All Saint's Day

Rebecca Clancy

Sirach 44:1-5 I Corinthians 15:12-19

When I was a freshman in college many years ago, I enrolled in a class entitled, “The Saints of Christendom.” The class, as its title indicates, undertook to survey the saints of Christendom, to examine the courageous, glorious, and often heartrending faith witnesses that earned them, through canonization, membership in that esteemed company.


We began our survey with St. Paul – one of Christendom’s first saints and without rival its first and foremost theologian. From St. Paul, we moved onto the evangelists, Sts. Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, and saluted the gospels that bear their names. Proceeding along, we met the great martyrs that Roman persecution of the early church produced, Sts. Ignatius and Polycarp – both old and venerable bishops who submitted with eager gladness to martyrdom so that they could make one last witness to their confidence in the resurrection. Then it was onto the mighty theologians of the fourth and fifth centuries, Sts. Athanasius and Augustine. These saints, beset by heretics on every side who threatened to undermine the gospel by undermining the right stature of Jesus Christ, hammered out the doctrine of the Trinity that proclaimed that the Son and Spirit are truly and fully Emanuel: God with us.


This class obviously didn’t want for material. We headed next up to Great Britain to pay homage to Sts. Patrick and Bede. Then we leapt forward to the medieval period, where we encountered the austere piety of St. Francis of Assisi, the scholastic brilliance of St. Thomas of Acquinas, and the mysticism of St. Theresa of Avila.


Time fails to further chronicle all the saints I met that semester. Suffice it to say, as an exuberant daughter of the church, the class was right up my alley. Even those with ice water in their veins and hearts of granite would have been moved and inspired by such a glittering array of saints.


Near the end of the semester, I happened upon Christmas card containing a beautiful portrait of St. Mary. I sent it home to my father with the following message. “Dearest Father! I have come to love the saints. I am converting to Roman Catholicism. Love, Becca. P.S. We can discuss it further when I got home.” Within a few days the phone rang. It was my father. “Am I too late? Have you converted yet?” he asked. I suddenly felt a bit uncomfortable, like I’d been caught in yet another act of impetuosity. “Becca," he entreated, “Protestants can love the saints too.” “But, but,” I remonstrated, with all the sophomoric wisdom of a college freshman, “What about Luther’s attack upon the saints in the 95 Theses that he nailed to cathedral door at Wittenberg?”


My father and I then talked for about an hour. In those days my family had no money or long distance phone calls, so I knew that there was something my father was concerned for me to be clear on. There was some foundation he wanted me to lay. My father was very intent in my youth that I should lay a firm and solid intellectual foundation for my faith.  Whenever I laid a block of sandstone, he challenged me. “One can build a glorious cathedral,” he'd tell me, “but it’s only as stable as its foundation.” Looking back I can see his motivation. He was not so much training me intellectually as he was being a loving and caring father. He wanted me, as I came to maturity, to hear the fullness of the good news our faith proclaims. For what better gift can a parent give a child than that?


My father explained to me in that conversation that Luther had nothing at all against those individuals the institutional church had canonized saints. Luther’s gravamen was against their exploitation by the institutional church, for the institutional church had conscripted them into the “cult of saints,” the import of which was for a donation made to the church in the name of a given saint, that saint, through the superabundance of grace that he or she had earned, would answer prayers or grant time off from purgatory. Those poor, unwitting individuals whom the institutional church had canonized saints had been made into ecclesiastical fund-raisers – brokers of a bogus and venal transaction. It was here that Luther took aim and fired.


Those individuals the institutional church has canonized saints, those rightly acknowledged champions of the faith, Luther declared,  are properly honored for the encouragement, inspiration, and consolation they provide the faithful. But we err if we think that they have earned a superabundance of grace, if we think of them as somehow mediators of God’s grace; we err, in fact, if we think of them as discontinuous in any way from the rest of us, as over against the rest of us. There is no “cult of saints,” Luther declared, but instead a communion of saints comprised of all those who in their lives and their deaths have borne witness to Jesus Christ.


