PREACHER: Pastor Carrie Smith
"Unbind him, and let him go!"
Grace and peace to you from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.
Last November, as I stood here before you as your new senior pastor, I was remembering a beloved member of my former church. Iva had died just a few days before All Saints 2011 at the age of 98.5. On that All Saints Sunday, I was mourning not only that she had died, but also that I would not be the one to preach at her funeral. The truth is, I was mourning the fact that I was no longer the pastor of a community I loved. It was a gift for me, on that All Saints Day, to remember Iva’s life by sharing her with you in a Sunday sermon.
This year, I’m no longer the “new pastor” at Bethany—someone else has taken that role, thanks be to God! And in the year I have been your pastor, together we have walked through grief we could not have imagined twelve months ago. When I interviewed for this call last summer, I asked Gene Bengston how many funerals the church averaged per year. “Six” said Gene. And that was the truth—he promises me that he checked that figure. Bethany is demographically a young congregation, and funerals are generally few and far between.
But since January of 2012, in defiance of statistics and breaking our hearts, the Bethany community has already suffered the loss of seventeen beloved members.
We’ve mourned the tragic deaths of not one, but two, teenagers; the father of 3 young children; a star teacher who was a lover of music and the arts; our church librarian; a nurse who spent her career caring for others; a young mother of unwavering faith who fought cancer for 14 years; and a host of other saints who lived long, full lives, but who nevertheless leave gaping holes in our hearts.
When I stood before you on this day last year, all of these saints were still among us. One year ago, we couldn’t have imagined the loss and the grief that was in store.
On days like this, it can seem that All Saints is nothing more than a day for us to join in the chorus with Mary, the sister of Lazarus, who cried out, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died!”
This morning, as we light candles, read names, and ring bells, it can seem that all we are doing is remembering how Jesus didn’t save our loved ones. Jesus didn’t answer our prayers. Jesus didn’t show up when we needed him!
And if that’s what All Saints is about, then these candles feel very empty. If today is about death, and failure, and promises not kept, then these rituals are just that—rituals, traditions, and empty actions, designed to make us feel better, but holding no meaning beyond comforting our broken hearts.
And it that’s the case, then I think All Saints Day is no different from Halloween.
Halloween has its rituals, which we know well: On October 31st we all dress up, go outside, parade around, light candles in pumpkins…and hope to get something good to eat.
On All Saints Sunday, we also have our rituals: we dress up, go to church—and then parade around, light candles, and hope to get something good to eat!
But if this day is only about death and rituals to commemorate the dead, then the end result will likely be just like Halloween: we’ll all go home with a stomachache.
In other words, there must be something more. This All Saints Day, set apart by Christians since the earliest days of the church, must hold something else for us besides being a commemoration of death and the dead.
We need only look to the Gospel of John to see what that “something else” is.
In John chapter 11, the story begins where we began today, with Mary crying out to Jesus, “Lord! You forgot us! You weren’t here! I was counting on you, and you didn’t show up. And now my beloved brother is dead. It’s been four days, and he’s already beginning to smell.”
But then Jesus, greatly disturbed, arrives at the tomb and yells, “Lazarus, come out!” And out walks the man, still wrapped in his burial cloths. Jesus tells the others to “unbind him and let him go.”
Unbind him, and let him go.
First, it’s important to acknowledge that if I were grieving the loss of my child, or my husband, or my mother, or my dear friend today, I might not like this Jesus story at all. I might ask the question the Jews were brave enough to say aloud: “Could not he who opened the eyes of the blind man have kept this man from dying?” And could not this Jesus, who raised Lazarus after four days, also raise my loved one? If he could do it after four days for Lazarus, why not after 4 months, or 4 years—or 40 years?
But then, seen in this way, we might be putting ourselves in the wrong place in the story.
For on this All Saints Day, it seems to me we hear the story of the raising of Lazarus not to be reassured that Jesus can, indeed, if he chooses, raise the dead to life—but so that we can be reminded that Jesus does indeed, in all times and places, call each of us out of our tombs, unbind us, and set us free to live.
Sometimes, when I look out at you, my beloved congregation, I don’t see people, but a rather…a herd of turtles. Much of the time we are all just large turtles, going through life carrying not shells or our houses, but our tombs on our backs. Fear seems to be the most popular model: we go through life weighed down and closed off by fear of death, fear of something bad happening to loved ones, fear of foreclosure, fear of disappointing someone. Fear keeps us from the life we were created to live, and the stone blocking the entrance is most often too large for us to move on our own.
Other times I think we walk through life like a character in the best Christmas movie of all time, “A Christmas Story.” I hope you know the movie I’m talking about—if not, never fear, because it’s November, and I imagine we’ll start seeing it running on a continuous loop on cable in a week or so!
There is a scene where the little brother, Randy, is being dressed by his mother to walk to school in the snow. He is first stuffed into a snowsuit, and then a hat, boots and gloves, and then a scarf is wrapped completely around his head. Finally, in desperation, he cries out: “I can’t put my arms down!”
Sisters and brothers, consider how you, like Randy, are bound up, wrapped tight, even immobilized by your fear, your grief, and your pain. You, like Randy, can’t put your arms down, much less raise them to praise God, reach out to serve others, or to wrap around the ones you love. And you, like Randy—and Lazarus—long to be set free.
But on this day, we come together to remember how a merciful God, through Christ Jesus our Lord, has called out, unbound, and raised all the saints to new life. All. The. Saints. Yes, Jesus has called our departed loved ones by name, and we give thanks that Robert, Richard, Jean, Lox, Eileen, Wayne, Jennifer, Jody, Paul, Robert, Sheldon, Connor, Ruth, Richard, Wendy, Grayce, and Frank have found their permanent places at the table, and are even now sitting at the heavenly banquet that has no end. They have been unbound and set free from every sin, every indignity of cancer or old age, every struggle of mental illness, every injury from terrible accidents, and every imperfection of this life on earth. Amen! Thanks be to God!
But we also rejoice on this day that Jesus, our brother, who knows our pain and suffers with us, stands at the door of our tombs and calls, “Come out!” You, who are grieving—come out and live! You, who doubt that you are loved—come out! You, who live in the darkness of depression—come out! You, who deny your true selves—come out!
You don’t have to wait to die to be a saint.
For God, who loves all of creation, desires that we would have life, and have it abundantly. God, who is slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love, has set us free from the bonds of sin and death through the cross of Jesus Christ.
Sisters and brothers, fellow saints, Jesus stands at the door of your tomb today, and invites you to be free. He has looked sin, pain, grief, and fear in the face and said, “Unbind her, and let her go!”
By all your saints still striving, for all your saints at rest, your holy name, O Jesus, forevermore be blessed! Amen!
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