a pulpit for the clergy. This once had a symbolic meaning but now has become just an idolatry (and one at odds with our Lutheran confessional understanding of the Priesthood of all Believers). Yet many of our churches have this architectural anachronism built in to their worship spaces.

There’s also an intimidation factor inherent in our vaulted-ceilinged giants. I ask myself if a huge, pitched roof building with a cross and steeple might say “You’re not welcome here if you’re not a Christian” to the roughly 33% of our fellow Americans who identify with no religious affiliation[i]. I would hope that the House of God would be open to everyone and anyone who could benefit from the services provided within. 

Here's what I propose: Let’s build new structures specifically designed to house community services such as childcare centers, preschools, AA meetings, food cupboards, after school drop-in centers and the like. Let’s openly invite NGOs to share these spaces and contribute to their upkeep. Let’s involve our ecumenical partners, too. Centrally located within each facility—possibly opposite the restrooms for maximum visibility and foot traffic—would be a small chapel seating 50 to 70 worshipers at most. I imagine the altar being placed in the center of the room like the table in the old Roman house churches, “democratizing the space” as Nadia Bolz-Weber has said[ii]. The chapel could be shared by different religious communities, and there could be a wide number of worship times to accommodate the schedules of worshipers. 

The chapel would not require a massive pipe organ or a choir stall. Its doors would be open when the building was in use so anyone passing could take a moment to step inside and have quiet time with God. Activities and worship times would be posted outside the door to be easily accessible—and much easier to read than a church signboard one passes while driving thirty miles per hour down a busy street. 

An assessment of specific community needs would have to precede the creation of one of these community center/churches. Instead of being constructed new, such a church might be planted by repurposing an existing structure such as a closed store. Synods could fund these new centers from the sale of closed churches. 

I’ll grant that it will be tough for us to watch some of our old buildings go the way of all flesh. Nevertheless, maintaining our current facilities is like dragging a dead camel across the desert. If our buildings aren’t serving our mission, it’s time to get rid of them. Can we create something new which can be used by anyone regardless of religion or lack of same, is designed to provide the sort of services our neighbors need, and yet still can house a comfortable and comforting worship space appropriate to the size and styles of our 21^st century congregations? 

 

 [i] See Pew Research Organization’s article here: https://www.pewresearch.org/religion/2022/09/13/how-u-s-religious-composition-has-changed-in-recent-decades/

[ii] https://onbeing.org/programs/nadia-bolz-weber-seeing-the-underside-and-seeing-god-tattoos-tradition-and-grace/

Tearing Down the Temples (Reflections on Pentecost 23, Year C 2022)

 

“As for these things that you see, the days will come when not one stone will be left upon another; all will be thrown down.” (Luke 21:6) 

As a general rule I really hate apocalyptic literature. I don’t even like to see dystopian sci-fi movies or read whacky novels about some horrifying future world. The current world is horrifying enough for me, thank you very much. Unfortunately, the gospel lesson appointed for Pentecost 23, Year C in the RCL (Luke 21:5-19), sometimes called “Luke’s Apocalypse[i],” requires that I address the subject—which I’ll have to do again in just two more weeks when Advent 1 rolls around. Bummer. 

In the gospel story Jesus makes some rather unpleasant predictions. It’s interesting to notice that his disciples never ask him how he knows this bad stuff is going to hit the fan. They take it for granted that the Lord knows what he’s talking about. Their big question is about when it’s all going to go down. Maybe they want to cross a few things off their bucket lists or buy some more life insurance or dig a survival bunker or something before they have to deal with persecution, jail, and the cataclysmic end of civilization as they’ve known it. I mean, wouldn’t you? 

Jesus, however, is more concerned that they not get fooled by some slick huckster prophesying the End Times. This sort of thing was pretty common in Jesus’ day, and it’s never lost its popularity. Throughout history a host of nitwits have been trying to tell us they know the exact moment when God will pull the plug on the world and bring in the Great Tribulation, the Rapture, or whatever[ii]. 

