Death and Hope [All Saints' Sunday A]
The Rev. Jeremiah Williamson
Revelation 7:9-17
Death and Hope
It's a little closer today. The mystery we call death feels a closer today. All Saints' Sunday, with its heavenly visions from the book of Revelation, its allusions to both burial and Easter, its baptismal waters sprinkling our faces with memories, always teases that veil that hangs between us and those who have already crossed the threshold.
Today, death is in the air; it's on our minds, on our hearts, it's even in the water. Each moment, it pulls us closer. It's pull, steady and unrelenting. In an age of information, in which questions find answers at the stroke of a few keys, the best we can do is speculate, is guess, is live with the mystery. No answers. No knowledge. At least not yet. It lies ahead of us like an abyss – inevitable and unavoidable. This mortal life always ends in death. We are born and so will we die. And we know it.
We know it. It's crazy. We are creatures created with the knowledge of our own mortality. We live knowing that one day life as we know it will end; it's like being born into an existential crisis. Problem-solvers given an unsolvable problem. Life will fade into a mystery beyond our reason or experience. At the very moment the last breath leaves our lungs, we, like our forebears, fall into this abyss – totally and completely out of our control.
And while, death lies forever in front of us, we think about it and we don't. Because there is so much to think about, so much to enjoy, so much to celebrate, so much to struggle with, and so much to mourn. And so, instead, death is weaved in and out of our lives. Usually coming to us in small ways, like the first falling leaf of autumn: a relocation, a career transition, an era ends or an old tradition fades into history. And it hurts, but just a little bit. These little deaths along the way. They don't kill us but they do remind us that change is happening and time steadily marches on.
And then sometimes the reminders are not small at all: a marriage ends, a parent fades into the fog of decline, a loved one dies. The pain feels overwhelming, consuming. And the scar never completely goes away. And we are reminded that we are mortals living in a world in which death is the fate from which nothing living escapes. Nothing lasts forever.
It is hard stuff – life and death stuff. The truth is nobody gets out of here unscathed. No eyes stay dry. Hearts get broken. The death that is coming for us, is coming, and has come, for everyone we love.
So, I don't know about you, but mostly I try not to think about it. Because I don't like pain. And because I don't really know what comes next – and that makes me nervous. And because I have a wife and two boys whom I love – and I can't stand the thought of them being without me and me without them. And so in the dark of the night, I try not to think too much about what lies ahead.
But while I try to hide, Jesus does that thing where he keeps showing up, wearing his fatal wounds – reminders that death is a part of my identity in Christ. I am Christian; I have been baptized into the death of Jesus. I am fed with his broken body. I am nourished by the blood that poured from his crucified form. His death is my death. We were never meant to escape. And today I bring my baby son, to this font, to these waters, to baptize him into the death of my Lord, Jesus. To hand him over to a kind of burial – to drop him into the deep.
And his burial in the baptismal waters will be one of the proudest, most special moments of my life. I will smile for days. Because I believe with all my heart that there is more than death in the water. There is more to life than death. There is resurrection. Isaiah, and Cohen, and Michael, and Kate, and Kamie, and Yan, will be baptized into a promise today. They will be baptized into a new hope. In God's reality death is not the end; there is life.
And it starts right here – in this water. In the water that buries us, we find resurrection life. We fall into the mysterious deep, into the death. But somewhere beneath the surface, God grabs hold of us. And pulls us into new life. As we emerge from the baptismal waters, we breathe the first breath of eternal life. Life conquers death.
The promise is forever. Not even death can tear us from the hands of God. Death happens. Death is inevitable. Death is unavoidable. But death does not have the last word. “All of us go down to the dust; yet even at the grave we make our song: Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.” We make our song because in these waters, in the waters of baptism, God makes a promise that never ends, a promise to never let go.
We face death with a defiant hope that the end is not the end – that somewhere in the abyss is new life, that somewhere in the abyss we will find the hands of God. That promise of new and unending life with God has sustained the Church for centuries – through persecutions, through pain, through schism, through tears and heartbreak, even at the grave.
We remember our dead today because we have hope. We say their names because we believe in the power of life. We bury our brothers and sisters in the waters of baptism because we trust the promise of resurrection.
But there is more to Christian hope than just more life.
When my eldest son, Oscar, gets hurt, or feels pain, or is upset, when he cries, he'll come over to me and say, “Daddy, will you wipe my tears?” And I look into his green eyes, and brush away the little tears streaming down his face. And he then buries his nose in my cheek, rests his head on my shoulder. And everything is alright.
And that is it: that is the hope. We hope for more than just a life beyond death. We hope for more than just the firm grip of a god. We place our hope in a God who loves us – passionately and tenderly – who looks into our eyes and sees the pain and the scars of life lived in the shadow of death, who sees our tears and gently wipes away every one.
