A sermon for the First Sunday of Advent, November 27, 2016.  The lectionary readings are Isaiah 2:1-5, Psalm 122, Romans 13:11-14, and Matthew 24:36-44.

Listen to the sermon HERE.

There’s a wonderful exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum on Jerusalem, exploring the diversity and wonders of the Holy City from the year 1,000 to 1,400.  One of the first objects in the exhibition is a map of the Holy Land by an English monk who had never even visited.  But it’s a map of the imagination as much as it is a map of the geography, and on his map, he associates each of the famous cities with an object or landmark associated with it.  There’s Jerusalem with the Dome of the Rock, the Aqsa Mosque, and the Tomb of Jesus.  The port of Acre is there, as is the City of Tyre.  And then, along with the word for Armenia is a funny-shaped boat—an ark, actually.  That represents Noah’s Ark, since people believed that the ark had come to rest on Mt. Ararat, in what was then Armenia.

I love that a map from the mid-1200’s shows the prominence of Noah.  In the Hebrew Scriptures, in the Christian Scriptures, and even in the Russell Crowe movie a couple of years ago, Noah has been a persistent symbol of faith, patience, and trust in God.

In today’s Gospel Jesus reminds the people who are listening to him about Noah. The people in Jesus’ day must have known the stories of Noah from Genesis, how God became disgusted with the mess of humanity and decided to do away with everybody—everybody except for Noah and Noah’s family. Noah was saved because he paid attention to God, because he was listening for God’s voice, and probably because there was also in Noah the propensity to take care of others—not just his family, but even the creatures of the earth, the things that creep and crawl, that climb and claw.

I doubt that many people in Jesus’ day really thought much about whether Noah was an actual person, or whether he literally built and ark and filled it with animals. But I bet a lot of people, then as now, could understand a little bit of Noah as someone who gets a sense of what he should do to be faithful to God. Once this sense is gotten, preparations are made, things are put into place, and then it’s time simply to wait for God to act, to move, to make things happen, to point to the next step. I bet a lot of us have been at that place—we may not have been building an ark, but we’ve begun something that involved God (at least at the beginning). And then there’s a time of waiting, and wondering. For Noah, it meant wondering whether the rains would really come. Would there really be floods? Would his preparation and faithfulness really pay off? And then what would life be like after all the drama, when the waters are dried up and the animals are set free?

Jesus points to this time in-between, after one has felt God’s presence at the beginning, but before one has begun to feel God’s presence moving into the next step. It is a scary place and a vulnerable place. Jesus knows that whether we’re talking about Noah or us, or perhaps even himself, it’s difficult to wait, to watch and to listen for God.

How good, then that we have such a season as Advent, when the Church invites us to practice these spiritual disciplines of waiting, watching and listening. Advent helps us live with the in-between. The Church remembers and retells the story of the coming of a Messiah, the one who was born in the manger, Jesus of Nazareth. But the other aspect of our waiting and watching has to do with the Second and Final coming of Jesus, as is hinted in the prophetic scriptures and especially in the Revelation to John.

The liturgy helps us to recall the first coming of Christ, and our prayers help us to stretch forward for the second coming, but there is also a third way in which Jesus invites us to spend this season. That third way has to do with our living in the kingdom of God, not as it began, nor as it culminates, but right now, as it continues to unfold.

Throughout his earthly ministry, Jesus spoke about this kingdom, this commonwealth, this holy realm and way of God’s presence among us. “You are not far from the kingdom of God.” “The kingdom of God is very near you,” he says. And finally, in Luke’s Gospel, Jesus says, “The kingdom of God is not coming with signs to be observed; nor will they say, “Lo, here it is!’ or ‘There!’ for behold, the kingdom of God is in the midst of you!” Jesus invited apostles, disciples, strangers, friends and enemies, to see the kingdom of God that was already around them. And that’s his invitation to us.

In today’s Gospel Jesus cautions that we should be ready, but it’s not for most of us to go up on a hill and wait for God to come. In describing how we are to wait, Jesus describes some in the field (from which one is taken to be with God.) Others are grinding meal or making bread, and again, one is taken to be with God. We could continue the list—one will be teaching, while one is taken away. Another will be in a meeting, one at a store, another watching the children, and another working outside. In short, since we do not know when or how or where, it is for us to do the work God has appointed for us to do, and to carry on with faith, with love and with charity.