None of them got it right. There will always be wars and insurrections and earthquakes and all kinds of nasty stuff. I’ll grant that now of days, what with weird viruses, climate change, catastrophic weather events, mass extinctions of species, and—let’s not forget—a world full of crazy idiots, some of whom have their fingers on the buttons that launch thermonuclear weapons, it really does seem that the end is in sight. “So, Pastor Owen,” you ask, “are we really living in the End Times?” I can give you two answers. 

Answer One: Yup. It’s always the End Times. A sudden heart attack, a careless driver, a stray bullet[iii]—you name it. Today could be anyone’s End Time. So, you’d better get right with God and everybody else. Now. 

Answer Two: Can’t say for sure, but things don’t look good. This leaves us with the choice of either saying, “Guess it’s just God’s will. We’re all screwed. Been nice knowing you!” OR, deciding we need to face our challenges and ask for the Lord’s guidance in correcting the world’s situation. Which one do you think God would want us to pick?

 Just as the disciples in our gospel story don’t question Jesus’ prophecy about the temple’s destruction or the coming persecution, we shouldn’t question his promise that he will be present with us as we face our own tribulations. Yes, the great temple of Jerusalem—perhaps one of the most magnificent structures of the ancient world—was smashed, desecrated, and looted, but Christianity and Judaism survived, giving rise to new and wonderful expressions of faith which rose from the rubble. 

The destruction of the temple has been a lot on my mind lately. When that monstrous masterpiece of architecture into which Herod the Great had poured so much finery was finally reduced to a pile of rocks by the Romans in 70 CE, the whole religious landscape changed. What would’ve happened—do you think?—had Rome not destroyed the temple? Would the people have gone their merry way sacrificing animals on the altar in Jerusalem until PETA or some other animal rights group put them out of business? Would they ever have hungered for a new kind of religious expression which didn’t involve temple purity rules or ethnic allegiance?  Would the Christian faith have grown at the rate it did if everything stayed the same? 

As I look at the religious landscape of America today, I think it might be time that our temples came down. Literally. Since World War II Americans have constructed hundreds or maybe thousands of church buildings. Most of these, I’d be willing to bet, have not the splendid iconography and soaring, inspiring beauty of the medieval cathedrals nor the homely simplicity of the clapboard prairie church. They are caught somewhere in the middle of the two styles—gigantic in size to hold massive pipe organs and space for a 40-voice choir, but not overly ornate lest they be thought idolatrous. They’re actually rather boring. 

They are also no longer functional. They cost fortunes to heat, cool, insure, and repair. They gulp down endowment funds while sitting empty six days a week and only a quarter full on the sabbath. Meanwhile, the rest of the church compounds are anthills of activity Monday through Friday. There are nursery schools, food banks, 12-step meetings, seniors’ groups, after school drop-in centers, and myriads of other community-centered services being provided. Our churches have become community centers.

 Here’s an idea: Why not tear them down and build real community centers? I mean public spaces with rooms for neighborhood activities such as I've mentioned above. Put a chapel in each for worship—a small but beautiful space just big enough to hold a congregation of 50-70 folks. Put the altar in the middle like the table in the old Roman house churches. No need for an organ or choir loft. A guitar or small keyboard will do. Locate the chapel in a central place (maybe across from the restrooms?) so people will pass it, see the posted worship times, and maybe find a few minutes to sit inside and have a quiet chat with the Lord. 

A center like this could be a joint project between ecumenical partners who share the worship space. The different entities which use space in the facility could contribute to its upkeep just as many such organizations contribute to our parishes already. Best of all, we can hope such a space will feel welcoming to everyone regardless of faith tradition. Even the 30% of Americans who claim no affiliation or religious preference will not feel intimidated. 

Out of the old something new will be born—and Jesus will be present through it. I can’t wait.

