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“God himself will be with them; he will wipe every tear from their eyes. Death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more.”
How often have we sought comfort in those words? Both the passages from Isaiah and Revelation today contain beautiful promises of God’s work in the future—a glorious future where death, the shroud that is cast over all peoples, will be swallowed up. We hope for the new heaven and earth, where God will dwell among us and death will be no more.
And yet, for those of us in the throes of grief, do these promises truly comfort us?
I’m painfully aware of how many in this room today are carrying heavy burdens. The crosses that you processed up the aisle this morning convey deep symbolism—this bittersweet mixture of hope and sadness that our loved ones are with God and yet we must carry on without them.
And these crosses? They only represent those we have lost this year. Many of us carry with us a much older grief—maybe not as fresh, but still our companion. We hope for the freshness of grief to be replaced by something bearable, something quieter. But we know it never leaves us entirely. And grief can be a lonely place, especially as time marches forward and other people move on, but the pain we bear is ever-present.
And this is the difficulty of passages like these that promise a future hope while we bear the current pain of life on this earth. This is the truth we’re often afraid to speak –that the assurance that God will ultimately overcome death and restore all creation doesn’t always bring us comfort here and now.
This week there were some heavy realities in my own life, some weighty uncertainties about the future to bear. I sent a worried text to my husband Lee, focusing only on what was happening at the moment—as I am prone to do. Ever my stabilizing force when I’m spinning, he assured me it would all be okay.
At moments like these, I often need to whisper to myself over and over, “All shall be well. All shall be well ” These words were made famous by Julian of Norwich, the 14th-century mystical Saint whose feast we celebrate in May. These words, like the words of the apocalypses we read earlier, can be comforting.
But be honest—do you sometimes doubt that all shall be well while you’re in the middle of tragedy and suffering? I do. I did this very week.
This doubt is real. We hear it all the time. Perhaps we’ve said it a time or two ourselves when that future hope doesn’t quite help us understand why we still have to live in such turmoil: “Where is God?” we say.
In this current pain and suffering, in the injustice that abounds all around us—Where is God?
It is this question which is at the heart of the story of Lazarus in today’s Gospel. Mary, Martha, and Lazarus—these three siblings were friends and followers of Jesus. When Lazarus fell ill, Mary and Martha sent for Jesus who was on the other side of the Jordan.
He responded to their request to come by staying where he was for two more days. By the time Jesus reached Bethany, Lazarus was already dead and buried.
Both sisters, at different times, greeted Jesus with the words, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.”
Yes, this is a statement of faith—they believed Jesus’ presence could have made the difference between life and death, that he could have healed their brother. But embedded in this statement is also an important question: Where were you? Jesus, I thought you cared about us. Why weren’t you here sooner? Where is God in this?
We know the end of this story, that Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead, showing his power over death, pointing to the resurrection that is to come—not only his but also ours.
But before Jesus points to a future hope, he is present—in the midst of the pain and grief, in the literal stench of death. “He was greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved,” John tells us. And then Jesus began to weep with those who were grieving.
The answer to the question, “Where is God?” is answered in this story—God was there, right there. Amid the pain. As he is now, with us.This is the power of the incarnation. We talk about it here all the time—as Canon John so poignantly reminds us—that in Jesus, God came to pitch his tent among us. But Christ’s presence with us didn’t end when he died, was raised, and ascended into heaven.
We don’t just have the comfort that Jesus came and lived among us and grieved with those who grieve, and then left us to face this world alone. This dwelling among us allowed humanity to be drawn back to God fully.
God is still present with us—present in the Spirit among us, present in the mystery of the sacraments of baptism and eucharist we celebrate here today, and present, as our Collect says, in the “communion and fellowship in the mystical body of Christ.”
This is what we recognize with these crosses here today on All Saints—not just that there is a future hope for those we love but see no longer, but also a current reality that they are still present with us because we are knit together in Christ.
How did this happen? How did Christ’s presence here on earth 2000 years ago change our present reality?
The incarnation, the reality that God took on human flesh in the person of Jesus, doesn’t just give us some nebulous hope for a future in heaven. It ensures that the hope of the resurrection is something actively unfolding in the present.
The same Julian of Norwich who assured us that “All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well,” reminds us that Christ’s suffering is a source of present life and healing, not just some future reality we wait for.
