Little Is Much

A sermon for All Saints’ Sunday
November 2, 2025, at St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Hot Springs, AR

Readings: Daniel 7:1-3,15-18; Psalm 149; Ephesians 1:11-23; Luke 6:20-31

There once were two brothers. Both wanted to be saints. Both wanted to be good men. They were raised in a good house, given a good foundation. They had learned that little hymn about wanting to be a saint, and meeting saints at school, or in lanes, or at sea, in church, or in trains, or in shoppes, or at tea. The first brother was especially resolved. He would tell his family, his friends, his church, that he wanted to be a spiritual superhero. That’s what he called it. And he looked for opportunities to be a spiritual superhero his entire life. He had a little drawing of St. Michael on his truck visor; it had the inscription, “God, make me your greatest warrior.” He wanted to do something big. After college he joined the Peace Corps. Surely that was his opportunity! But he got bored of the paper work; it wasn’t for him. He joined up with a missionary. Surely that would do it. But all the missionary had him do was drive him around, help make the dinner, and answer phone calls. Too small. The brother returned to the States and took a job at a nonprofit. He worked his way up to president. And he was proud–finally this was his opportunity to make a big impact! But he spent more time planning fundraisers, or looking at spreadsheets, or running meetings. He resigned; it wasn’t big enough, wasn’t “saintly” enough, wasn’t warrior-like enough. Finally he died. His headstone just had his name, his birth date, his death day, like any other headstone. But it could have said something like, “He just never got his chance to prove he was a saint.” 

Today is All Saints’ Sunday in the life of the Church. We are invited to recall those capital-S Saints–the big names like Luke, Peter, Mary. We give thanks for their special witness that gave all, for their lives and their deaths that testify to Jesus Christ. But we don’t stop at their witness. Like the brothers we are invited to pray that God would make us Saints, too. That through our lives and deaths, the gospel of Jesus Christ would be proclaimed in the world. The brothers were right about that: Sainthood is not reserved for some special elite in the past; it is for today, even for us. 

And my, we need Saints today. In the middle of the brokenness of the world; in the middle of the despair that can capture our souls; in the middle of the dreariness of sin and the dominance of death and the drumbeat of war; in the middle of our very real world we need very real Saints. We need people whose lives and deaths show us a different Kingdom–the Kingdom of God. We need people whose lives and deaths remind us that we are in the world, but not of the world, for we belong to God. We need people whose lives and deaths tell us that our first and ultimate loyalty is to Jesus Christ our Lord, and that nothing can come between us and our God. We need Saints. Like those brothers, can we embrace that call to be Saints? 

But it is curious today, in all of that talk of Sainthood, that we hear Jesus preaching the Beatitudes. It is curious because while Sainthood seems to be such an extraordinary thing, the Beatitudes seem rather, well, ordinary. It is curious because while Sainthood seems like such a big and far off thing, the Beatitudes seem rather small and close at hand. 

“Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God.” That’s it? Having nothing in this world means we inherit the Kingdom of God–is that really all? 

“Blessed are you who are hungry, for you will be filled.” That’s all? Being hungry comes with the promise of being filled by God’s own hand?

“Blessed are you who weep, for you will laugh.” Surely just weeping and laughing don’t make a Saints–it’s all so ordinary. 

“Blessed are you when people hate you, and when they exclude you, revile you, and defame you on account of the Son of Man. Rejoice in that day and leap for joy, for surely your reward is great in heaven; for that is what their ancestors did to the prophets.” Really? That’s it? 

These Beatitudes from Luke’s Sermon on the Plain are ordinary things, rooted in the everyday. But they are things I would rather shun. I would rather be rich and full and laughing and loved. But Jesus says that these very things from which I flee, the small things, lead me on the blessed path, the path to being a Saint, the path of showing the world what God is like. Why? Because in all of these things–these small ordinary things–we are depending on the grace of God to get us through. In these small things, we are clinging to God’s unchanging hand. In these small ways, we are holding on to the One who claims us as his own, and we are proclaiming that He has the last word. These are little things. But little is much when God is in it. 

When we embrace this blessed life that Jesus preaches about today–the life of small and ordinary emptiness so that we can hold on to the fullness and richness and blessedness of God–when we embrace this life, the Holy Spirit begins to work in us, sanctifying us, purifying us, and making us windows into the Kingdom of God. And it turns out, when we give ourselves fully over to this way, to this grace, when folks look at us, they will see a slice of heaven. They will see a little bit of what God is like. That’s what it means to be a Saint. 

You heard about the first brother. But what about the other? He wanted to be a Saint, too. But he didn’t want to be a spiritual superhero. He didn’t care if people remembered him. He wanted a quiet life. He just tried to be faithful in little things. Above his fireplace mantle was a quote from St. Augustine of Hippo. It read, “My life shall be a real life, wholly full of God.” He prayed those words everyday on the way out of the door. 

He worked at a car rental place. Early in his career he picked up a simple habit. He would pray silently for all of his customers as they walked out the door: “Lord, bless and keep them today. Amen.” That’s all–it’s the little things, the small things, the ordinary things that no one else notices. But little is much when God is in it. 

He was a widower. His wife had died from breast cancer. He was devastated. He started a small group at church. They did a Bible study; they talked about their grief; they prayed together; they cried; they laughed. That’s all–a little, small, ordinary thing. But little is much when God is in it. 

He had two children. It’s hard being a single dad. He went to PTA meetings, coached youth baseball. He taught them to pray–over their meals, at bedtime, throughout their day in little ways that didn’t draw attention but were sincere. When they were teenagers they didn’t want to go to church or pray anymore. He didn’t give them the choice. They would roll their eyes but tolerate it. And they knew–they always knew–he loved them. That’s all–a little, small, ordinary thing that every parent deals with. But little is much when God is in it. 

He didn’t have a ton of money, but he and his children stocked the little free pantry at their church every week. They would bring a few boxes of mac-n-cheese, some canned veggies and beans. They did it every Saturday morning. And after they stocked the food, he would lead his teenagers in a little prayer. “God bless those who will use this food. Amen.” That’s all–a little, small, ordinary thing. But little is much when God is in it. 

Like his brother, he died, too, as we all must. He was buried beside his wife. The headstone simply had his name, his birth date, his death day, like any other headstone. But it could have said, “Here lies a Saint of God. Well done, good and faithful servant.”