Saint Paul says in today’s reading that it is time for us to wake from sleep, and Jesus invites us to live in readiness for God’s next move. Live wakefully, with eyes and hearts open.

The season of Advent is not about escape or retreat from reality—it is about allowing God’s increasing light to shine upon us and from within us. The Collect of the Day captures the prayer of the season, really, that “we may cast away the works of darkness” and put on the armor of Christ’s eternal light. May we walk with faith in the light of Christ.

In the name of the Father and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.

 

A sermon for the Last Sunday after Pentecost, Christ the King.  The lectionary readings are Jeremiah 23:1-6 , Psalm 46, Colossians 1:11-20, and Luke 23:33-43. 

Listen to the sermon HERE.

Today is Christ the King Sunday and we acknowledge this in the scriptures, the prayers, and the music.  It is a kind of New Year’s Eve celebration, in that next week marks the beginning of a new “church year” with the First Sunday of Advent. Next week there is an Advent wreath that helps us welcome increasing light and there’s bluish purple in the church— a color of hope, the color of the sky as the sun first appears, and the color often associated with the Blessed Virgin Mary.  In Advent, we will be invited to slow down a bit, to breathe deeply, and to begin to think about what it means that God has come into the world in the flesh. But today is Christ the King.

Today is about the full expression of God’s power and presence in the world, right now and right here.  Given all that’s going on in our world, and in our country, it’s a good time for us to ask ourselves:  who is our leader?  Where do we look for guidance, for authority, and for wisdom?

While our scriptures may not give us easy answers, they do shape our questions and point us toward truth.

In our first reading from Jeremiah, God criticizes both the secular and the religious leaders.   They’ve ALL failed.  They have led the people astray, and so God will allow people to be scattered and wander in all direction.  But eventually, God will raise up a Shepherd King, one who gathers up all those who have been scattered. The shepherd king protects and guards. He is one who “shall reign as king and deal wisely,” in justice and righteousness.  In the coming weeks of Advent, we will hear the voice of God’s people build as they long for the coming of this Shepherd King who saves through love.

In our second reading, the Letter to the Colossians, Paul tells of how we have been rescued from darkness and the power of sin.  He speaks of movement, and displacement, as though we’ve been picked up out of a bad place and dropped into a good one: “We have been ‘transferred’ into the kingdom of God’s beloved Son.” And this is a kingdom of peace, peace that transcends even the blood of the cross.  And Paul writes powerfully and poetically of our savior:

… is before all things, and in him all things hold together. He is the head of the body, the church; he is the beginning, the firstborn from the dead, so that he might come to have first place in everything. For in him all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell, and through him God was pleased to reconcile to himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven, by making peace through the blood of his cross.

Paul equates this long-for and hoped-for king with Jesus.  Though if you think about the life of Jesus, he’s no ordinary king.  A king born to an unmarried poor woman.  A king who grows up in the outskirts.  A king whose consorts are fishermen, tax collectors, prostitutes and foreigners.  And then, we’re talking about a king who reigns not from a throne, or a castle, or a high place of honor—but from a cross.

In today’s Gospel, one of the criminals gets a sense that Jesus is a kind of king and so, he asks to be included in the coming kingdom.  How we perceive the kingdom of God will directly affect how we live out our lives in faith.

The Church over time has understood the kingdom of God in different ways. At some points, it has understood the kingdom of God as a goal for the here-and-now. The idea of Christendom, a civilization ruled by Christian kings, following Christian laws and fighting for Christian ideals allowed for and encouraged the crusades. It has allowed for the persecution of Jews and Muslims and anyone perceived not to fit into the prevailing understanding of what it means to be “Christian.”

There are, of course, still those who would have this nation be an overtly Christian one, with so-called Christian laws on the books, just like people in other places advocate for another religion’s laws to rule the day. But whenever people begin to try to create the kingdom of God in time, before long, the kingdom of God often seems to look a lot like us.  It becomes a reflection of our own values and beliefs, and often the uglier side of those believes. However, the words of Jesus are clear: “My kingdom is not from this world.”
Others in the history of the Church have taken Jesus at his word but understood his kingdom as only having to do with heaven, far, far away. Therefore, (these people would suggest) those who hunger and thirst for righteousness in this world simply need to wait.  They’ll get their justice in the next life. And yet, if we believe that the kingdom of God only exists in heaven, we’re left with little or no responsibility for the earth where we live.