Revelation 7:9-17
Death and Hope
It's a little closer today. The mystery we call death feels a closer today. All Saints' Sunday, with its heavenly visions from the book of Revelation, its allusions to both burial and Easter, its baptismal waters sprinkling our faces with memories, always teases that veil that hangs between us and those who have already crossed the threshold.
Today, death is in the air; it's on our minds, on our hearts, it's even in the water. Each moment, it pulls us closer. It's pull, steady and unrelenting. In an age of information, in which questions find answers at the stroke of a few keys, the best we can do is speculate, is guess, is live with the mystery. No answers. No knowledge. At least not yet. It lies ahead of us like an abyss – inevitable and unavoidable. This mortal life always ends in death. We are born and so will we die. And we know it.
We know it. It's crazy. We are creatures created with the knowledge of our own mortality. We live knowing that one day life as we know it will end; it's like being born into an existential crisis. Problem-solvers given an unsolvable problem. Life will fade into a mystery beyond our reason or experience. At the very moment the last breath leaves our lungs, we, like our forebears, fall into this abyss – totally and completely out of our control.
And while, death lies forever in front of us, we think about it and we don't. Because there is so much to think about, so much to enjoy, so much to celebrate, so much to struggle with, and so much to mourn. And so, instead, death is weaved in and out of our lives. Usually coming to us in small ways, like the first falling leaf of autumn: a relocation, a career transition, an era ends or an old tradition fades into history. And it hurts, but just a little bit. These little deaths along the way. They don't kill us but they do remind us that change is happening and time steadily marches on.
And then sometimes the reminders are not small at all: a marriage ends, a parent fades into the fog of decline, a loved one dies. The pain feels overwhelming, consuming. And the scar never completely goes away. And we are reminded that we are mortals living in a world in which death is the fate from which nothing living escapes. Nothing lasts forever.
It is hard stuff – life and death stuff. The truth is nobody gets out of here unscathed. No eyes stay dry. Hearts get broken. The death that is coming for us, is coming, and has come, for everyone we love.
So, I don't know about you, but mostly I try not to think about it. Because I don't like pain. And because I don't really know what comes next – and that makes me nervous. And because I have a wife and two boys whom I love – and I can't stand the thought of them being without me and me without them. And so in the dark of the night, I try not to think too much about what lies ahead.
But while I try to hide, Jesus does that thing where he keeps showing up, wearing his fatal wounds – reminders that death is a part of my identity in Christ. I am Christian; I have been baptized into the death of Jesus. I am fed with his broken body. I am nourished by the blood that poured from his crucified form. His death is my death. We were never meant to escape. And today I bring my baby son, to this font, to these waters, to baptize him into the death of my Lord, Jesus. To hand him over to a kind of burial – to drop him into the deep.
And his burial in the baptismal waters will be one of the proudest, most special moments of my life. I will smile for days. Because I believe with all my heart that there is more than death in the water. There is more to life than death. There is resurrection. Isaiah, and Cohen, and Michael, and Kate, and Kamie, and Yan, will be baptized into a promise today. They will be baptized into a new hope. In God's reality death is not the end; there is life.
And it starts right here – in this water. In the water that buries us, we find resurrection life. We fall into the mysterious deep, into the death. But somewhere beneath the surface, God grabs hold of us. And pulls us into new life. As we emerge from the baptismal waters, we breathe the first breath of eternal life. Life conquers death.
The promise is forever. Not even death can tear us from the hands of God. Death happens. Death is inevitable. Death is unavoidable. But death does not have the last word. “All of us go down to the dust; yet even at the grave we make our song: Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.” We make our song because in these waters, in the waters of baptism, God makes a promise that never ends, a promise to never let go.
We face death with a defiant hope that the end is not the end – that somewhere in the abyss is new life, that somewhere in the abyss we will find the hands of God. That promise of new and unending life with God has sustained the Church for centuries – through persecutions, through pain, through schism, through tears and heartbreak, even at the grave.
We remember our dead today because we have hope. We say their names because we believe in the power of life. We bury our brothers and sisters in the waters of baptism because we trust the promise of resurrection.
But there is more to Christian hope than just more life.
When my eldest son, Oscar, gets hurt, or feels pain, or is upset, when he cries, he'll come over to me and say, “Daddy, will you wipe my tears?” And I look into his green eyes, and brush away the little tears streaming down his face. And he then buries his nose in my cheek, rests his head on my shoulder. And everything is alright.
And that is it: that is the hope. We hope for more than just a life beyond death. We hope for more than just the firm grip of a god. We place our hope in a God who loves us – passionately and tenderly – who looks into our eyes and sees the pain and the scars of life lived in the shadow of death, who sees our tears and gently wipes away every one.
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