A Sermon for All Saints' Day
The Rev. Richard Bormes

Ecclesiasticus 44:1-10, 13-14
Revelation 7: 2-4, 9-17
Matthew 5: 1-12

Two years ago this week I was returning from my vacation in, of all places, the South of France. This vacation was one of the great adventures of my life. I had gone to the town from where my great-grandfather had come. I had gone there to see it, to see what it was like, to learn more about the roots of our family which began in southern France before my great grandfather came to a small town in western Minnesota.

The name of the town in France is our family name: Bormes. The way we pronounce our name is Anglicized, however. In France our name is pronounced “Borm”. Bormes is a picture-postcard town just a few miles south of San Tropez on the French Riviera. What a challenge it seemed to me to get there! What must it have been like for my great grandfather to get here? From Nice, where I landed, I had to take a bus, a train, and another bus to get to Bormes. I was alone, and I don’t speak a word of French. In San Tropez, I desperately went from one person to another asking 12 or 15 people if the train stopped at Cannes, and couldn’t find anyone who even understood my question. So, I got on the train, and, I got to Bormes, and I got back. While it’s hard to explain why, it was important for me to do that. Exploring those roots has given me a new sense of, not only who I am, but how those who came before me paid the price for me and my family to live the life we now live.

I was overwhelmed with the beauty of Bormes. I can remember standing on a hill overlooking the azure blue water of the Mediterranean and thinking, “How could my great-grandfather leave this for Beardsley, Minnesota?” The answer to that question has helped me understand how ordinary lives are sacred, and good, and holy. And how ordinary people are the Saints of God.

My great-grandfather was a French Jew born before the second half of the 19th century. He was an educated man who simply couldn’t understand or tolerate the prejudice and discrimination of Jews that was prevalent in France. He wasn’t willing to accept it or live with it, nor did he want his children and grand-children live with it. And so, he risked all that he had, and came to America, to Beardsley Minnesota, because he just couldn’t accept some people being looked down on by other people, and he had heard that this was not true in America. Of course, we still live with that sin, that great sin of setting ourselves as the standard, the God-like ones, and then calling all who are different from us as “the others”.

Of course, this isn’t an unusual story. Most of our forbearers had similar kinds of stories. My great-grandfather lived an ordinary sort of life in America. He became a Christian, married a Christian, raised a family, worked hard, and died young. Having visited Bormes, and learned more of his story, I now think that this great-grandfather of mine is a Saint of God.

It makes me think that we’ve done an awful thing with sainthood in the church. We’ve moved it as far from ourselves, as far as we can from ordinary people doing ordinary things, living ordinary lives. We’ve turned saints into marble statues and people in Bible story pictures who stood or knelt in pious positions with their hands folded in front of their chests, with serene looks on their faces. One look, and you know that they never made any mistakes and never had any fun.

When you think about it we’ve really done an awful thing with religion with the church. We’ve tried as hard as we can, I think, to turn the church into a place filled with those imitation saints. I think we’ve tried as hard as we can to make the church a place of acting pious and looking good, a place of denying our mistakes and failures, a place of denying fun. I think we’ve made the church a place of denying our own humanity -- or at least seeing real humanity as less holy, less good than those pictures of pious saints of old. I surely don’t think that’s the kind of church Jesus intended us to be.

Maybe that’s why in the Gospel today, Jesus said:

You who value human life so much that you are unashamed of your tears, you are Saints of God. You who work for justice for other people, you are Saints of God. You who simply help one another, you are Saints of God. You who do not create walls between people, you are Saints of God.

Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the earth.

“Will one of you volunteer to tell us about your ministry.” I asked. No one responded. “Please,” I pleaded, “It won’t be so bad. Just tell us about something you’ve done to help another person, to support another person.” They all looked at their shoes. “Won’t anyone do it? Help me out, will you, Margaret?” I said to one of their older members. “I need your help.”

So, Margaret got up slowly. She came and stood next to me, sort of bent over, stooped. She began by saying very softly that she didn’t have much to say. Her husband had died in a car accident when she was 29 years old, leaving her with three small children. She was now 78. She had worked hard as legal secretary to raise and educate her children. Hadn’t had time to do much else. Some parts of their raising had turned out pretty good. Some, not so good. She was sure that everyone knew that her son was in prison on a drug charge. “That’s about it,” Margaret said more bent over than when she started.

“That’s not it at all,” spoke out another older woman in the congregation. “You’ve been on the Altar Guild more than 35 years.” “And you’ve been secretary to the Vestry since before I came here,” said a man in the front row.

A middle-aged woman stood up. “Margaret”, she said, “You showed me what it was like for a woman to have a career and a family when not many women were doing that. You encouraged me to graduate from college.” I thought Margaret was standing a little straighter. “Margaret,” said a young woman holding a baby, you’re always the first one to offer help when anyone needs it.” “And you make the best darn burnt sugar cake in the world,” said an old man near the back of the room.

“Do you remember,” said a bright young woman, “when I was about to have my second baby and my own mother got sick and couldn’t come to help? You took my 3 year old for 2 weeks! I don’t know what we would have done without you.” Tears were streaming down Margaret’s cheeks. She was standing straight.

Do you think that’s why Jesus said, “Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.”? Ordinary people living ordinary lives: the Saints of God. We are the Saints of God. So let’s all make a promise this All Saints’ Sunday. Let’s all promise this: Let’s all promise that not one more person will ever again have to wait 78 years to hear it.

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