The saints, then, Luther would say, include those we know and have known in our own lives – They are our mothers, fathers, grandparents, children, neighbors, colleagues, and friends. They are also those unknown to us, unknown to most everyone. What Sirach from our scripture reading this morning realized of great mean and women is true too of the saints: “Some of them,” he wrote, “have left behind a name, so that others declare their praise. But of others there is no memory; they have perished as though they had never existed; but these also were godly ones.” The saints then are a vast and variegated, a comprehensive and inclusive company – all those in their lives and deaths who have borne witness to Jesus Christ.


This was the foundation my father wanted his daughter – who was on the verge of creating her own ‘cult of saints’ – to lay. My father, as I said, wanted me to hear the fullness of the good news our faith proclaims, and good news can be built to the heavens on this foundation.


St. Paul in the morning’s epistle reading helps us to hear the fullness of the good news. St. Paul is writing to the church in Corinth, Greece. For reasons that are unclear, the church there had begun in St. Paul’s absence to deny the resurrection of Jesus Christ – just as so many today do. At least ours is an age old problem. It’s a stubborn nuisance, not the impressive new insight of Postmodernity. What St. Paul wrote to the church at Corinth, and what he would say today if only he were here, is that if there was no resurrection, if Jesus Christ was not raised from the dead, then our faith is in vain. Useless. Worth nothing. Because, St. Paul argues, if Jesus Christ was not raised from the dead, then he is dead in his grave, and all who died in him are dead in their graves too. Jesus Christ has changed nothing. The cross is the final world. Death is the final world. And any talk of good news in a world where death has run such ravaging roughshod is preposterous folly. “If in this life only we hope in Christ," St. Paul wrote, “then we are people much to be pitied.”


But of course, St. Paul knew that Jesus Christ has changed everything. St. Paul knew that Jesus Christ was indeed resurrected from the dead. He saw he resurrected Lord himself. Just that glimpse transformed his entire life. St. Paul knew that God raised up his so beloved son, and he raised him up so that all who have died in him will be raised up in him as well.


So hear now the fullness of the good news for All Saint’s Day: All the saints of Christendom – near and far, famous and forgotten – all the saints of Christendom who have been laid in their graves have been resurrected in Jesus Christ. They are in the bosom of God, more fully alive then they have ever been. And by the grace of God in Jesus Christ, we will some day see them again. Thanks be to God. Amen.

