The Communion of Saints

There is a special day care center in Jersey City, New Jersey, that Anna Quindlen, the author and columnist, writes about. It is run by Roman Catholic sisters. Children in this daycare center belong to families who are homeless, who have moved from place to place, and in this daycare center, these children have finally found a touch of home. One day the sisters took the children to the Jersey shore. None of these 3 and 4 year olds had ever seen the ocean. They scrambled up the sandy dunes, falling and giggling their way to the top of what must have seemed like mountains. They could hardly believe their eyes. As far as they could see, water. Nothing but water. They slid down the dunes and ran to the ocean's edge. They chased the waves which teased their toes. Then, they all went off for a picnic in a nearby park. After lunch, the sisters let them return to the shore. One little boy outran the rest and climbed his way to the top of the dunes. He stood up and looked out. Then he turned around, with his arms spread wide, and he shouted to the others: "It's still there!"¹

For this child, in three short years, so much had disappeared. He turned around and all that was familiar was gone. In his world, even the ocean could disappear over lunch. We are older. And wise enough to know the ocean will be there when we look again. We don't even have to drive there to prove it.² We don't expect the ocean to disappear, but we too, like the children, have experienced loss. Loss goes hand in hand with transition, for you and for me -- for pastor and people. Today, on All Saints Sunday, we may be especially mindful of the loss of our loved ones. We list, on an insert in the bulletin, those from among our community who have died in the past year. We will have opportunity during the prayers to name any loved ones who have died, not just in the past year but in any year.

What do you think of when you hear the word "saint?" A holy dead person? A good person? Sometimes we hear ourselves referring to a really good person by saying, "Oh, she's a saint." It's no coincidence that the Beatitudes would be the Gospel reading for All Saints Sunday. Jesus gives us a glimpse of saintliness when he says "Blessed are you who are poor, you who are hungry, you who weep, you who are hated, excluded, reviled, and defamed on account of the Son of Man." According to the dictionary, a saint can be a person officially recognized by the church as having lived such a life that he or she is entitled to public remembrance and recognition. A saint can be any person who has died and gone to heaven. A saint can be any baptized believer in Christ. A saint can be a very holy person. A saint can be a charitable, unselfish, or patient person.

I'd like you to think of one person you know or have known upon whom you would bestow that title, "Saint." Maybe it was someone who influenced you in your walk in faith, or your prayer life. Maybe it was someone who inspired you. Maybe it was someone you still hold up as a role model. I'd like you to think of that person's name, their relationship with you, and just one thing about them for which you are grateful. Their name, their relationship with you, and one thing about them for which you are grateful. They can be living or dead. They may be one of your parents or grandparents. They may be a brother or sister, a child, a spouse. They may be a pastor. Take one minute to share something about your saint with the person next to you. The person with the biggest feet can go first. I'll call "time" and then the other person can go. You should feel free to pass if you like.

Now it's my turn. I want to tell you very briefly about a saint in my life. Some of you may have noticed that on my first Sunday with you, there were a few times during the service when I couldn't hold back the tears. One of those times was when you prayed that beautiful prayer on my behalf. Another was when the choir sang the anthem. I just melted and practically slobbered all over the altar. I couldn't help myself. One of the choir members brought me a box of tissue, for which I was very grateful. The choir was singing, "Blessed Assurance, Jesus is Mine." And the reason that anthem was so powerful for me was not because they were singing so well -- which they were, and not because Barb was playing so well -- which she was, and not because it's such a great song. The reason for my tears was that "Blessed Assurance" was my maternal grandmother's favorite hymn. My Grandma Lucille was an extraordinarily dedicated grandmother and churchwoman. She was a music teacher. She was a letter writer. And she was among my most ardent supporters, especially when I started seminary and was ordained. My ordination, in fact, turned out to be one of the last times I saw her. She was thrilled that she had lived long enough to see that day. She was 85 then. And on my first Sunday here, when the choir arbitrarily or coincidentally or serendipitously or miraculously sang that song -- without anyone knowing any of what I just told you -- something incredibly holy happened. I was overcome by an overwhelming sense of Grandma Lucille's presence in the chancel. It was as though she was here, and her steady, dedicated spirit permeated my soul. I could hear her singing; I could feel her support and encouragement, just when I needed it most. It was a most extraordinary gift. I was overcome, once again, by the Spirit's presence with us on this journey together. When I experienced that overwhelming sense of her presence, her encouragement, and her support, I felt kind of like those children on the Jersey Shore. I felt like turning around with my arms spread wide, and shouting to all of you, "It's still there!"

In the Apostles' Creed we say "I believe... in the communion of saints..." Luther says in his Large Catechism, that this phrase should really be translated "Community of Saints" or "Holy Community."³ For Luther, that phrase was another way to describe the church. When I think of the "Communion of Saints," I think of that mystical body of Christ that St. Paul talks about. That mystical body of the faithful, including you and me, that knows no barriers of space or time; that mystical body of Christ that we refer to in the Prayer of Consecration in our communion liturgy. When we pray, "Join our prayers with those of your servants of every time and every place" we're talking about the mystical Communion of Saints. When we sing "Holy holy, holy Lord, Lord God of pow'r and might" we are part of that mystical choir, singing right along with those saints in our lives, living or dead -- the ones we just talked about today. We join, as we say, "their unending hymn." ⁴ And then when we come to the table and partake of that holy meal, I'm reminded of something else. Because in the Liturgy of Holy Communion, the barriers of time and space are suspended, I'm actually having Sunday dinner with Grandma Lucille, and Jesus is both the host and the meal itself.

All of this starts, of course, much the way it started for those children on the Jersey shore. It starts with water. Water and the Word. The water of Baptism is what creates the Communion of Saints -- the "Holy Community" that's still there, even when death and despair might make us think otherwise. One of our members who has drifted away over the last few years and has returned recently was asked why she came back. And she replied, "Because you were always there." Whenever we come to the table of our Lord, especially on this All Saints Sunday, that "mystic sweet communion," as the hymn says, "with those whose rest is won" is part of what we're participating in. May the love of God once manifest through a Saint in your life be manifest again at the table around which we gather, in the body and blood of our Lord. It won't bother me a bit if, when you get up from the table, you turn around with your arms spread wide and shout, "It's still there!" AMEN.

Pastor Dana Runestad
Festival of All Saints
7 November, 2004
Holy Cross Lutheran Church
Livonia, Michigan

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