Sunday, November 26, 2023
First Corinthians, Chapter 13
If I speak in the tongues of humans and of angels but do not have love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal. And if I have prophetic powers and understand all mysteries and all knowledge and if I have all faith so as to remove mountains but do not have love, I am nothing. If I give away all my possessions and if I hand over my body so that I may boast but do not have love, I gain nothing.
Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable; it keeps no record of wrongs; it does not rejoice in wrongdoing but rejoices in the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.
Love never ends. But as for prophecies, they will come to an end; as for tongues, they will cease; as for knowledge, it will come to an end. For we know only in part, and we prophesy only in part, but when the complete comes, the partial will come to an end. When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became an adult, I put an end to childish ways. For now we see only a reflection, as in a mirror, but then we will see face to face. Now I know only in part; then I will know fully, even as I have been fully known. And now faith, hope, and love remain, these three, and the greatest of these is love.
1.
My Uncle Allen—whose name and memory I bring to our Feast today—was a great man, and a dear friend, and a pacifist. As a young pastor during World War 2, he kept a folded, hand-written resignation letter in his suit pocket, and made sure to have it close to his heart every Sunday, and every other day, as he went about his ministry in Stamford, Connecticut. He recognized that his commitment to nonviolence—in those days, in that America—was both unorthodox and unpopular. Even in the church. But he insisted on preaching the nonviolent gospel of the nonviolent Christ, as he understood it, and honoring both the words and spirit of the Sermon on the Mount. And he was prepared for his own dismissal, if it came to that. If his message rankled more than it reassured. So he kept the letter close.
To his immense credit, Uncle Allen communicated respect for the significant differences within his congregation. But he felt a deep responsibility to his faith, and to his God, and he persisted, through that war and beyond, in offering to the world the Christ who refused to take up arms, who taught loving resistance to evil, who trusted God’s power and forsook all others. He was measured in his preaching, and not bombastic. He was consistent with his message, and not reactive. And across four decades of ministry, he was beloved by many, a champion of the civil rights movement, and an early visionary in our United Church of Christ. How he loved the UCC!
But what he meant to me was something more personal, more pastoral and even intimate. For when I first met Uncle Allen, he in his 70s and I in my 20s, he took a quick and steadfast interest in me and in my dreams and in my future. And from our first visit forward, he was not just an encouraging presence in my life, and in my ministry, but a curious and prayerful partner in my studies and my training. He prayed for me, and I felt those prayers, counted on them, relied on them in seasons of achievement and failure. He gifted me with my first stole (this one), years before I ever had reason to wear one, and he shared with me his favorite books: poetry, theology, history. He wasn’t actually my uncle, Uncle Allen, not technically—but I came quickly and gratefully to know him that way. He was part of the family I’ve chosen along the way. He lived the last years of his life at Heritage Heights in Concord. And I remember every one of our visits like it was yesterday: his curiosity in conversation, the bright light in his eyes when we sat down to lunch, the extraordinary prayer he’d say over ordinary chicken salad sandwiches.
2.
Just a few months before my ordination to the ministry, not long after his 83rd birthday, Uncle Allen died at home. I had visited with him, at his bedside in Concord, one last time. He had said one last, beautiful, magnificent prayer. He had promised me that love outlasts death. And I’ll always remember that. With tears in my eyes, and his hand in mine, he had promised me. Love outlasts death. And I believed him.
When I got the call weeks later, I was devastated just the same. In a lot of ways his death was the first huge loss of my life. He had lived a great life, a long life; but I had wanted desperately to share my ordination with him, the affirmation of a journey he’d inspired in so many ways. I had wanted so very much for him to preach that day in Boston, for his hands to be among all the others resting on my shoulders in the rite of ordination itself. It was not to be. And I will forever remember the heaviness of that summer’s grief, the piercing sadness I woke with every morning, the sense I had that the world would never be whole again. And you all know what I’m talking about. Every one of us knows. The heaviness of grief. The piercing sadness of loss. That sense that the world will never be whole again. As a pastor, as your pastor, I now know grief itself is a bond we share. It breaks our hearts open, and softens the hard edges of a bewildering existence.
3.
Every time I prepare one of these Feasts, lead one of these All Saints Celebrations, I remember what Uncle Allen meant to me and how he loved and encouraged me, and how excited he was for my future, for my adventures, for my ministry in the church. I bring out an old picture and place it on the table, or I write his name clearly and happily on a small pumpkin. And I watch so many others doing the same—pictures of mentors and teachers, Polaroids of spouses and parents and aunts and uncles, portraits of beautiful children lost too soon and dear friends from long ago. We’ve done it again this morning.