Waiting -- Greyfriars Bobby

By Rebecca Clancy • February 21, 2026
Romans 8:25 Waiting on the Lord Many years ago, almost too many to count, I had the opportunity to study the Old Testament at the University of Edinburgh. That means that I had the opportunity to live in Scotland for a time -- so I am here to tell you that there is more to Scottish culture than kilts and bagpipes. There is the Scottish national dish -- Haggis to be precise. In case you’re unfamiliar with Haggis, it is made from the liver, heart, and lungs of a sheep. They pack them into the sheep’s stomach, toss in a little oatmeal, and boil it. I only tried it once. Once was enough. Then there’s the Scottish national flower – the thistle. You see thistles everywhere -- on flags, coats of armor, dishware. They were once even featured on the currency. I would have thought that heather would have been a better contender for the Scottish national flower -- it is everywhere, and it’s much less prickly -- but no one consulted me. Then there’s the Scottish national poet, Bobby Burns. Burns wrote in Old Scottish. I actually picked up quite a bit of Old Scottish during my time in Edinburgh. I pride myself that I can recite much of his poetry by heart. Old Scottish is unintelligible to the modern ear, but the Scots still love him. I used to walk past the Scottish National Gallery of Art on the way to class. You could peer in the front door and see the famed portrait of him. If you’re unacquainted with his work, he wrote, To a Mouse. To a Louse. And, I kid you not, Address to a Haggis. And then, of course, there’s Greyfriars Bobby. I guess you could call Greyfriars Bobby the Scottish national dog. Grayfriers Bobby was a good Scottish breed -- the Skye Terrior. He and his master were inseparable, and after his master’s untimely death, Greyfriars Bobby remained at his master’s graveside -- day in and day out -- for 14 years, until he himself died. Greyfriars Bobby is a testament of devotion and loyalty not just to the Scottish, but to everyone. A statue of Greyfriars Bobby stands in the heart of town. At the funeral of his master, when the casket was being lowered into its final resting place, Greyfriars Bobby gave way to grief. He whined, whimpered and pawed at the grave. Beyond his grief, however, Greyfriars Bobby settled into a daily routine. Every day, when the 1:00 gun was fired, a man by the name of William Dow, who had befriended Grayfriers Bobby, picked him up at the cemetery. They strolled together to a local coffee shop, where Grayfriers Bobby ate his daily meal. After a bit of socializing, they strolled back to the cemetery. Greyfriars Bobby settled back onto his master’s gravesite and watched the sunset. There were attempts to lure Greyfriars Bobby away from his master’s graveside, especially in inclement weather, but they were fruitless. Greyfrirs Bobby refused to leave. Greyfriars Bobby is all the proof I need that dogs go to heaven. Do you really think that he when arrived at the Pearly Gates to be reunited with his master, Peter, who Jesus entrusted with the keys to bound and to loose, turned him away on the grounds that he was a dog? That makes no sense to me. And I’m sure it made no sense to Peter. There’s a lesson we can learn this morning from Greyfriars Bobby. And lest you register skepticism that there’s a lesson we can learn from dogs -- this is the whole point of the book of Ruth – that we can learn lessons in unexpected places. Ruth was a despised foreigner. She was feared. She was suspected. She was accused. Yet there were lessons that the people of Israel learned from her. There are lessons we can learn in unexpected places. At least that’s what the Bible proclaims. And it’s not just Ruth. It’s Ruth, yes. But it’s also the Good Samaritan; it’s the Magi, it's the Roman Centurion, it’s the Canaanite woman, it’s the Ninevites, it’s the Ethiopian eunich, it’s Cornelius. And if the Bible hits you over the head with something that many times, and you still refuse to accept it, you’re just being stubborn. There are lessons we can learn in unexpected places. And the more unexpected the place, the more important the lesson. Sure, there’s a lesson we can learn from Greyfriars Bobby about loyalty and devotion, but there’s also a lesson we can learn from him about waiting for someone. Because if you think about it, we are all waiting for someone. Every one of us. It could be someone who is angry with us – someone who holds a grudge against us, someone who dislikes us, someone from whom we are estranged. It could be someone who is stationed at a far-flung corner of the earth -- someone who is called to serve and sacrifice, someone who has placed himself in harm’s way, someone we may never see again. It could be someone who has fallen prey to an addiction – someone who is facing an uphill battle, someone who has made strides only to fall back, someone whose potential and possibility are under siege. And it could be, like with Greyfriars Bobby, someone that we lost – someone who is irreplaceable, someone who enriched and defined our lives, someone who spared us from loneliness and aimlessness. We are all waiting for someone. And so, we can learn a lesson from Greyfriars Bobby, and it is this. Yes, for a time we grieve their absence. We weep. We mourn. We despair, even. We do all these things…for a time. But then we must get back to the business of living. As Langston Hughes reminds us, Life is for the living. We must get back to the business of living – of caring for others, of speaking the truth, of practicing fairness, of sacrificing for others, of sharing our abundance, of striving for peace – of doing the best we can to prove, day by day, that we have heard the upward call of Jesus Christ. While all the while we are waiting for someone. But here’s the thing. We don’t wait in vain. Because we wait, ultimately, through Jesus Christ -- so we wait for our eternal home in heaven where those for whom we wait are waiting for us. And we will know that joyous reunion that Greyfriars Bobby and his master now know. Amen.

