The Book of Ephesians may have been written around the year 62 of the Christian Era by the apostle Paul while he was in a Roman prison. Or it may have been written a few decades after Paul’s death, between 80 and 100 of the Christian Era, by a disciple of Paul – someone who was familiar with Paul’s theology and who carried on the flavour and tone of Paul’s faith.
Either way, the letter is an encouragement to Christian hope in difficult times. The letter writer reminds believers of the power of God at work in the world to redeem all life – a power they saw first in Jesus, and that now is at work in them, the saints who are raised up by God as the body of Christ now at work in the world for good.
Oh,
when the saints go marching in
Oh,
when the saints go marching in
Oh
Lord, I want to be in that number
When
the saints go marching in
Oh yes, I do. Want to be in that number. And my guess is you do, too.
Regardless of how we imagine when and where
the saints will go marching in – whether it’s into a heavenly realm after life
and death here on Earth, or into experiences, encounters and appearings of the
kingdom of God here on Earth; whether it’s moments of grace and days of transformed
ways of living just around the corner, or deep, abiding inner awareness of
peace in the presence and love of God; oh Lord, whenever and wherever the
saints go marching in, I want to be in that number.
And what is that number? We don’t know. And we don’t need to know.
All we need to know is that it’s not the
number one. There is a singularity to
our souls and each of us must deal with and ultimately meet our Maker alone,
but no saint ever becomes one just by himself or herself, and certainly never
for him- or herself. Never just for the
sake of the salvation and well-being of good old Number One.
To be “in that number” means you are one of
many, one of a multitude. One who has
lived their life with, and for the sake of others. Not perfectly, of course. Not always the way you wish you could or
think you should. Not even all the time.
Because here’s the thing, I think, about
being “the saints.” There are some among
us in any age and any culture who seem to be perfect embodiments of sainthood –
of fully mature humanity under God, who just seem to be, and be always a
particular kind of saintly being that becomes a model for the rest of us to
aspire to, and be inspired or guided by.
And then there are the rest of us. The ones who the apostle Paul gives thanks
for, and prays for, and praises God for in so many of his letters – the ones he
calls simply “all the saints,” by which he means all those drawn into the
community of faith, who are opened in some way to the working of God in the
world to heal and redeem it, and who in their own stuttering, humanly weak and
imperfect ways make a difference for good and for God in the lives of others –
channels and vessels of a grace and a love greater than their own.
I know this myself. I know my weakness and imperfection, things
about me that are rude and unredeemed, the kind of spiritual practice and
character that I long for and the ways it still eludes me. In many ways, being a saint is for me more
aspiration than achievement.
And at the same time, I believe and trust
the words of gratitude I’ve received at times for a word that was offered, an
act of kindness that made a difference, a conversation about things that matter
that opened up new life or hope for someone else, a time of just being present
to someone else that was healing and redeeming.
All of which tells me sainthood is not
something we carry with us like a possession or an achievement or an identity, like
a halo that’s always there, but that it’s something more momentary and
circumstantial even that we get to participate in and be part of, in encounters,
in connections, in conversation, in times and opportunities of inter-action and
presence and support – as long as what we bring to these moments and times is a
measure of openness in them to the gracious and loving presence of God with us
and with the other, in us and in the other just waiting to be called forth.
Because you’ve found this, too, in your own
lives – that sometimes when you take on someone else’s sorrow, when you are
present to someone in a deep and honest way, when you spontaneously sacrifice
yourself or give something you have – no matter how big or small, for someone
else’s good, when you venture a step beyond your comfort zone in responding to
some call or opportunity to be of service, you become an active part of something
bigger than yourself, there’s a flow of something ultimately good into and
through your life, and through you into the life of the other and the life of
the world regardless of who you are, and how weak or uncertain you may be.
Sainthood is maybe not a state of being –
of being “saintly.” Sainthood maybe is more
a matter of moments upon moments of openness to God and to the readiness of God
to use our weak and imperfect offerings – when we offer them, to some good and
holy end.
Thirty years ago Brian Wren wrote a hymn
called, “All Saints.” And I’ll give him
the last word.
All
saints?
How
can it be? Can it be me,
holy
and good, walking with God?
How
can we say we’re all saints?
O
that we could!
All
saints!
Crucified
love sings from above;
what
will it do, making us new,
naming
and claiming us “all saints,”
‘til
it comes true.
Some
saints
touch
the divine and as they shine –
candles
at night, holy and bright,
gladden
the spirits of all saints,
giving
us light.
All
saints
stumble
and fall. God loving all,
knowing
our shame, longs to reclaim;
standing
or falling we’re all saints.
Treasure
the name!
Come,
saints,
crowds
who have gone beckon us on,
hindrances
shed, joy in our tread,
one
in the Spirit with all saints,
looking
ahead.
Amen.
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