Sermon from 10am Sunday Worship, 11/1/2026, All Saints Sunday
Things Jesus Never Said
All Saints Sunday | November 1, 2026
Matthew 5:1–12 | Revelation 7:9–17 | 1 John 3:1–3
The Very Rev. Chris Yaw
There are a number of things Jesus never said.
"Blessed are the rich."
"Blessed are the powerful."
"Blessed are those with the most followers on Instagram."
Look around, and you might think the blessed people are the ones with the biggest houses, the loudest voices, and the most impressive résumés.,,
Instead, he says,
"Blessed are the poor in spirit."
"Blessed are those who mourn."
"Blessed are the merciful."
"Blessed are the peacemakers."
None of which is likely to land you a prime-time speaking slot at a political convention.
But here is the surprise:
Jesus is not telling us how to become successful.
He is telling us how to become fully human.
And today, on All Saints Sunday, we stand between generations.
We remember seven people connected to this parish who died during the past year.
And we welcome a baby boy into the household of God through baptism:
We hold grief in one hand and hope in the other.
So perhaps the question for today is this:
When people remember us, will they remember what we won, or whom we loved?
Our Gospel begins the Sermon on the Mount, probably the most famous sermon ever preached.
I say that with professional jealousy…
I have been preaching for years, and I have yet to deliver a sermon people discuss two thousand years later – I am would be satisfied if it was remembered past lunchtime…
Saint Augustine, writing in the fourth century, saw the Sermon on the Mount as a comprehensive guide to Christian living.
And it is remarkable how Jesus begins that guide:
Not with ten strategies for personal advancement.
Not with a checklist of people God approves of.
But with blessings!
The Greek word is makarios.
This work points beyond the fleeting happiness of finding twenty dollars in a winter coat, or learning your cholesterol improved despite your ice-cream habit -
- and describes a life grounded in God, even when circumstances are difficult.
"Blessed are the poor in spirit."
Not blessed are those who have everything figured out.
Blessed are those who know they need help, who understand that they cannot manufacture meaning or manage life entirely on their own.
I find that comforting.
At twenty-five, I knew practically everything.
Now I occasionally walk into the kitchen and forget why I went there.
Maybe spiritual maturity is less about becoming certain and more about becoming humble -
- less about proving ourselves and more about opening ourselves to God.
Then Jesus says, "Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted."
If you have lost somebody you love, those words can sound strange.
Grief does not feel like a blessing.
Grief feels like an empty chair at Thanksgiving.
It feels like reaching for the phone before remembering there is no one to call.
It feels like a familiar song suddenly making you cry in the grocery store.
Today we remember the various and sundry lives of those who have gone on – but whose lives touched ours.
We remember their laughter, their kindness, their familiar places in our lives.
We remember the ways they helped shape our communities, and perhaps the things we wish we could still tell them.
Jesus is not saying grief is good.
He is not suggesting that God sends suffering as a reward for faithfulness.
He is saying that those who grieve are not forgotten or excluded from God's blessing.
And we find it points us to another truth:
We grieve because we have loved.
Love leaves an imprint, even when the person we love is no longer physically beside us.
Our reading from Revelation gives us a vision of a multitude from every nation, tribe, people, and language, gathered before God.
It is a breathtaking picture of belonging.
Nobody has to produce a passport, pass an entrance exam, or explain which side they were on.
And then comes the promise: "God will wipe away every tear from their eyes."
It is not an image that explains every tragedy.
It is not God handing us a theological textbook and saying, "This should clear things up."
It is God wiping away tears.
The God of Scripture is not indifferent to sorrow.
God comes close.
And on All Saints Sunday, we trust that death does not have the last word.
The people we commend to God remain held in a love stronger than the grave.
But today we also celebrate a beginning.
In a few minutes, we will baptize a baby boy.
We remember seven lives that have ended, and we rejoice in a life just beginning.
We look backward with gratitude and forward with hope.
Listen to the second reading, from First John:
"See what love the Father has given us, that we should be called children of God; and that is what we are."
That is what we are.
Already.
While little Esomchi has not graduated from college, earned a promotion, made a charitable donation, or learned to use a spoon.
