All Saints Sunday, Year B | Revelation 21:1-6a
St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church
November 3, 2024
the Rev. Jonathan Hanneman
To watch the full service, please visit this page.
“And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, ‘See, the home of God is among mortals.’” – Revelation 21:3[1]
This morning we’re going to talk less about our texts and more about our service itself. That may seem an odd choice on All Saints Day, but I promise that we’ll get there.
Formally, there are three parts to a Eucharistic service at an Episcopal Church: the Liturgy of the Word, the Liturgy of the Font, and the Liturgy of the Table. Each of these sections are equally important and, ideally, each receives equal emphasis.
All Sunday services begin with the Liturgy of the Word, which consists of coming together to praise God, as expressed in our hymns, opening prayers, and the Gloria. After joining our voices as one and beginning to breathe together with and through God’s Spirit, we listen to what God has to say to us. First we hear from deep history, listening for wisdom in the working of God among the descendants of Abraham, who stands as a prototype of faithfulness to God. We respond with a Psalm, joining in the history of prayer and praise to God using ancient words that have been spoken together for thousands of years.
Next we hear from an Epistle, one of the letters that early followers of Jesus shared among their congregations. It’s easy to think of these messages as being theological dictums, laying out the demands of how Christians must all think, but in reality all of the letters from the New Testament are pastoral. Yes, they present theological arguments—discussions based on the authors’ thoughts regarding God, but their purpose is always to provide guidance to a particular group of Christians, essentially sharing family tradition and habits, reminding us of how we, as God’s children, behave both toward one another and toward the communities that surround us.
So think of the more theological sections as the “why’s” of how Christians treat one another and the more instructive sections as how those particular reasonings express themselves in certain cultures. Our job, as Christians living in a far different time and place than those who initially wrote and heard, is to learn how the “why’s” apply to our own, very different culture. Essentially, the Epistles remind us of our family lore and the thinking that was important to our ancestors. Our job then is to figure out how we can demonstrate those commitments and ideas in a lineage consistent both with the past and how those thoughts might express themselves in the world we live in today.
Next we hear from the foundational model of our tradition, our teacher, example, and Savior, Jesus of Nazareth, in whom we experience and recognize the Christ—God’s chosen leader. Much like in an Epistle, we hear his words in order to learn and understand his commitments in the world, but with a Gospel we’re also able to watch his actions, seeing in real life how this consummate example moved through his own time and space. The sermon then attempts to translate the ideals of our tradition into equivalent thoughts and actions we might take to express those realities in our own day.
Our service then continues on with our response to what we’ve heard. Generally this involves recommitting ourselves to God with the Nicene Creed, praying for both those in the Church and those in the world, confessing our own faults and recognizing God’s ongoing forgiveness or support, and then following through on our commitment to God and the Church by ensuring we’ve reconciled with one another.
Ideally, however, after the sermon we enter the Liturgy of the Font, which we commonly call baptism. Baptism is essentially the response to everything we’ve heard and experienced in the Liturgy of the Word. In Baptism, we are formally introduced to this family and commit ourselves to its traditions and ideals.[2]
Baptism has several layers of meaning or imagery to it. One is ritual bathing, a gesture physically representing one’s choice to “wash away” the sins or failings that may have defiled us or made us afraid to approach God’s holiness. The second would be an example or enactment of death and resurrection. Like Jesus, we submit ourselves to the waters of the unknown, submerged into the blackness of the grave. Then, like him, we find ourselves being drawn back into life, breathing God’s Spirit afresh, a renewed person now able both to walk in God’s presence and to be that same presence here on earth. The final image is the end of one world and the rising of a new one. We return to the primordial waters of Chaos, once again joining the Absence from which we all come. Then, suddenly, we’re called from that Absence into God’s own Presence, emerging from Chaos (or the Underworld) into a new way of being as a reforged Creation. Having committed ourselves to God in this way, we join the Church, the community of fellow Christ-followers, in prayer and reconciliation.
Finally we come to the Liturgy of the Table, which we frequently call either Eucharist or communion. This section formally begins with the Offertory, which actually has little to do with passing the plates throughout the congregation. That practice connects in that it’s a convenient time for people to offer individual gifts, but the Offertory itself happens as representatives from the congregation carry forward the bread and wine for communion. Those, God’s gifts of grain and grapes transformed by human ingenuity, are the actual offering that part of the service refers to. That’s why a funeral or wedding bulletin might include an offertory even though we don’t generally collect money at that time.
