A sermon for All Saints’
November 1, 2026, at St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Hot Springs, AR
Readings: Revelation 7:9-17; Psalm 34:1-10, 22; 1 John 3:1-3; Matthew 5:1-12
I have seen them before. Sometimes it’s a fleeting vision. I have seen the saints of God walking around in the world. And I’ve noticed as I’ve watched them. They are more like broken mirrors than anything else. There are cracks in their lives; there are breaks in the line; there are blessed imperfections. But something about their lives reflects the beauty of God–just a sliver of the beauty of God. Theirs is not a perfect reflection, where looking on them we can see all of God. But there are flashes of light refracting, bits of the beatific vision, glimpses into heaven itself. And because I know them, I can believe in God a little more. I can follow Jesus a little more. I can live in the Spirit a little more.
Today is All Saints’ Day. It’s a day for remembering all of those capital-S Saints of God: Mary, John, Luke, Paul, Peter, Phoebe. You know the ones. These are the ones of old, the storied ones who were thrown to the lions, killed in the arena, hurled from pinnacles, crucified. These are the ones we see around the heavenly throne in our reading from the Revelation to St. John, robed in white with palm branches in their hands, singing to God. God has taken them to himself, for their lives bore witness to the beauty of heaven in the brokenness of the world. Their lives bore witness to the truth of God’s goodness, even amidst the evil of the world. Their lives bore witness to the grace and love and mercy of God that are without measure, even in the world where sorrow and crying seem to be the only guarantee. These are the Saints.
Through them we see evidence for God. Through them we see the beauty of God. But it is like a broken mirror, for they are humans like us. Peter testifies to the truth as he is crucified upside down, but he has an anger problem, too. Paul testifies to the truth in writing, in preaching, and as he is beheaded, but he is arrogant. John testifies to the truth in exile with his visions, but he cannot manage conflict in his congregations. Even Mary. She witnesses to God’s goodness in her very body, as he bears the Light from Light into the world. But she asks her question. She has her doubt. “How can this be?” she asks. Early in Jesus’s ministry she is worried he has gone out of his mind–that’s how the gospel of Mark puts it. What a witness they give. But it is a human, a flawed, a broken witness, like a broken mirror reflecting, imperfectly, the light-filled splendor of heaven.
But that’s how it’s supposed to be. Blessed are the poor in spirit, the meek, those who mourn, those who hunger and thirst, who yearn for peace, who are persecuted. Blessed are the broken ones who believe anyway, who like broken mirrors, reflect a bit of God’s glory and majesty into the world. They do not do so perfectly, but they seek to be faithful. Blessed are those ones. And we call them Saints.
A favorite poet of mine, George Herbert, says it this way:
Lord, how can man preach thy eternal word?
He is a brittle crazy glass;
Yet in thy temple thou dost him afford
This glorious and transcendent place,
To be a window, through thy grace.
Our brittleness, our brokenness, our imperfections can nonetheless be a window into the life of God. We are poor in spirit, but the kingdom of heaven is ours. We are mourning, but we show what the comfort of the Holy Spirit looks like. We are meek, but we have been promised a new heaven and a new earth. We are hungry, and God fills us with his righteousness. We are merciful, as much as we can be, and we receive God’s mercy. We are pure in heart, as much as we can be, and we see God at work among us, within us, around us. We yearn for peace, and God calls us his children. We are persecuted, and God grants us the joy of knowing we belong to him.
The Saints are a brittle, crazy glass; a broken, imperfect mirror. But look. Through them you can see the goodness and grace and love of God.
And this is God’s will for you. The Saints are not superheroes. They are broken, normal people, just like us, who choose to surrender to God’s grace. They choose to allow God’s will to say who they are. They choose, time and time again, to allow their brokenness to be imperfect windows into heaven.
We have been called to this life through the waters of baptism. We have been claimed as God’s children. And God does not call us to be perfect; God calls us to trust in him. God does not call us to have everything figured out; God calls us to believe in him. God does not call us to save the world; God calls us to point to the Crucified and Risen One who has already conquered.
Like Lucille. She lived alone. She was in her nineties when she died. She was 4 foot 10 inches; she shuffled about and couldn’t stand up straight. And you would see her by the courthouse, selling peanut brittle. People bought the peanut brittle in droves. You would hear them say, “the peanut brittle lady is here–hurry, don’t wait!” They bought it not because it was particularly good. They bought it for the brief moment they spent with her, this broken-down woman. They would bend down to see her smile. They would get in close to hear her words. She would tell them, “thank you.” She would call them by name and say, “I have been praying for you.” She would tell them, even if she had just met them, “I love you,” and she meant it. And all those people, the clerks in their offices, the jailers with their guns, the judges in their robes, they would walk away weeping. And I with them. Because for a brief moment, they had seen God.