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[i] I’m not sure by whom.

[ii] There is an exhaustive list of Second Coming false prophets on Wikipedia. If you want a good chuckle, click on: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Predictions_and_claims_for_the_Second_Coming

[iii] Very common if you live in Philadelphia.

The Day of the Dead Can be a Day of Joy (Reflections on All Saints 2022)

 

“Rejoice in that day and leap for joy, for surely your reward is great in heaven….” (Luke 6:23) 

All Saints is always a somber festival, coming as it does in autumn as leaves are changing color, days are getting shorter, and the world is growing colder. The natural world is staggeringly beautiful at this time of year. If things are dying, they are doing so spectacularly. Still, it’s only natural that our thoughts should become a little melancholy as we watch the leaves wither and fall. 

Our ancient ancestors thought about the dead a lot at this time of year—which makes perfect sense when you consider the approaching winter could mean a lot of them might not make it to springtime. They had all kinds of rituals around death, too. There’s that great northern European tradition of going to the burial grounds at night with a homemade lantern made from a hollowed-out gourd to welcome the ghosts of our departed loved ones. That’s where our Halloween Jack O’ Lantern tradition came from.

 I’ve noticed this year there’s a trend (you’ll see it in the stores) to embrace the Mexican tradition of Dia de Los Muertos, a two or three day celebration coinciding with Halloween, All Saints, and All Souls Day.[i] I think that’s a great idea. Dia de los Muertos is a really fun festival. It’s more about celebrating the dead than mourning them. The festival involves feasting and making candies called calaveras that look like human skulls. As far as I’m concerned, any holiday which involves candy is one I’m willing to observe.

 The really wonderful thing about Dia de los Muertos is how this festival makes light of death. Kids play with little skeletons, people wear colorful costumes and put on creepy skull-like make-up, and skulls (fake ones, not actual human skulls!) are decorated with feathers and flowers and brilliant colors as a joyful tribute to the ones who have gone before us. 

Far be it for one like me ever to criticize the Bard, but I think Shakespeare got it wrong when his Marc Antony said, “The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones.”[ii] In my experience we humans are really much more forgiving, much more willing to let the nasty past lie in the dirt. We’d rather party and celebrate the virtues of our lost friends. I’m always sorry to say “good-bye” to folks who’ve walked with me on part of my journey on this rock, but I really appreciate this autumnal opportunity to say “thank you” for all they gave and stood for and taught. 

In the Gospel appointed for All Saints, Year C (Luke 6:20-31), Jesus tells all the poor, the sad, the rejected, and the hungry to rejoice and leap for joy. He reminds us that we are blessed and favored of God, and he gives us some vital instructions on how to live as saints—as people made holy by faith in God’s grace. I’m not expecting any leaping during mass, but I really want to celebrate the saints we’ve lost and say “thanks” for the way they modeled the discipleship Jesus taught. 

Jimmy Leddy was a good Catholic boy who married a good Lutheran girl. Jimmy and Maggie broke up every Sunday morning and reunited every Sunday afternoon. He never made fun of her faith tradition, and he was always willing to celebrate our similarities other than argue about our differences. He was pretty wounded (and what good Catholic boy wouldn’t be?) by the disclosures about the Catholic Church back in the ‘90’s, but if he was ever disappointed in the institution, he was forever faithful to Jesus. A good, kind, affable, loving husband and father who suffered loss but never lost his compassion.

 There aren’t many left at Faith Lutheran who will remember Helen Hoppe (she’d been shut-in for many years) as she was very shy and quiet. She was born in one of the Baltic states (I think Estonia) and she had a very “Old World” type of piety. She and her late husband Al raised two boys—one a firefighter, the other a police officer. She was a fabulous hostess and always put out a large spread whenever anyone came to visit. She was also immensely generous, mild tempered, and patient. 

