I have heard of your faith in the Lord Jesus and your love toward all the saints, and for this reason I do not cease to give thanks for you as I remember you in my prayers. I pray that the God of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of glory, may give you a spirit of wisdom and revelation as you come to know him, so that, with the eyes of your heart enlightened, you may know what is the hope to which he has called you, what are the riches of his glorious inheritance among the saints, and what is the immeasurable greatness of his power for us who believe, according to the working of his great power. God put this power to work in Christ when he raised him from the dead and seated him at his right hand in the heavenly places, far above all rule and authority and power and dominion, and above every name that is named, not only in this age but also in the age to come. And he has put all things under his feet and has made him the head over all things for the church, which is his body, the fullness of him who fills all in all.

A friend of mine once baptized a man who had no family. His parents had died when he was an infant. He had no brothers, sisters or close relatives. As a child he lived in a series of foster homes and never identified any of them as family.

During his baptismal instruction he began to read Christian history with a passion, searching for his long lost relatives in the faith. Soon he and the pastor spent time together each week talking about his ancestors in the faith. He began to develop a religious family tree.

They remembered Augustine, whose mother Monika led him from his wild playboy world into the world of faith. Augustine came to God kicking and screaming, but soon became one of the most influential thinkers in the history of Christian thought.

They remembered the reformers, John Wesley, John Calvin, and Martin Luther. I don’t know all the people they discussed, but I do know that three of his favorites were women. The first was Teresa, a contemporary of Martin Luther, who lived in the early 1500s in the Spanish city of Avila, a woman who combined a zeal for reform with a delightful sense of humor. Phyllis McGinley in a wonderful book called, "Saint Watching," describes Teresa as "irrepressible as a volcano, unsinkable as balsa wood, never fitted for a moment into a pious straitjacket." She once prayed, "From silly devotions and sour-faced saints, good Lord deliver us!" Reportedly, she once told God, "If I had my way, that woman would not be the Mother Superior." Immediately God replied, "If I had my way, she wouldn't either."

Once when Teresa attempted to cross a stream she slipped off her donkey and fell head long into the water. When she came up sputtering God said to her, "I chastise those I love." Teresa immediately replied, "No wonder you have so few friends when you treat the ones you have so badly."

Teresa helped rid Spain of a flabby Christianity by forming a group called the Barefoot Carmelites. Even her reform took place with a smile. Her best friend was a monk, a man we remember as St. John of the Cross. John was not quite five foot tall, and the butt of Teresa’s humor. Once when John and another friar came to assist Teresa in a project she quipped, "We ought to succeed. After all, with John here we now have a monk and a half."

I also know that the two men read about two nurses, Clara Barton, an angel of mercy to wounded soldiers during the American Civil War, and Florence Nightingale, an extraordinary nurse whose personal charm drew disciples from afar. Both were women of deep faith.

Through his studies, through his reading, the man realized that no Christian is ever without a family. His family was varied and very large.

And so is ours. When we gather to worship we are, in the words of the book of Hebrews, surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses.

Last week a man approached me after the service and said, "I’m a visitor and I’m a bit confused. I read where you are going to have an All Saints service next week. I thought the Lutheran church didn’t have saints."

I told him we don’t have the kind of saints that our brothers and sisters in the Catholic Church do, the extraordinary kind of saint that needs a committee to decide whether they have performed a miracle and led a near perfect life. I told him we have the kind of saints that fill our churches. Our saints are people who are a bit messed up. They are people who muddle through life making lots of mistakes, and who are in desperate need of second chances, but who rely on the grace and love of Jesus to get them through each day. Our pews are full of those kinds of saints. Perhaps that is why we call this day All Saints.

We also have developed a noble tradition here on All Saints. It is the tradition of singing our hope. For several years our choir has performed a requiem on this day. There are lots of ways of rehearsing hope, but music is one of the best.

I thought of that this week when I read about a recently released documentary called, "The Singing Revolution." It is the story of the Estonian people, people whose country is located on the Baltic Sea. Their small country has a long history of being subjugated by foreign powers. They also have a deep love of choral music.

After World War II the Russians took control, dominating the society. They even took control of the country’s beloved Estonian Song Festival, a festival that dated back to 1869, and replaced Estonia’s favorite choral music with Soviet propaganda films.

One year composer Gustav Ernesaks found a way to insert a beloved national patriotic song, "Land of My Fathers, Land That I Love," into the festival’s program. It was actually a protest against the Communists. On stage was a large orchestra and nearly four hundred voices. When the choir began to sing thousands of people in the audience leapt to their feet and sang it with all the gusto they could muster. Can you imagine 10,000 voices singing a rousing song? Immediately it became the unofficial Estonian national anthem.

But in Estonia Communism was not defeated by charismatic national leaders. It was defeated by music. Music kept alive the spark of hope that a totalitarian government could not extinguish.

At Bethel we sing for similar reasons. We sing our hope. We sing our faith. We sing our joy, a joy that takes place even in the face of death. Today we sing knowing that our God can turn death into life, and sinners into saints. What a glorious reason to gather to celebrate on the Festival of All Saints. Amen. © 2007