The Sainthood of All People

In our culture, it is popular to remember and celebrate the loved ones we have lost on their birthdays, on the anniversary of their deaths, and other special occasions. As Christians, particularly in the Episcopal tradition, we add All Saints to that list. I miss my mother more than usual around All Saints. Perhaps because I was baptized on All Saints day, a rather funny story my mother loved to tell. Or perhaps because her birthday falls in the same month. Regardless, I am always particularly grateful this time of year for the fabulous group of women I have gathered around me who have also lost their mothers. We look after one another, build one another up, and help one another thrive in our womanhood in loving memory of the women who raised us.

One might assume that these relationships based on shared loss would be marked by somber nostalgia. But this couldn’t be further from the truth. One of most wonderful and most common practices that I have with these women is sharing memories of our mothers that are, shall we say, less than flattering.

Many of you in this room were blessed to know the Rev. Canon Dr. Peggy Bosmyer. A beloved priest in the Diocese of Arkansas who lost her battle with pancreatic cancer in 2008, Peggy’s positive attributes and high achievements are without number. But what brings her daughters and I particular joy is remembering how many burnt noodles we ate over the years because Peggy simply could not cook spaghetti - or anything else really.

My situation is slightly different, as my own mother has not died, but has been taken from us by dementia. A few years back, my family and I hosted a birthday party for my mother and invited friends and family from far and wide to brings pictures, stories, and memorabilia to share. There were pictures of my mother on her wedding day, with her newborn children, and receiving a teacher of the year award. But my favorite picture from that night was of my mother in her mid-twenties, sitting on a deliciously heinous 1970’s couch, resting her head on her arm. She is smiling warmly, and the slightly glossy look in her eyes suggests she might have had a bit to drink that evening. In that picture, I see my mother exactly as she was, apart from her achievements and most esteemed qualities; just her, a flawed and beautiful child of God.

I’m confident that many of you have experienced the joy - and the strength - that comes from these mundane, rough-around-the-edges memories. And this common, though perhaps unexpected, kind of remembrance is a sign to me, that even though our humanity causes us to resist the Kingdom of God, we have, deep within us, a least a little bit of inherited Kingdom wisdom.

Here at Christ Church, we’ve had a rich season of exploring Luke’s Gospel. In Luke’s vision of the Kingdom, up is down and down is up. The first are last and the last are first. The people that we assume are the dregs of society are favored by Christ. And nowhere is this more plainly expressed than in the blessings and woes. For Luke, Matthew’s version of the beatitudes simply does not go far enough in showing what the Kingdom of God looks like in our very midst.

According to Luke, not only should those who are suffering take heart, but those who think they have everything they need should look out, not because someone might take away what they have, but because they’re almost certainly missing what’s most important. This is one of the most challenging aspects of the Kingdom, because nearly every part of our culture tells us to trust the opposite. But God gives us hints to help us understand this Kingdom logic, examples that help put this Gospel passage into context, and these are the saints.

We tend to think of saints as spiritual exemplars whose lives would be nearly impossible (much less desirable) to emulate. And although many of the saints do have exemplary faith and remarkable deeds to their names, underneath all that, some were absolutely tragic, and most were regular folks, a little rough around the edges, who left behind not a few unflattering stories.

Take for example St. Pelagia, revered for her chastity and devotion, but only after years as a stage actress in Antioch, which, in the 4th century, pretty much marked her as a loose woman. Then there’s St. Arnold, a devout Benedictine monk in the 11th century who rose up through the ranks from priest to bishop to abbot of his monastery, where he spent his free time brewing beer - you know, for when the water was contaminated! And my personal favorite: St. Clotilde, venerated for the famous conversion of her husband, the Frankish King Clovis I in the year 492. Unfortunately, her offspring turned out awful and she became the patron saint of disappointing children.

We love this counter-narrative of the saints just like we love the raw and unrefined memories of our loved ones. Although we spend most of our time focused on appearance and achievements, we cherish the idea that sometimes, it is our most unflattering moments that reveal our true and divinely made selves, and that the worldly standards for righteousness and wholeness do not reveal the fullness of the Kingdom of God after all.

The feast of All Saints is not merely a celebration of the memory of the faithful - and not so faithful - departed. It’s about Luke’s vision of the Kingdom, in which saints aren’t just the beautiful and accomplished, but come in all shapes and sizes and represent every possible expression of the faith. It’s a vision in which having a questionable past, making errors in judgment, and not living up to society’s standards are not cause for exclusion, but inclusion.

It is a pleasure to celebrate All Saints with all of you, because as our treasured memories teach us, truly, each and every one of us was created for the Kingdom of God. And though we often resist it, just as often we are intuitively drawn to the upheaval of the status quo, the glorious fulfillment of the least of these, and sainthood of all people. Amen.