All Saint’s Day Reflection Revelation 7:9-17
I’ve been to the airport in Addis Ababa, flying through. It’s a long and narrow airport; you know you’re not in the states. There’s a sign in the airport that the water is not for drinking and at every long and narrow gate, there are people dressed in different clothing. Those flying to Sudan were wearing white robes and skull caps, also in white. Those flying to Nigeria wore vivid bright colors with form fitting skirts almost to their ankles. Every country had its own clothing, styles, and colors. You could see where they were going, just by their clothing.
I know and understand why John wanted all of the people from all of the many nations dressed in white. All are dressed the same, the clothing is the baptismal garment. “We belong to Christ forever,” just like the white garment that I wear every Sunday, the ones that the acolytes wear. I understand that. But just for the fun of it, I’d like to see for the color and the styles of the Addis Ababa airport in Ethiopia to follow me to the land of life and life. I’d like for everyone to wear their signature clothing, with all of the colors, all of the sass, all of the individuation of your favorite t-shirt. I’ll bet you have one of those, the outfit that makes you feel most like yourself, most like the people you belong to, most like the ones that are yours, those people that you know see and know and love you. I’m incredibly partial to an orange dress my children gave me for my birthday. Orange is not a color for everyone, but it is a color for me, a signature dress that when I wear it, I am reminded of who I am, whose I am, and those who love me. Now that I weigh a bit more, I can only yearn to wear it, but I’ll never get rid of it. It’s one of my favorite dresses of all time.
That’s what our baptismal garments are. The ones that we wear that remind us and those who see us who we are — Christ’s own forever. Remember that part? When we received our baptismal candle? You are Christ’s own forever?
I don’t remember being baptized because I was six weeks old, but it was at a CRC church in Lansing. My parents loved the pastor and his sermons, and I know this doesn’t sound possible in these days, but he was radical. He had his feet on the ground, and he preached the gospel. So on that day, August 31 in 1975, I was baptized.
When I think about my baptism, my heart lifts. I’m less worried, less afeared, less wondering. More secure, more ready to continue living for the one sits on the throne, the one who calls me “child of God,” the one who reminds me that the logic of our world isn’t the logic of the kindom of God, the one who blesses those who mourn, the meek, those are pure in heart, those who are peacemakers, those who are poor in spirit, and those who hunger and thirst for righteousness.
Because this isn’t the logic of our time. And no matter which way you vote, neither party inhabits God’s logic. Yet, we’re reminded that it’s not only us, but that multitude from every nation, every people, Jews, Greeks, Democrats, Republicans, white, black, brown, that will be there, all in that place, together, singing, celebrating, knowing that our ordeals were all but the beginning, only a foretaste of knowing with our very being that we are all God’s children together.
We know but a glimpse of what it feels like to be a child of God, one chosen and beloved, God’s own forever.
There’s this beautiful story of my cousins, when they were small. They lived on Bates street, right by the old Calvin College campus in one of those old, beautiful, roomy houses. They had a steep driveway, and as my aunt and uncle both worked full time, they needed babysitters. One of them had a car that needed some work and one day the parking brake failed, and the car ran down the driveway into a tree. My cousins were both safe in their car seats, but it was a scene of chaos. The police were dispatched, and one of them asked “Whose children are these?” At three, Becca knew her stuff. “We’re God’s children,” she told the police.
We know too. We’re God’s children. Beloved. Known. Seen. Held. Cherished. And Blessed.
Not like hashtag blessed. Like ineffable mystery, goodness that we can’t even begin to describe with words blessed.
My kiddo, the one who lives in Muskegon goes for walks in their neighborhood. “I was blessed four times this morning, mama!” That’s what I’m talking about. The people of their neighborhood most of them black and brown, the ones who see that tall, blonde young human walking around, they bless them.
Blessed. Asher’s name means happy or fortunate, like that goodness we can’t even speak about, privileged, the highest form of joy, blessed.
But here, in our here and now, it’s not this way. The ones Jesus blesses according to Matthew are the ones who struggle the most, the ones held under by the weight of the world. Nathan and RJ, the ones who mourn, the ones who lost their wife and mother yesterday. Those of you who’ve lost one of your beloveds in the last few weeks — Sarah, Jonathan, the whole Williams family, Benson, Kendall, the Steed family. I’m feeling it this morning. Those who mourn. I want to hold all of you in the love of God, and I want all of us to be in the land of light and life, where this affliction will be no more.
Squint with me this morning. There is another way, that deeper and more profound mystery, that springs from the earth, that shows itself when you least expect it, that sings before the throne of God, where all of us are dressed in white, our baptismal garments, where we know that in our essence, in our being that we are children of God. Hope with me this morning. Remember our saints, those red letter ones that speak to us and the ones that inhabited this Church, that showed us the way to love, and sometimes showed us the way not to love.
I’ve heard that the earth is so large that it takes 16 miles to see the curvature of the earth. God kindom is coming. It’s just beyond the horizon. God will be all in all, and we will be there, in our signature outfits. I’m hoping to wear my orange dress.