And it hits me, every time, that Uncle Allen was exactly and powerfully and wonderfully right. Love outlasts death. His heart continues to beat generously at this table, and in this sacrament, and upon this planet. His commitment to nonviolence continues to challenge me, and surprise me, and motivate me in my life, in my work, in my broken and beloved world. And so very often, when I question the purpose of what I’m doing, or the wisdom of doing it, or the futility of caring and loving and serving like Jesus—it is my Uncle Allen who shows up in a dream, or in an unbidden prayer, or even in my tears; and it is he who says, Take that next step. Do that next visit. Preach that next sermon. Because love is enough. Love is enough. Love is always enough.
Friends, what we’re doing this morning has deep, deep roots in Christian practice—this awareness of the saints in our presence, this celebration of their participation in our communion. In some traditions, Latin America, for instance, there’s a belief that we can dance with our ancestors around this table, that we can feel their breathing, hear their singing, touch their dreams as we break bread and drink from the shared cup of Christ’s love. I kind of like that way of thinking, that kind of mystical, life transforming, death defying sacramental practice. But of course, in the West, and in the North, we tend to be more sober and cerebral about these things. Just the same, can’t we celebrate that we are not alone in this space today, around this table today, with bread in hand and the promise of Jesus in our hearts? Can’t we proclaim and affirm and dare to believe that love really does outlast death? That we are joined by faith in a community of believers and dreamers and lovers that spans generations, centuries, millennia—going way, way, way back—and stretching far, far, far into the future?
4.
Because that’s what we mean by this Feast of All the Saints. That’s what we mean by bringing out all these pictures today, and writing their names boldly and bravely and gratefully across our hearts today. Love outlasts death. And love weaves us all in communities of faith and kindness that our mere mortality can never, ever, ever undo.
And the important thing is—you don’t have to leave your grief behind to celebrate with us today, and you don’t have to resolve the sadness in your heart to break bread and sense the eternal love in this sacrament today. Faith can bring it all to the table: the hurt and the hope, the sadness and the confidence. If you’ve lost someone precious to you this year, if you’ve experienced a devastating death in your family or your circle or right here at church, that grief is going to be raw. Because you love so deeply. Because you’ve been loved so profoundly. Of course, that grief is raw. And your tears are still fresh, and they will be, and they are (by their own right) sacraments of grace and holiness.
But know this too. Love outlasts death. Freedom transcends mortality and loss. In this place, and around this table, we dare to believe that in some lovely, mysterious and divine way we are together again, we will always be together by God’s grace and design. We are members, one of another; we are sisters, siblings, brothers in spirit; we are the Body of the Risen Christ—whose very resurrection bears us, lifts us, reconciles us and heals us. Through and beyond our death. In and long past our human days. Into the mercy and light and future that only God can imagine. A Feast for All the Saints! All of us!
So as you come to us for communion, this morning, bring with you a name, a memory, or two. This will make today’s communion just a little different from some others. But bring with you a name, a memory, a soul you have loved and lost. Dare to say those names aloud as you stand before the cup, as you greet the servant of Christ who stands there for you. Pause before you eat and drink. Remember, give thanks, for the saints whom you cherish. And then know this. You are not alone. You are not alone. God’s promise of community is always yours and will be yours forever. God’s promise of love brings you once again into a Feast for All Saints, past and present, present and future. Dare to say their names and then drink to your life, and to theirs. In the bold and loving faith, that love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love outlasts death.
Amen and Ashe.
First Corinthians, Chapter 13
Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable; it keeps no record of wrongs; it does not rejoice in wrongdoing but rejoices in the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.
Love never ends. But as for prophecies, they will come to an end; as for tongues, they will cease; as for knowledge, it will come to an end. For we know only in part, and we prophesy only in part, but when the complete comes, the partial will come to an end. When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became an adult, I put an end to childish ways. For now we see only a reflection, as in a mirror, but then we will see face to face. Now I know only in part; then I will know fully, even as I have been fully known. And now faith, hope, and love remain, these three, and the greatest of these is love.
1.
My Uncle Allen—whose name and memory I bring to our Feast today—was a great man, and a dear friend, and a pacifist. As a young pastor during World War 2, he kept a folded, hand-written resignation letter in his suit pocket, and made sure to have it close to his heart every Sunday, and every other day, as he went about his ministry in Stamford, Connecticut. He recognized that his commitment to nonviolence—in those days, in that America—was both unorthodox and unpopular. Even in the church. But he insisted on preaching the nonviolent gospel of the nonviolent Christ, as he understood it, and honoring both the words and spirit of the Sermon on the Mount. And he was prepared for his own dismissal, if it came to that. If his message rankled more than it reassured. So he kept the letter close.