In the mystical visions God gave her, which she recorded in the work she left us, Revelations in Divine Love, Jesus said to Julian, “If I could suffer more, I would suffer more.”
In his life and death, Julian sees Jesus as willingly embracing all human suffering across all time in order to conquer it. Not only does Christ transform death into something that no longer holds the fear of separation for us; it assures he is present with us now in our sufferings.
In Chapter 68 of Revelations, Julian says this:
“And this word: Thou shalt not be overcome, was said full clearly and full mightily, for assuredness and comfort against all tribulations that may come. He said not: Thou shalt not be tempested, thou shalt not be travailed, thou shalt not be afflicted; but He said: Thou shalt not be overcome. God willeth that we take heed to these words, and that we be ever strong in sure trust, in weal and woe. For He loveth and enjoyeth us, and so willeth He that we love and enjoy Him and mightily trust in Him; and all shall be well.”
Because of our union with Christ, we can know that no matter what affliction we endure, we will not be overcome with it. Why? Because Christ’s incarnation revealed the fullness of God’s love to us and made it possible for us to live in communion with God here and now. Eternal life, Julian says, begins now in our soul’s union with Christ.
“In this life, we have our beginning,” she says, “and all this shall we see in God without end. And it was to me a splendid sight, a blessed sight, to see that in God we are eternally united and protected.”
Turning the clock back about 1000 years before St. Julian, one of our great Coptic Saints, Athanasius of Alexandria, whose feast is also in May, taught that the Word of God taking on human form transformed human nature itself. The gulf between God and man could only be crossed by God, he insisted.
He said this: “For he was made man that we might be made God. And he manifested himself by a body that we might receive the idea of the unseen father.”
Jesus came down into the realm of corruption and death that we inhabit, and he restored us to God.
Where is God in our current suffering and grief? With us, yes, the Scriptures and the witness of these great saints tell us. But how do we actually experience this in our daily lives?
I think the answer is right here among us today. It’s the very essence of what we celebrate on All Saint’s Day.
This assurance that Christ’s incarnation did not end with his life on earth but continues through all the saints assures us that God is here. With us, among us.
It’s not just the Saints like Julian or Athanasius who point us ever closer to God; It’s also the everyday saints who have gone before us and who walk among us still.
A Saint, one who is venerated and remembered on a specific day by the Church, by definition is one who offered his or her life for others, whose life is worthy of imitation.
Today, we call the names of those who aren’t recognized on a church calendar but who have yet made an indelible mark on us. These, too, are saints who have made us feel the presence of God by their love, their example, and the way they walked with us.
One of my favorites of the saints recognized by the church, Teresa of Calcutta, said, “Holiness is not the luxury of a few people, but a simple duty for you and me.”
Teresa is venerated as a saint for her faithful service throughout her life to the poor and dying of West Bengal – the same people I grew to love dearly as my family lived in Bangladesh. She is also highly significant to me because, despite years of what she experienced as an absence of God’s presence, she showed up and embodied the love of Christ anyway, walking with people through some of the darkest places of suffering and death. Despite any doubt, she held onto hope, and she lived faithfully with God’s help.
But, as she makes clear herself, it’s not just up to the Mother Teresas of the world to assure us that God is with us in these present troubles and that we can hold onto the hope of a brighter shore.
This day reminds us that each of us members of the mystical body of Christ—all saints—can shine the light of Christ’s very real presence into a hurting world. We can be the assurance for each other that in the loneliness of grief, we don’t walk alone. In the mundane of life and the doubts that come, we can be for each other the answer to the question, “Where is God?”
Today, between our two services celebrated here, we will surround two new members of the Body of Christ - and we make our vows to them that we will walk with them as they seek to embody lives of faithfulness with God’s help.
Today, we come alongside those who are living in present suffering and grief, and we promise to keep walking with you.
Today, we remember the saints who’ve reflected the love of God to us in simple lives of holiness, in acts of kindness and love. And we honor them by taking their example and living it out ourselves.
So—today, may we remember that we are part of the fellowship of all saints, past and present. And may God teach us to follow their examples of faithfulness and service, and to trust in him through all the dark, cold days to bring us through to light and new life.
In the name of the One who transforms all life, Jesus Christ our Redeemer. Amen.
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