But there is another view. Instead of the kingdom absolutely now or the kingdom way away in heaven, Christ calls us into a more unpredictable place, to live between the “already” and the “not-yet.” Wherever there are signs of justice and hope and faith, there is a breaking-in of the kingdom. But it’s partial, not yet fully realized.

The season of Advent will give us opportunity to explore this further as we look at what it means for Christ to have come into the world as a child, but also for us to look forward to his coming again in glory at the end of times.

The kingdom Jesus speaks of is, in some sense, Christ himself. As he reveals himself, the kingdom unfolds. The kingdom of God spreads out as we receive Christ and come to know and love him and continue to embody his kingdom-goals in our lives. As Saint John realizes from the Revelation, “God has made us (with Christ in us) to be a kingdom.”

In some ways, it is a kingdom “not of the world.” It is a kingdom of reversals. The Virgin Mary sings of this kingdom when she says, “He has scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts. He has put down the mighty from their thrones, and exalted those of low degree. He has filled the hungry with good things; and the rich He has sent empty away.” To live with Christ as King is to live with an awareness of this reversal.

His is also a kingdom of outcasts. When we read the Gospels, we encounter a wild array of people who come to hear Jesus, who follow him, and who make him their Lord. Some are prostitutes, some are tax collectors, some widows, some soldiers; some are very rich, some are very poor, but they are unlikely to meet except in the presence of Christ. To live with Christ as King is to live in continual welcome of the outcast, of those who have nowhere else to go.

And finally, his is a kingdom of possibilities. To live with Christ as King is to live in expectation, to live in hope, and to live in faith. It is a kingdom of second chances, and third chances and fourth and fifth and sixth chances.

When I think of the feast of Christ the King and try to get my head around an image of the Kingdom of God, I remember especially one Christ the King Sunday when I was a seminarian at a church in Philadelphia.  I had stopped into a Burger King on the way into town to get coffee, and just as I was leaving, I noticed the paper crowns on the counter and thought the kids at church might have fun with them on that Sunday, as they talked about kings and queens, and what royalty might mean to God.  I left the crows with the Sunday school teacher and went on with the things I had to do that morning.

Later, we were in the main worship service, and it was the custom of this church for the children to parade up the aisle along with the offerings of money and the offerings of bread and wine for Communion.  As they began to appear, we all noticed they were wearing their crowns—sort of.  The crowns looked really different.  It turns out that two kids had gotten into a fight, and both crowns were torn up, so they had been patched with construction paper. A couple of new kids showed up and there weren’t enough crowns, so other kids cut theirs in half, extend the all four with paper, and made new crowns.  One little girl had added glitter to hers and another child found feathers somewhere.  It was a crazy, wonderful sight—but really illustrated beautifully a vision of the kingdom of God.

At our baptism, we’re given a pristine, perfect crown to grow into. But along the way, we drop it, step on it, it gets stolen, we loan it out, on and on… you get the idea.  I think that by the time we get to heaven, we show up a little like those kids at my old church:  crowns askew, broken but mended, shattered but made whole again.  And then, just like the entrance of a room full of kids, we, too are received fully into God’s presence: royals, all!

In addition to Christ the King, today is the day when we are invited to write down our pledge for the coming year.  What part is God calling us to play in this part of God’s unfolding kingdom?  Maybe you play your part with prayer, or with your presence, or with your gifts of money, or leadership, or hospitality, or sharing the love of Christ.  There’s room for everyone and there’s room for everyone’s gifts.  But this is no time to be shy, or stingy, or fearful, or cautious.  Our living into the lavishness of God’s love begins now, and so we should be lavish with God in our response.

As we grow into the Kingdom of God, let us give thanks for Christ the King, our lord, brother, and friend.  In his name, with the Father and the Holy Ghost, Amen.

 

A sermon for the Twenty-Sixth Sunday after Pentecost, November 13, 2016.  The lectionary readings are Malachi 4:1-2a, Psalm 98, 2 Thessalonians 3:6-13, and Luke 21:5-19.

Listen to the sermon HERE.

