Every All Saints Day I think of a book by William Kennedy called Ironweed. Originally rejected by numerous publishers it now makes many lists as one of the best novels of the 20th Century. It's been a long time since I read it back in the 80's actually and I don't remember all of it. But it still haunts me just like the ghosts that haunted Francis Phelan, the main character. It is the story of a homeless man running from the demons of his past, from guilt over tragedy he has caused and seeking forgiveness and reconciliation. The story takes place on Halloween and All Saints Day, as the protagonist moves from facing the ghosts of his past to some version of redemption for himself and reconciliation with his family. His family is ready to receive him with open arms actually, though he is not quite ready at the end of the story to reclaim his old life.
These two days and tomorrow, All Souls Day, make up a trilogy of days, also known as Dia de los Muertos, the Day of the Dead. This time is what I call liminal, a threshold, in between time, in which the line between the physical and spiritual world, between life and death, between the living and the dead is very thin. It is a time to be scared. I actually went to a scary movie yesterday, and got to pass out candy to all sorts of goblins who showed up at my door. I haven't been able to do that for some time. But now that I am housesitting, living in a neighborhood, kids came to my door! We can think of the sacred, the holy, in this way: thin places, thin times, those moments and objects and places where the line between heaven and earth is porous. Imbued with profound and significant meaning. When we remember our dead and bring them back to life for just a moment in our memories.
There is a line in the Revelation passage we just read that I have never noticed before, that struck me in a whole new way this time. The one who was seated on the throne said, "See I make all things new." Also he said, "Write this, for these words are trustworthy and true." Then he said to me, "It is done! I am the Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end."
What struck me is the command to "Write this." He is speaking to John who is receiving this revelation and commanding him to make sure and get this part down. That God makes all things new, and that God is the beginning and the end and that, "It is done."
This is all in the present tense, right now, in an eternal now, as TS Eliot describes it: the intersection of time and the timeless, the still point of the turning world. This moment, this thin place and time in which we are, in our finite, everyday lives, connected to the holy, the eternal, the whole. We can experience this connection to the whole, this shalom, this peace as we pray. Lately I have been praying a prayer of Ignatius called the Suscipe. It ends with "All that I have is yours, do with it as you will. Give to me only your love and grace, that is enough for me." As we let go and give ourselves over, it is as if we are floating on a vast sea with no fear, we find ourselves floating in God in whom we live and move and have our being.
I want to follow that command myself and Write this. But I strain of course to know how to write about this. Much of my writing is filled with worry and anxiety, my journals are full of confession as I wrestle with all sorts of things and I am continually making the journey in my writing from anxiety to peace. Much of my daily morning journaling, much of my prayer life is about calming myself down! This is good stuff, and I do work through lots of stuff that ends up in these sermons eventually. But I also remember that Donavan song I like from Brother Sun Sister Moon, "I seldom see you, seldom hear your tune preoccupied with selfish misery." Then it ends with "I now do see you, I can hear your tune so much in love with all that I survey."
Sometimes what happens in my prayer life and my journalling is that I come to the end of my worrying about something and I am able to let it go and pray that prayer: thy will be done not mine, and your love and grace is enough for me. Then I am awash with a profound silence. I come to the end of words and have nothing else to say and I sit for a time in the silence of a peace that has no words. If all my words are worry then coming to the end of words is a great relief.
But what is left for me to say I wonder? What do I have to write? And that that is when I read this passage again from Revelation. Write this. The praises of God.
Actually what I did do right after reading this passage was read a short story by a young Christian writer who works with Latino immigrants, call "The Vermillion Saint." It was a moving story set in Baja California in 1820. It was about a young boy, a Cochimi Indian raised by a priest. The people gave gifts of pearls to the shrine of the patron saint of the community, the Virgin of Mulege, and the priest talked about how God was turning the people into precious gems for him. But also underlying the story was the loss of traditional culture, and the death by illness of so many of the tribal people. The boy loved to dive for pearls, loved to please the priest, and in the end went too far and stayed too long under the sea in search of pearls. He died and as the fisherman on the shore after his death were going though his catch they found inside the largest oyster, a pink pearl. The priest who loved the boy disappeared into the wilderness in his grief.
I could now give you some kind of interpretation of that story. But that is not my point today. For me it is moving away from all the prose of explanation and interpretation, and trying to figure out – that leads to all that worry and anxiety and so on. To move toward something else. A kind of discernment that begins and end with sitting with the image, the metaphor, the story in the present moment and knowing the connection to the eternal that is fully revealed as you fully enter into the moment, describe the character, plot, setting. As in the old advice for creative writer goes: show don't tell.
The bible is full of these sorts of images, and like any good vision statement they are often put in the present tense. What is the Kingdom of God like? Jesus answers with parables. The passage from the Isaiah answers with more concrete images. A feast of rich food and well aged wine set for all the people of the earth. The shroud cast over all the people will be destroyed and death will be swallowed up. God will wipe away the tears from all faces. Revelation has similar images. A new heaven and and a new earth, the holy city, the new Jerusalem coming down. God will make his home among mortals. The modern biblical version, The Message says it this way, God is moving into the neighborhood. He will wipe away every tear, death will be no more.
I will mention two things to notice about this images. This is for all people, and it is happening on Earth. These metaphors are not about a select few that make it into some other place, but about the hope for all people on earth. This word of God, what is written here, what the bible is full of are very practical down to earth images of alleviating of suffering and peace and justice right here on earth. And this vision steadily moves from the particular story of a particular people to a universal vision and hope for all of God's people.
And it is this wild amazing vision of a new heaven and a new earth–it is this vision of shalom, of health and wholeness and peace on earth for all people, that the saints of God see. It is this that they write about. And it is this that they incarnate in their lives, a lived testimony. It is a story told in the midst of pain and suffering for sure. It seems to be a wild fantasy at times when the obvious truth all around us speaks so clearly of another reality.
But the saints of God are speaking on the other side of that peace that passes understanding. On the other side of that encounter with the Alpha and Omega and for them it is already done.
Jesus tells all those gathered at the death of Lazarus. "I am the resurrection and the life!" "Did I not tell you that if you believed, you would see the glory of God?" Not at some future date, in the end times, at the resurrection of all the dead, but here and now, in this very moment. And Lazarus comes out of the grave, not as some aberration, some anomaly, and exception to the rule, but as a sign of something that is available to each and everyone one of us in one way or another. We all can know the life that comes from death.
Even in the midst of our frail and weak and sinful lives. Even as we like Francis Phelan look for redemption that seems so far away. Even as we struggle like the priest and boy with all the conflicting forces that seem to distort and taint the good news. Nevertheless even in tragedy we can know love. We can find ourselves in that liminal space where the spirits come out and guide us, maybe calling us home like Francis, or maybe calling us back to the wilderness to continue our searching like the priest in that story.
But however we encounter this living God, wherever our journey takes us, we too can find ourselves in that liminal, in between place; we too can experience the peace that comes from putting our whole trust in one who is always; we all can be united with all the peoples of the world who hope for justice. We can like Francis and the Priest be signs to others who are also searching. They like all of us are Saints of God who no matter how dimly have caught a vision of something new and live out that vision, with it written on our bodies and souls for all to read and hear.
Jesus Christ has reconciled all things to himself. He is the Resurrection and Life, and as we pay attention, live in the moment, here and now, show rather than tell, write this with our lives, describe in detail all the very particular beautiful details of our lives, we will see, shining through, the Glory of God.