Easter: Mary Weeping

By Rebecca Clancy • February 20, 2026
John 20:1-18 But why? Why did Mary stand weeping outside the tomb? There is, of course, the easy answer. Mary stood weeping outside the tomb because, arriving at the tomb, she discovered that Jesus’ body had been stolen. But that’s the easy answer. Easy answers are, as often as not, simplifications; and simplifications are, as often as not, distortions. So, let us look beyond the easy answer and ask again, Why did Mary stand weeping outside the tomb? Mary was one of those people whom nature had favored. And nature does play favorites -- that much is undeniable. Mary was tenacious, discerning, steadfast, spontaneous, courageous – not to mention brimming with natural affections. Yes, she was one of those people whom nature had favored, but sometimes that is not enough. Mary had a bad start in life, and that tends to temper even nature’s most generous gifts. When Jesus first encountered Mary, she was not of sound spirit. She was afflicted and tormented. But Jesus performed a miracle that recalled her to life. She became his passionate and devoted follower. It would seem that her past was behind her. Like with so many others Jesus encountered, Mary had been lost and now was found. But this only led her to the foot of his cross. She had endured the entire spectacle. Dark men – petty, jealous, and scheming -- closed in on him. They subjected him to a farce of a trial, and this only as a formality. They intended to see him executed from the very beginning. The disciples, for their part, panicked and scattered. What if they were next to be targeted? But not Mary. She abided with him those endless hours as he hung on the cross right through to his death agony. She watched from a distance as Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus deposed his body from the cross and laid it in a tomb. Mary was shattered. She was traumatized. She was devastated. She was forced to endure the unthinkable – the death of one deeply beloved, and to malicious violence. But Mary was not entirely bereft. She still had his body. She could cleanse and anoint it, bestow upon it what loving care she could. And going forward she could become that person – the one who visits the graveside, the one who keeps memories alive, the one whose tears are never exhausted. In time she would achieve a sort of notoriety for it, but it’s the kind of notoriety no one wants. But she arrived at his tomb only to discover that his body had been stolen. So why did Mary stand weeping outside the tomb? She stood weeping outside the tomb because she had hit rock bottom. I have never hit rock bottom. If dread keeps it at bay, dread has done that much for me. But I have seen others who have. It’s a terrible thing to witness, much less to experience. A kind of derangement takes hold. They aren’t recognizable. They aren’t themselves. This is why Mary couldn’t add up two and two. She peered into the tomb and saw two angels robed in white raiment. Why are you weeping? They asked. Now they didn’t ask because they wanted to hear her theory about the graverobbers. This was not the sense of their question. Woman, why are you weeping? They were asking to convey that there was nothing to weep about. And it was the same thing when the resurrected Jesus asked the same question. Woman, why are you weeping? There’s nothing to weep about. I am alive. I am here. I am with you. Dry your tears. But Mary had hit rock bottom, so it didn’t add up. But then Jesus said something. Something cataclysmic. Something earth shattering. Something beyond description and explanation. And something right under our noses. If there’s one trait we all share, one thing we are all good at, one thing we are all GREAT at, it’s not seeing what’s right under our noses. Jesus called her by name. Mary! he said. And suddenly the truth broke in on her. Dimly, but at the same time, and paradoxically, with crystal clarity. She knew. She knew how we know most deeply – in our bones, in our guts, in our hearts. This man so beloved by her – her teacher, healer, leader, friend….he was much more than that. He was the one that time could not bind, the one that darkness could not thwart. He was the one over whom death had no dominion. He was the one she declared him to be. He was the Lord. And he called her by name . Rock bottom? There was no rock bottom. There was only hope, consolation, meaning, purpose, direction, relief, and rejoicing. From his height to her depth, he called her by name. Rock bottom? She now had good news to proclaim, and she proclaimed it for all she was worth. Friends in Christ, her good news is our good news. No matter what you’ve done, what you are doing, or what you will do. No matter how low you fall. No matter how deep you sink. No matter how bad you’re stuck. His deliverance has your name on it. His triumph has your name on it. His love has your name on it. So let us call him by name – Jesus Christ, our Lord. Amen. 

Do You Come In Peace?

