Sermon at The Church of the Holy Apostles, New York City,
November 1, 2002, All Saints' Day
by The Reverend Dr. William Heisley

Lection: Revelation 7:2-4, 9-1,
Matthew 5:1-12

It was a dark and mysterious church.
It was haunted by
the silent sounds of
Maurice Durufle.
The flowing,
soaring sounds of his music
seemed to have seeped into
the pores of
the ancient stones,
only to catch those of us who
sat in silence
unawares.
It was last week,
a regular weekday evening at
the church of St. Etienne du Mont
in Paris.
One by one
people of every description gathered.
In silence
they gathered.
When the choir was maybe half full,
and the appointed hour had arrived,
a nun stood and
sang a plaintive entrance song
in a plaintive voice,
a simple and
clear voice.
Still,
people gathered.
We prayed into the silence,
led by a priest.
As I returned to my seat
from Holy Communion
I saw that there were
people standing around
the perimeter of the choir,
every seat having been taken.
The saints had continued to gather -
in silence,
and in reverent awe
they had gathered,
on this unspecial day.
It was as if they could not be stopped.
Drawn as if by an unseen,
unknown power,
they continued to arrive -
in silence.
Then I knew.
The bread that evening,
the Body of Christ,
had tasted of eternity
in a way that was
new to me.
Sweet.
Comforting.
It was bread that tasted
like the future.
People knew
they could taste the future in that place,
at that time.
We gathered that evening
as we gather
this
evening (today),
people who know about life.
People who need nothing more than
to gather -
who
desperately
need to gather -
and to taste the
sweet bread of eternity.
We gather like those who gather
in the Revelation to St. John the Divine.
They stand in awe,
vested in their
blood washed
white garments,
vested in salvation.
They cry as if with one voice,
one plaintive,
clear voice,
a voice which floats over
time and space:
"Salvation belongs to our God
who sits upon the throne,
and to the Lamb!"
But we stand in
less clarity
than they.
We stand here
as those who are in need,
those who have deep longings,
profound questions,
urgent desires for
wholeness and
satisfaction and
joy and
peace.
Maybe peace is the key.
We stand as a
people among peoples
who cry out
for peace in our lives,
in our world.
We hear the voices of
those who praise
across time,
across space,
the voices of those
we call saints:
"Amen!
Blessing and
glory and
wisdom and
thanksgiving and
honor and
power and
might
be to our God
for ever and ever!
Amen."
The saints stand and
sing with the powerful voice
of J. S. Bach.
The saints stand and
pray with the brilliant words
of Thomas Cranmer.
The saints across time
continually remind themselves
that they are the baptized.
They are those who are
washed in the blood of the Lamb.
The saints get wet repeatedly.
But still,
we don't understand.
"Who are these,
clothed in white robes,
and whence
have they come?"
The question is ours.
We recognize in our hearts,
we feel in our minds,
we know in our bodies,
that all is not well.
All is not,
cannot be well
with our lives.
There is too much pain,
too much sorrow.
So how can we
become like these who
stand and
sing and
praise and
live in eternity
with only joy,
with only peace?
"Who are these,
and how can we join them?"
"These are they,"
the answer comes,
"who have come out of
the great tribulation."
These are the saints.
Ordeal,
sin,
brokenness,
shattered vision,
forgotten, lost dreams,
hopelessness,
these things
characterize our lives.
How can we join those who sing?
Can our humble song,
sung in this place
be held up against the
song of the saints of God?
Martin Luther spoke often
of German angst.
It is the idea which sits in
the depth of our stomachs,
in the hearts of our minds,
that all is not
and cannot ever
be well.
Angst.
We live with a
sense of angst.
Our angst,
our ordeal,
our tribulation,
is that we think
we might never join
them.
Our music sung here,
our prayers offered in
whispers and shouts,
our lives lived
the best way we know how,
won't be good enough and
we won't join them.
But there is this:
"These are they
who have come out of the great tribulation."
They have come
through it and
out of it.
"They have washed their robes
and made them white
in the blood of the Lamb."
And here we are
standing in silence
as a plaintive call is
sung into our lives.
The call comes forth that
has been given from this place
for 158 years of
power and glory.
The call comes forth that
has been heard from this place
by the poor,
the hungry,
those in any need
on a daily basis
for each of the 20 years of
the Soup Kitchen's ministry.
Here we are,
those who go
through the great tribulation,
gathering in silence and
seeking eternity.
Here we are,
washed in the blood of the Lamb,
cleansed forever at
the font of salvation,
carried into the future
by the streams of living water
which will never,
can never
end.
Here
we stand before the
throne of God and we
are sheltered by
God's presence.
We stand, and
there is no hunger.
Our hearts,
longing for peace,
are satisfied
before the throne of the Lamb.
Here there is no thirst,
only the finest wine
for all who will drink.
Here there is no scorching heat,
only the brilliant
light of eternal hope,
the light which
puts to shame
the darkness of our tribulations.
Here
we stand at
the throne of the Lamb.
He cares for us as
a shepherd saves the lives of his sheep
by guiding them to
springs of water
which bring life eternal.
And our tears,
our ordeal,
our tribulation,
all is wiped away from our eyes,
from the eyes of our immortal souls.
We gather in the
silence of the power of eternity
in the heart of the city.
Around us is despair and
in us
is hope.
Around us is fear and
in us
is confidence.
Around us is the certainty that
all is doomed.
And standing before us,
reverberating from the walls of this nave,
leaving a lingering,
sweet taste
on our tongues,
is this absolute reality.
We are they
who are robed in white.
We are they who
stand before the eternal throne.
We are they who sing and
our songs of silence
become the songs
of the spheres.
Here,
at this altar,
saints of all times and all places
are united.
And the ordeal is over.
         
Amen. 

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