Much the same could be said of Helen Andersen, another of our shut-ins we lost this year. What always struck me about Helen was how cheerful she was, always giggling slightly and beaming her beatific smile. She loved her family more than life, but she also loved Faith. She taught Sunday School back in the early days, and she was our Girl Scout leader for years. I’m sure many young women learned a lot from her.

 Judy Schmid was the widow of the late and legendary Ralph Steinke. But she was a merry widow who took a chance on something not many of us would do—she answered a personal ad. She took the chance, and fell in love a second time with Bill, a man who really needed the sort of nurturing, good-natured, personality Judy had. She loved him, protected him, and cared for him when he was ill at the end of his life. She never complained. She was always bright, loquacious, and friendly to everyone. She was classy and elegant and faithful to our congregation. 

People of Welsh heritage love to sing, so I guess that’s why Jean Griffiths MacLeod donated so many years to Faith’s choir. She had an excellent soprano voice, and I’m sure she kept her fellow sopranos on key—even if she couldn’t keep them from teasing the Music Director. Jean had no ego, and constantly refused to call attention to herself by singing a solo. After retiring from choir she continued to worship every week as long as she could, occupying the same pew with the other retired choir ladies. Like Maggie Leddy, she married a good Catholic boy, split up every Sunday morning, and reunited every Sunday afternoon after church. 

Nobody at Faith was sweeter or kinder than Linda Bell. A faithful member of the Thursday Bible Group, a member of Council, played in the Handbell Choir at Christmas, was a “Godmother” to a Confirmation student, and taught us all about being cheerful in the face of grave illness. I will always admire Linda’s sense of humor, and how bravely she faced her transplant and her subsequent battles. She was a person of faith and an example to the rest of us. 

I’d like to mention two other names on our All Saints list. They were both first cousins to my wife, Marilyn. 

Jack Cannon was a police lieutenant. The word is he was an old-fashioned type of cop—the type who couldn’t get away with some of the things he did if he did them today. I knew him off the job as a friendly, quiet, man who taught me how to play bocce ball. He was deeply pious in his Catholic faith and once had the honor of escorting Cardinal Jozef Mindszenty through his town so the exiled Hungarian cleric could dedicate a church for fellow Hungarian refugees. Jack was deeply hurt by the disclosures of the ‘90’s, but never lost his faith. He celebrated his baptism every year by sending a bouquet of flowers to his godmother (His aunt and Marilyn’s mother) on her birthday.

Marilyn’s cousin Barbara Schneider was a mentor to her in many different ways. She was loving and funny and loyal and classy and elegant. She was also extremely compassionate and giving. Barbara and her husband George adopted two babies from Columbia, each born from different parents. They raised them along with a son of their own, proving that there are a lot of different ways to be a family. 

Finally, Pat Martinez was one of the lions of Faith Lutheran. He was always there, always ready to lend a hand, and never one to shy away from expressing his opinion. He was conscientiously honest and straightforward (some might say blunt), but I never knew him to be rude or out of line. He was ready to volunteer for anything—taking gifts to the kids at Silver Springs, using his skill at woodworking to make items for the Fall Festival, or running the pancake breakfast on Easter morning. We will admire and miss his strong sense of dedication.

 We give thanks to God for these and all the other saints we remember on All Saints Day. An oft-repeated (perhaps too oft-repeated) sermon illustration is the story of the little boy in Sunday School who was seen gazing at the pictures of the saints in the stained-glass windows of his church. The pastor asked him, “So, Johnny, do you know what a saint is?” The lad replied, “They’re the people the light shines through.” 

Rejoice, O Saints of God!

 

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[i] All Souls, a Roman Catholic festival on November 2^nd honoring all the departed (as opposed to saints canonized by the Church), is combined with All Saints in the Lutheran tradition. Our understanding has always been that a saint is nothing more than a sinner saved by grace—so we’re ALL saints.

[ii] Julius Caesar, Act 3 sc. 2. But you knew that, didn’t you?