“These
are they who have come through the great ordeal; they have washed their robes
and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.” (Revelation 7:14)
As books of the Bible go,
Revelation is a pretty weird piece of literature. It really makes you wonder what
John of Patmos (whoever he was) was smoking when he wrote down some of the bazzako
images we find in this text. I’ll be honest: I can’t even pretend to understand half of the things he wrote. Neither can
anyone else—even though there’s been a huge cottage industry that’s grown up
around trying to decode Revelation and prognosticate about the cataclysmic end
of the world. So, just for the record, even if some TV evangelist nincompoop
starts saying the horror we’re watching play out in Israel and Gaza right now
is a harbinger of the End Times and Great Ordeal predicted in Revelation, don’t
start selling your belongings and heading for some peak in the Poconos while
you wait to be raptured. The jury’s still out on the end of the world. So
chill.
Having said this, I think
we can make an educated guess about those of whom John was referring when he wrote
about making it through the Great Ordeal and washing robes in the blood of the
Lamb (As referenced in our First Lesson for All Saints’ Sunday, Revelation 7:9-17).
I’m pretty sure John was talking about those who had, by his time near the end
of the First Century of the Common Era, been martyred for their faith in Jesus
Christ. Indeed, if you look at a Roman Catholic hagiology, you’re not going to
find a whole bunch of folks designated as saints who didn’t face some kind of
ghastly end. It’s our tendency to canonize those who’ve walked through the
worst crap storms but did so full of faith, hope, and love.
After my dad passed away
I discovered in his personal papers an old and yellowed document declaring he
had been awarded the Bronze Star for his service in World War II. He had never
asked to receive the medal. My late father-in-law, who had parachuted into the
Battle of the Bulge, also never asked to receive his Bronze Star. I found out
from an old WWII vet that many of the soldiers who were to be awarded that
decoration refused it, believing their very survival had disqualified them from
being venerable.
And yet, in or gospel
lesson appointed for All Saints (Matthew 5:1-12), we hear Jesus nominate the
poor in spirit, the mourners, the meek, and the persecuted as being blessed by
God. The Great Ordeal we saints pass through may not always be life-threatening
moments of catastrophe. We don’t need to compare ourselves to those who have
faced off against mortal dangers or soul-crushing evil. The Great Ordeal might
simply be being human—living on this planet and knowing loss, illness, grief,
dissatisfaction, disillusion, or disappointment. We don’t all face the Great Ordeal—just
little ordeals every single day.
The culture of our world
teaches us to praise and venerate the Taylor Swifts and Travis Kelces, the Jeff
Bezos’ and the Elon Musks, the Abe Lincolns, FDRs, and Martin Luther Kings. We
look to the talented, the wealthy, the brilliant and accomplished and
courageous and think we ourselves are in no way exceptional.
Yet we are to Jesus. He
died for us.
So we look back on the
last year and give thanks to God for the little saints. These are the saints
who weren’t fed to lions, burned at the stake, or given medals for valor. Their
passing didn’t rate a mention on CNN. There are no hospitals or college
buildings named in their honor. But they meant something to Jesus—and they
meant something to us.
Blessed are the poor in
spirit. Judy Kiesewetter may have
been poor in spirit when she was diagnosed with cancer. Towards the end of her
days she could barely lift a cup of water to her lips to moisten her dry mouth.
All the same, she made a heroic effort to make those of us who visited her feel
comfortable, never complaining about her pain. She was gracious and
appreciative and ladylike to the end.
Blessed are those who
mourn. Pat Stout was faithful and
loyal to her congregation. She thought of us as her family. Pat never learned
to drive an automobile so, after the death of her husband, Bob, she was a
virtual shut-in. Still, she faithfully kept in touch with her Faith family,
remembered her offering, and prayed daily for the health of her church. She
also had a plate of cookies ready when her pastor came to visit. I’d ask her
how she was doing, and her reply was always, “Well, Pastor, I’m one day closer to
being with Bob.”
Blessed are the meek and
the pure in heart. No one was more selfless, obliging, or deferential than Marion Dallago. She was simply one of
the sweetest, least self-conscious people any of us will ever know.
Nevertheless, that same sweetness and graciousness carried with it a subtle but
powerful moral authority. Whenever you were around Marion, you wanted to be a
better person for her sake.
Blessed are those who hunger
and thirst for righteousness. I don’t know if Pat Martinez, Jr. hungered and thirsted for righteousness, but he
sure liked things to be right. Part
of his legend at Faith Lutheran was a stand he took long before I came on the
scene when he said he’d rather see the church close than be without mission. He
could be stubborn, but he was honest and sincere in his beliefs, and he called
us out on our cowardice whenever we became more frightened of spending money
than we were zealous in doing mission.
Blessed are the merciful.
I didn’t know at the time I did Lillian
Juliff’s memorial how tirelessly she worked for Caring for Friends. Serving
others was a mission with her, and she’d get the other mature ladies in her
senior living apartment complex to donate food items which she’d cook into “heat-and-eat”
meals for elderly homebound. After her husband Neil died at the Delaware Valley
Veterans’ Home, she gave back to that organization by becoming a regular
volunteer, serving the residents in the canteen on Tuesdays. The source of
mercy is compassion, and Lillian had plenty of it.
Our five family members
whom we lost this past year lived good, decent, and full lives. I wish,
however, to draw attention to a name on our list of the departed whose life was
cut short. Billy McWilliams was described as being a good-hearted
sixteen-year-old. He liked to ride his bike and skateboard and help out in his
family sign business on the weekends. He planned to work for the company
full-time when he graduated from high school. Unfortunately, he was killed
while riding his bicycle near Woodhaven and Byberry Roads this past year by a
hit-and-run driver in a stolen car. I didn’t know Billy, but I know his buddy,
Justin Cartledge, and I know that Billy’s death left a hole in the hearts of
all of those who loved him. Every life, even the most obscure stranger we pass
on the street, is precious to someone, and all are precious to God. Far be it
for me to critique our Lord’s sermon, but if I could add to the Beatitudes I would
add the phrase, “Blessed are the innocent victims, for they will be remembered.”
Today our world is full of such victims. As saints made holy by the blood of
Christ, may we continue to pray for them and do what we can to create a world
of greater peace and charity.
A canonized Saint, Mother
Teresa, is often quoted as saying, “Not all of us can do great things, but we
can do small things with great love.”
May Judy, Patricia,
Marion, Pat 2, Lillian, Billy and all the saints rest in peace. May the peace
of God which passes all our understanding keep our hearts and minds in Christ
Jesus.
Amen.
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