After the Offertory we move into the Great Thanksgiving, also referred to as communion or the Eucharist, which is a Greek word that simply means “giving thanks.” The priest offers a greeting, and the congregation’s response is what authorizes the priest to continue with the service on the people’s behalf. So if I say, “The Lord be with you,” and no one responds, the service is over. It’s you, as God’s family, who are offering me permission to say the rest of the words as your representative. Communion is inherently collective—one person cannot have “communion” by themselves. So without your authorization, I cannot act. All that’s left would be to send everyone away.
Provided the people do respond, however, we continue with the rest of the service, opening this section with praise to God and a recollection of Jesus’ words and works at the Last Supper, culminating with the breaking of the bread.
Now people sometimes become confused at this point, thinking that Jesus is our sacrifice. Historically, this has caused problems in the Church, and if you’re interested, you can find quite a few volumes of theology discussing the finer points of what exactly is happening. But if you’re paying attention, you’ll notice that our liturgy emphasizes what exactly it is that we’re offering as our “sacrifice,” and that is “praise and thanksgiving.” We aren’t crucifying Jesus again and again throughout the centuries. We’re returning to the actual point of an ancient sacrifice, which, under normal circumstances, was essentially a giant public barbeque.
One person or family, out of gratitude to God for some blessing, would present the priests with a special animal. The priests butchered that animal, gave their god some small prescribed portions of the meat, and then cooked the rest for everyone present—few of whom would have been able to afford regular access to meat. Religious sacrifice wasn’t—and isn’t—focused around the concept of denying oneself or surrendering something valuable to destruction. The point has always been gratitude and celebration, which is exactly what we continue to offer to God. Jesus offered the Lamb—himself—two thousand years ago. God received the appropriate dedication and returned the rest to us to continue to appreciate and enjoy.[3] In return, we continue to offer thanks.
After this, we pray, participate in the “meal,” once again offer our thanks, and then head back into the world.
Our entire service, though, from the ringing of the bells before the Liturgy of the Word through the final dismissal, is actually one, singular event: the End of the World. The bells, like God’s trumpets, call us from our regular lives to gather in God’s presence. We review our experience of life and recall the commitments we’ve made to God as we prepare for Judgment. Judgment arrives, but through Jesus we find ourselves to be God’s own forgiven and beloved children. We then join in the feast that culminates all time and history, the Marriage Supper of the Lamb. Members and witnesses of a new Creation, we emerge back into time and space “to love and serve the Lord.”
This is where we get to the All Saints aspect of what we’re doing. My liturgy professor refused to allow us to use the words “symbol” or “metaphor” in class. He would always emphasize that what we do on a Sunday isn’t simply tradition or a sort of re-enactment of the Lord’s Table or a imagined arrival of God’s Kingdom. We are, together, enacting all those things. What we do here together is not a sort of child’s game or pretend joining in Holy Mystery. We, along with all who have gone before and all who will come after, are, right now, active participants in the things that we read about.
We gather from among the peoples of the earth, recognizing both in ourselves and those around us our intimate and inherent connection as literal creations and children of God. We praise and worship God. We join in the feast. And we emerge as new beings—as servants (or saints) of God throughout the world. And we do so together, across time and space. When we pray and sing, we breathe the same Spirit that God offered in Creation and once again at Pentecost. When we eat, we join the exact same meal as all those who ever have participated in the past and those who may someday come. We share family stories together and feast together and celebrate together not just with those we see around us but with all God’s servants throughout the ages.
As we actively participate, the Veil grows thin, and we unite—in the present—with both those we love yet no longer see and those we can’t even imagine who will someday take our places. We join together, here and now, not by ascending to a someday sort of heaven but in heaven come down to earth. We gather not just with H.D. and Phil and Anne and Neal and Nancy[4] but with Arlo and Terri and Jon and Don,[5] with Peter and Andrew and Mary and Abraham and Sarah.
We stand and sing and feast not just as individuals sharing a common space and activity but truly united as one, beyond time and space, all gathered with and as All Saints.
“And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, ‘See, the home of God is”—not just was or will be, but is “among mortals.”
[1] All Bible quotations are from the NRSV unless otherwise noted.
[2] In the case of the ancient practice of baptism as a young child, confirmation becomes the point at which we choose that commitment and begin to take on a more “adult” role within the Church.
[3] That metaphor can become really weird and creepy if pushed too far, so be careful how you handle it.
[4] People currently part of our congregation.
[5] Several of our parishioners who died within the past year.