In the late 1980s band REM had a hit song entitled, “It’s the End of the World as We Know It.”  It’s a song that’s been running in my head this week.  The words start out,

That’s great! It starts with an earthquake, …
Eye of a hurricane, listen to yourself churn.
World serves its own needs, dummy, serve your own needs…
In a government for hire and a combat site….
Team by team reporters baffled, trumped, tethered, cropped.
Look at that low playing! Fine, then.
Uh oh, overflow, population, common group
But it’ll do. Save yourself, serve yourself.
World serves its own needs, listen to your heart bleed,
Dummy, with the rapture and the rev-‘rent and the right, right.
You vitriolic, patriotic, slam, fight, bright light
Feeling pretty psyched….
It’s the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine.

The song continues in a kind of delirious, disconnected rehearsal of baffling things—people and institutions and nature, all colliding.  Though the song debuted in 1987, it had a huge resurgence at the turn of the Millennium in 2000, and again in 2012, when the so-called Mayan Apocalypse was expected. I’m guessing that, this week, with so much taking so many by surprise and so many questions about the future—I’m not the only one humming, “It’s the end of the world as we know it…”

This sense of the world ending is (of course) not new and not particular to us—even when it feels like it because of a personal disaster, a local disaster, or a national disaster.  “The End” has happened again and again throughout history.
In scripture, sometimes the warning about “end times” comes from God—through prophets, through symbols, and through Christ.  In other places, begin to sense that they are living in the last days when there’s some kind of calamity like a famine or drought; or an invasion or a war; in times of rapid cultural change, and when new leaders who are unknown or untrusted come to power.

In today’s Gospel Jesus speaks IN such a time, and OF such a time. He makes it specific when he says that even there in Jerusalem, the centerpiece of Israel’s worship, the symbol of God’s presence among his people—the temple, Jesus says, is going to disappear. That day will come, he says “when not one stone will be left upon another; [and] all will be thrown down.”

The disciples hear this and they become alarmed—whether they think Jesus is going to storm the temple and help bring it down, or whether some calamity is on its way, this is serious stuff.  The disciples then ask him, “When?  When will this be?” And, how will we know when it will be about to happen?

Jesus sees their anxiety, and tries to equip them for what’s ahead.  He warns them about there will be those false and phony leaders who will come along and take advantage of the fear and uncertainty of what feel like “final days.”  Some will exploit this sense calamity, and will do what they can to harness the fear. Jesus cautions, “Some will say, ‘the time is near.’” Others will say “wars and insurrections are coming.” But through it all, Jesus says, “Don’t be afraid. Do not be terrified,” because certain things will happen along the way.
In classic language of the end times, language that might have been from Isaiah or Daniel or Enoch or John the Baptist, or John the Divine, Jesus says, “Nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom… famines, earthquakes, plagues…” And then Jesus gets personal.  To those who follow, those who put simple faith in the Way of Jesus and seek to love in the face of all, get ready for rough times.  Jesus warns that even the religious leaders will question them, perhaps punish them, and may even persecute them.

Even so, Jesus says.  Perhaps ESPECIALLY so, Jesus counsels to remain calm. Don’t even plan beforehand what you might say. Trust in God and trust in Jesus. “Not a hair of your head will perish.” Now, some might question this, because soon after Jesus saying this, Stephen is persecuted, John is killed, and many, many others will die for their faith. But Jesus is talking about something way beyond this world.  The things and people and institutions of this world come and go… but those who follow the Christly way of love and sacrifice will have eternal life.

And so, what does this Gospel say to us? Most of us have not had to risk being persecuted for our faith. Instead, much of our culture regards Christian faith as superstition or a psychological crutch.  Christians are more likely to be pitied than feared.  Attending an Episcopal Church is seen as a nice, if oddly old-fashioned cultural affectation.

Unfortunately, for some who attend church, perhaps that is an accurate characterization. But for others of us, our faith holds within it the same power it had for those early disciples. There is something about the presence of Jesus in our lives—this Jesus who was born, lived a life like ours, was crucified, and raised from the dead—this Jesus still lives through us and gives us the strength, the courage and the tenacity to live in with faith for final days—whatever shape that “finality” may take, whether (in the words of one preacher, Fred Craddock) “we go to Christ or Christ comes to us.”
All week, I’ve had the R.E.M. song going through my head, but I’ve also had a prayer going through my head and on my lips.  Almost like a mantra, I’ve been saying the Serenity Prayer over and over.