By Rebecca Clancy • February 20, 2026
I Samuel 16:4-5 Matthew 5:9 To set the scene for our Old Testament lesson -- Tension was rife. Anxiety was rife. Dread was rife. And why? It was because there was conflict, and conflict produces tension. Conflict produces anxiety. Conflict produces dread. And let’s not pretend that it doesn’t. The hold outs among us might stick their chests out and assert that conflict has no effect on them -- that they are immune from conflict. But personally, I’m a bit skeptical. As I’ve mentioned before, in my various vocations and avocations, I have been subjected to psychological tests. And not just a few of them. And one of the areas that is tested is how you react to conflict – whether you are conflict tolerant or conflict intolerant. According to the tests, I am conflict tolerant, as conflict tolerant as one can be. According to the tests, there is nothing that makes me more comfortable, and more relaxed, and more at ease than conflict. Conflict? Bring it on. There’s nothing I relish more. At least according to the tests. But why is it that in the face of conflict, I become preoccupied. I can’t get it off my mind. I become sleepless. I toss and turn at night. And I feel an enormous sense of relief when the conflict is resolved. So, in my own experience at least, conflict produces tension. Conflict produces anxiety. Conflict produces dread. And that leads us back to our Old Testament Lesson. Talk about conflict! But to understand it, we must back up a bit. In fact, we must back up quite a bit. We all know that Moses received the Ten Commandments atop Mt. Sinai. We all know that with the Ten Commandments in hand, Moses wandered with the people in the wilderness for forty years toward the Promised Land. But we might not all know what happened next. What happened next is that Moses died. Moses was succeeded by Joshua, who conquered the Promised land. And after that? The people settled onto the Promised Land. Since the people were comprised of twelve tribes they settled into the Promised Land accordingly. Each tribe deployed itself on a parcel of land. And they all lived happily ever after. Or not. Problems emerged in short order. The tribes did not get along. Surprise, surprise, the strong tribes picked on the weak ones. Why is it that at all times, and in all places, the strong pick on the weak? But that’s another question. Bottom line, there was disunity among the tribes. Beyond that, they were twelve tribes who each deployed itself on a parcel of land. But they were surrounded by enemies, enemies that had not been wandering around in the wilderness for the past 40 years. Enemies who were trained to fight. So, the people were threatened from within and from without. The closest thing that they had to a leader was Samuel, so they demanded of Samuel a king, a king to unify them and protect them from their enemies. Samuel listened to their demand and anointed King Saul. King Saul was the man of the hour. He was a standout. He stood head and shoulders above all others, was strikingly handsome, and teamed with charisma. He was clearly meant to be. So once again, they all lived happily ever after. Or not. There was something wrong with Saul. Now sometimes when there is something wrong with someone it’s obvious, it’s easy to name – as in the case with addiction, or physically abuse, or mental illness. But sometimes it’s not obvious. Ask twelve scholars what was wrong with Saul, you’ll get twelve different answers. For whatever reason, he proved not to be the stuff of it. He had some fatal flaw. Was it his temper? Was it his jealousy? Was it his paranoia? Was it his anger? Was it his desperation? Because all those things can prove to be fatal flaws. In that last analysis, it doesn’t matter what was wrong with King Saul – simply that there was something wrong with him. Predictably, those closest to him saw it first. But no one else was inclined to believe them. They believed what they wanted to believe, what was easiest to believe. And this is how it goes. The ones closest see it first, and no one is inclined to believe them. Moveover, they didn’t want to face the fact that King Saul was one big false start. But King Saul had some fatal flaw. And fatal flaws are fatal. King Saul deteriorated. It became increasingly difficult to deny. Conflict was brewing. It was not yet open conflict. Soon it would be and in terms too horrific to describe. But rumors were circulating. The atmosphere became charged, and not in a good way. Not one knew just how the thing would play out, but everyone sensed that it would not end well. And that brings us to our Old Testament Lesson. Samuel arrived in Bethlehem, unannounced, unexpected -- in full vestment and with full retinue. What did he want? Why did he single them out? What had they done wrong? Was he there to exact vengeance? In a spark would they all be dead? To set the scene for our Old Testament lesson -- Tension was rife. Anxiety was rife. Dread was rife. And why? It is because there was conflict, and conflict produces tension. Conflict produces anxiety. Conflict produces dread. And so, the people approached Samuel with a question. It was the right question. It was the key question. It was the decisive question. It was this question: Do you come in peace? If you remember one thing about this passage, if you remember one thing about the whole book of Samuel, remember this question. Do you come in peace? Because the people’s question to Samuel is the people’s question to us. Do we come in peace? In the face of conflict do we come in peace? Do we come in peace, or do we come bearing blame for things for which we know we are full well complicit? Do we come in peace, or do we come exacting retribution demanding an eye for an eye? Do we come in peace, or do we come rehearsing old grievances, resentments, jealousies, and grudges? Do we come in peace, or do we come pressing our advantage -- power up, poised to defeat? Because the people’s question to us is also Christ’s question to us? Do we come in peace? Have we gone that extra mile for the one who has burdened us? Have we turned the other cheek? Have we declined to let the sun set on our anger? Have we made peace with our accusers? Do we come in peace? For Christ declares that the peacemakers would be blest, and that through them, but only through them, would his kingdom grow. Amen.