To his immense credit, Uncle Allen communicated respect for the significant differences within his congregation. But he felt a deep responsibility to his faith, and to his God, and he persisted, through that war and beyond, in offering to the world the Christ who refused to take up arms, who taught loving resistance to evil, who trusted God’s power and forsook all others. He was measured in his preaching, and not bombastic. He was consistent with his message, and not reactive. And across four decades of ministry, he was beloved by many, a champion of the civil rights movement, and an early visionary in our United Church of Christ. How he loved the UCC!
But what he meant to me was something more personal, more pastoral and even intimate. For when I first met Uncle Allen, he in his 70s and I in my 20s, he took a quick and steadfast interest in me and in my dreams and in my future. And from our first visit forward, he was not just an encouraging presence in my life, and in my ministry, but a curious and prayerful partner in my studies and my training. He prayed for me, and I felt those prayers, counted on them, relied on them in seasons of achievement and failure. He gifted me with my first stole (this one), years before I ever had reason to wear one, and he shared with me his favorite books: poetry, theology, history. He wasn’t actually my uncle, Uncle Allen, not technically—but I came quickly and gratefully to know him that way. He was part of the family I’ve chosen along the way. He lived the last years of his life at Heritage Heights in Concord. And I remember every one of our visits like it was yesterday: his curiosity in conversation, the bright light in his eyes when we sat down to lunch, the extraordinary prayer he’d say over ordinary chicken salad sandwiches.
2.
Just a few months before my ordination to the ministry, not long after his 83rd birthday, Uncle Allen died at home. I had visited with him, at his bedside in Concord, one last time. He had said one last, beautiful, magnificent prayer. He had promised me that love outlasts death. And I’ll always remember that. With tears in my eyes, and his hand in mine, he had promised me. Love outlasts death. And I believed him.
3.
Every time I prepare one of these Feasts, lead one of these All Saints Celebrations, I remember what Uncle Allen meant to me and how he loved and encouraged me, and how excited he was for my future, for my adventures, for my ministry in the church. I bring out an old picture and place it on the table, or I write his name clearly and happily on a small pumpkin. And I watch so many others doing the same—pictures of mentors and teachers, Polaroids of spouses and parents and aunts and uncles, portraits of beautiful children lost too soon and dear friends from long ago. We’ve done it again this morning.
And it hits me, every time, that Uncle Allen was exactly and powerfully and wonderfully right. Love outlasts death. His heart continues to beat generously at this table, and in this sacrament, and upon this planet. His commitment to nonviolence continues to challenge me, and surprise me, and motivate me in my life, in my work, in my broken and beloved world. And so very often, when I question the purpose of what I’m doing, or the wisdom of doing it, or the futility of caring and loving and serving like Jesus—it is my Uncle Allen who shows up in a dream, or in an unbidden prayer, or even in my tears; and it is he who says, Take that next step. Do that next visit. Preach that next sermon. Because love is enough. Love is enough. Love is always enough.
4.
Because that’s what we mean by this Feast of All the Saints. That’s what we mean by bringing out all these pictures today, and writing their names boldly and bravely and gratefully across our hearts today. Love outlasts death. And love weaves us all in communities of faith and kindness that our mere mortality can never, ever, ever undo.
And the important thing is—you don’t have to leave your grief behind to celebrate with us today, and you don’t have to resolve the sadness in your heart to break bread and sense the eternal love in this sacrament today. Faith can bring it all to the table: the hurt and the hope, the sadness and the confidence. If you’ve lost someone precious to you this year, if you’ve experienced a devastating death in your family or your circle or right here at church, that grief is going to be raw. Because you love so deeply. Because you’ve been loved so profoundly. Of course, that grief is raw. And your tears are still fresh, and they will be, and they are (by their own right) sacraments of grace and holiness.
But know this too. Love outlasts death. Freedom transcends mortality and loss. In this place, and around this table, we dare to believe that in some lovely, mysterious and divine way we are together again, we will always be together by God’s grace and design. We are members, one of another; we are sisters, siblings, brothers in spirit; we are the Body of the Risen Christ—whose very resurrection bears us, lifts us, reconciles us and heals us. Through and beyond our death. In and long past our human days. Into the mercy and light and future that only God can imagine. A Feast for All the Saints! All of us!
So as you come to us for communion, this morning, bring with you a name, a memory, or two. This will make today’s communion just a little different from some others. But bring with you a name, a memory, a soul you have loved and lost. Dare to say those names aloud as you stand before the cup, as you greet the servant of Christ who stands there for you. Pause before you eat and drink. Remember, give thanks, for the saints whom you cherish. And then know this. You are not alone. You are not alone. God’s promise of community is always yours and will be yours forever. God’s promise of love brings you once again into a Feast for All Saints, past and present, present and future. Dare to say their names and then drink to your life, and to theirs. In the bold and loving faith, that love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love outlasts death.
Amen and Ashe.