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
The courage to change the things I can,
And the wisdom to know the difference.

Over and over again, I’ve said it.  This little prayer can fool you with its simplicity, but make no mistake: it has the power to save lives and change history.  The Serenity Prayer was written by Reinhold Niebuhr, the American pastor, theologian, and philosopher who taught at Union Seminary across the street from Columbia University.  Niebuhr’s blend of passion for Christ and commitment to justice and ethics explains why Martin Luther King, Jr. was inspired by Niebuhr and even quoted him in his Letter from Birmingham Jail. It’s interesting to notice what King says, exactly.  He writes

“It is an historical fact that privileged groups seldom give up their privileges voluntarily. Individuals may see the moral light and voluntarily give up their unjust posture; but, as Reinhold Niebuhr has reminded us, groups tend to be more immoral than individuals.”

Niebuhr spent time as a pastor in Detroit in the 1920s as that city experienced a wave of new immigrants—African Americans, Jews, and Catholics, among them.  One reaction took the form of the Ku Klux Klan and the Black Legion.  In 1925, when the KKK publicly supported candidates, Niebuhr spoke out against them and the complicity of the politicians, calling the KKK, “one of the worst specific social phenomena which the religious pride of a people has ever developed.”  Niebuhr spoke, preached, and wrote about pacifism and the use of “just war,” he confronted poverty and racism, class and unfairness.  And so, keep all this in mind when you hear or pray that “simple” little prayer for serenity.

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
The courage to change the things I can,
And the wisdom to know the difference.

Though the prayer may be called “The Serenity Prayer,” notice that it’s not asking God to grant a calm, passive, do-nothing attitude.  It’s more of a prayer of discernment, a prayer for right action.

As I’ve prayed the Serenity Prayer this week, I realize again and again my powerlessness over people who vote differently from me, over the media, over government officials, and especially over candidates or leaders-elect.  But, as I’ve read of friends and colleagues who (just this week) have spoken out against prejudice they see, or bullying they witness, or racism they encounter in the form of a joke or side comment—I’m reminded of the many, many things (if I have the courage) I can change.  It’s the wisdom and the courage that I need.  And the faith, that Jesus promises.

At the end of today’s Gospel there is an important word. Jesus promises, “By your endurance you will gain your souls.” By enduring—that is, simply living out our faith—getting up in the morning, saying our prayers (when we remember), loving our those around us as best we can, and going through the activities of the day with as much faith and trust in Jesus Christ as possible. This is our preparation. This is our practice. This is how we become prepared for whatever may come.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen.

After the election, my thoughts turn to Alisdair MacIntyre:

[F]or some time now we too have reached a turning point. What matters at this stage is the construction of local forms of community within which civility and the intellectual and moral life can be sustained through the new dark ages which are already upon us. And if the tradition of the virtues was able to survive the horrors of the last dark ages, we are not entirely without grounds for hope. This time however the barbarians are not waiting beyond the frontiers; they have already been governing us for quite some time. And it is our lack of consciousness of this that constitutes part of our predicament. We are waiting not for Godot, but for another—doubtless very different—St. Benedict.  (After Virtue: A Study in Moral Theory, 2nd ed. (Notre Dame, Ind.: University of Notre Dame Press, 1984), 286.)

A sermon for All Saints’ Sunday, November 6, 2016.  The lectionary readings are Daniel 7:1-3,15-18, Psalm 149, Ephesians 1:11-23, and Luke 6:20-31.

Listen to the sermon HERE.

There’s a story about Austin Farrer, who as chaplain at Keble College went every morning to celebrate the Holy Eucharist. He was devoted, but his friends sometimes wondered why he bothered. “Doesn’t it get lonely in there, with just one or two students, and them, half asleep?” Dr. Farrer replied, “Quite to the contrary. What with all of the apostles, prophets, saints, martyrs, angels and archangels—well, it’s a wonder there’s any room for us at all.”

I sometimes think of that on weekdays for Morning Prayer. While there may only appear to be several of us, I can almost see Miss Serena Rhinelander here, along with Rev. Paul, and Rev. Oler, and so many more.  There’s Frances, and Lillian, and Dick, and many more—praying along side us, nodding their heads at familiar passages of scripture.

We stumble into what Austin Farrer understood: that he was surrounded by the communion of saints. He knew that he wasn’t alone. He knew that he had help.

Talking about help from the saints can be tricky, even in an Episcopal Church. Our own tradition is mixed regarding saints. We name churches St. Mary’s, St. Botolph’s, St. James’, or even All Saints’—but then, sometimes we’re not really sure what we should do with these saints. Do we put them in stained-glass windows and keep them two-dimensional? Do we think of the saints as lucky charms, good for the naming of a child or the excuse of dessert on a saint’s day? Or are the saints simply a religious affectation, the romantic indulgence of an Anglophile, or the superstition of Catholic grandmothers?

The question, then is, “Do we pray to them, for them, with them, or perhaps in spite of them?”

We can look to the New Testament for some help, as we notice that writers use the word “saint” somewhat loosely. In many places all the faithful are referred to as saints. Paul addresses his Letter to the Romans, “To all God’s beloved in Rome, who are called to be saints.” In helping the Corinthian church sort out its squabbles, Paul suggests that the aggrieved parties not go to secular courts, but go “before the saints,” the local gathering of Christians. In Revelation, John shows us various pictures of the saints in light, ordinary believers—some who have died for their faith, others who have died natural deaths—but ordinary believers made extraordinary by the life, death and resurrection of Jesus Christ.

One thing for sure is that saints are marked people. They are marked by God with the word, Sanctus, or Holy. Some teach and lead, moving us closer to God. Some antagonize and agitate, all for the glory of God. Some offer mercy and show justice for the glory of God. And some really do exude a kind of holiness. They live transparent lives through which one sees the love of Christ. Saints are marked people.

But we too are marked. We are sealed by the Holy Spirit at baptism and marked as Christ’s own forever. We carry the mark of holiness and while the best of us might reveal a bit of the holy here and there, for the most part Sanctus is a name and a way that we are growing into.

In Revelation, John the Divine has a vision of what heaven must look like when people have fully grown into their sainthood.

. . . [A] great multitude which no one could number, from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and tongues, standing before the throne and before the Lamb, clothed in white robes, with palm branches in their hands, and crying out with a loud voice, “Salvation belongs to our God who sits upon the throne, and to the Lamb!”

Revelation shows us the future but it also helps us understand the past. Those everyday saints who struggled to be faithful in this world, who prayed to God and prayed for each other have been raised to new life into heaven. There they do what they did in this life—they show forth God’s love, they sing God’s praises, and they pray. They pray for one another and they pray for us.

I know that when my grandmother was alive, she prayed for me. I know that my Sunday school teachers prayed for me. Friends and perhaps those I didn’t even know prayed for me. Many of them have died. But my faith tells me that they have been raised to new life in Christ. They are with God and they are changed, but they are still praying for me and for all the world to be consumed in God’s love. Like love itself, love that “bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things,” prayer, too, never ends. And so the saints, the great ones, the ordinary ones, and those who are still improving—they pray for us.

The saints surround us and help us and pray for us, and that’s a good thing. It’s a good thing for us to have help especially for Gospels like today’s. The Sermon on the Mount is a seemingly impossible invitation to holiness. The Beatitudes, that lovely listing of “blessed be’s” sets the Christian standard so high, it feels unattainable.

But we have help. We have help in those who have gone before us who wrestled with these words of Jesus. Some didn’t quite meet the mark. Others came to embody the beatitudes. They became so closely identified with the blessings, that they themselves became blessings in the lives of others.

The Beatitudes point us in the direction of holiness. We’re (very few of us) there yet, but we’re on the way. The saints remind us to stay on track, and they help to show us the way.

As the great children’s hymn reminds us

They lived not only in ages past;
there are hundreds of thousands still.
The world is bright with the joyous saints
who love to do Jesus’ will.

You can meet them in school, or in lanes, or at sea,
in church, or in trains or in shops, or at tea,
for the saints of God are just folk like me,
and I mean to be one too.

May the saints inspire us. When we are tired, may they strengthen us. When we are lazy, may they shame us. When we are alone, may they surround us. And may they fill our lives with increasing love until the day that we join them before God in everlasting praise.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.