Yet we will proclaim that he belongs to God, not because of what he has accomplished, but because of God's love.
And what if we believed that about everybody?
The person who irritates us.
The relative we have not spoken to in years.
The neighbor whose politics make absolutely no sense to us.
The stranger whose life looks nothing like ours.
Before we were voters or taxpayers, Republicans or Democrats, conservatives or liberals, we were human beings made in God's image.
Our worth was never waiting for somebody else to approve it.
-----
Which brings us, of course, to Tuesday.
Unless you have been living under a rock, you know there is a midterm election in two days.
Some people are hopeful.
Others are frightened.
Many are exhausted.
Depending on whom you ask, the fate of the entire republic is hanging in the balance.
And I seem to remember hearing something similar during the last election.
And the one before that…
Now, elections matter.
Leadership matters.
Policies affect actual human beings, especially people who are vulnerable.
Christians should care about justice, dignity, and the common good.
The Beatitudes are not an invitation to shrug our shoulders at suffering.
But Jesus spoke these words in a world full of political anxiety.
His people lived under Roman occupation.
They knew economic hardship, injustice, and deep divisions about how to respond.
And Jesus climbed a mountain and said,
"Blessed are the merciful."
"Blessed are the peacemakers."
"Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness."
He did not say, "Blessed are those whose party wins."
Or, "Blessed are those who can finally tell their relatives, 'I told you so.'"
That does not mean every policy is equally just, or that we should be silent when neighbors are mistreated.
Hunger and thirst for righteousness is a demanding call.
In Matthew's Gospel, righteousness means living faithfully in right relationship with God and neighbor.
It reaches beyond private virtue into the way we treat people.
But peacemaking is demanding, too.
It is not pretending conflict does not exist.
It is telling the truth without cruelty, listening without surrendering conviction, and refusing to turn another human being into an enemy-shaped caricature.
So vote according to your conscience.
Learn about the issues.
Take your responsibilities seriously.
And remember that on Wednesday morning, whatever the results, our baptismal promises will still be in force.
We will still be called to care for the poor, comfort the grieving, seek justice, and love our neighbors.
Even the neighbors with yard signs we would never put on our own lawns.
Elections determine who holds political office. They do not determine whom Christians are called to love.
And they certainly do not determine who sits on the throne of heaven.
That position, thankfully, is not up for election.
God does not need campaign commercials.
-----
So what does all this have to do with sainthood?
We tend to imagine saints as people with halos, extraordinary patience, and absolutely no temper.
But the New Testament calls ordinary members of the church "saints."
People who follow Jesus imperfectly.
People who love God and their neighbors, and sometimes need to apologize to both.
We sang "I Sing a Song of the Saints of God."
The hymn reminds us that saints can be doctors, queens, shepherdesses, and ordinary people encountered in shops or at tea.
No hint of English influence in that hymn…
But the point is that sainthood is not reserved for people who make headlines.
It begins in ordinary places: the kitchen table, the hospital room, the difficult family conversation, the moment we decide not to send the angry text.
It begins when we bring a meal to somebody who is grieving.
When we visit someone who is lonely.
When we stand beside someone being treated unfairly.
When we admit we were wrong.
When we make room for another person at the table.
None of these acts is likely to go viral.
But love does not need an audience to matter.
And the blessed saints we remember today remind us of that.
Whatever their accomplishments, what stays with us most deeply is often wonderfully ordinary: a conversation, a kindness, a joke, a hand held at the right moment.
Imagine somebody remembering your life years from now.
What stories would you hope they tell?
That you won arguments?
That you were always right?
That you had the finest lawn in Southfield?
Or that you made people feel welcome?
That you showed up when life got hard?
That you were generous with your time, quick to laugh, willing to forgive?
When people remember you, will they remember what you won, or whom you loved?
And here is the good news:
We can begin answering that question today.
We do not need to become perfect first.
We can call somebody who is grieving.
We can apologize.
We can help a neighbor.
We can refuse one cruel joke or one easy insult.
We can choose mercy in a moment when resentment would be simpler.
-----
In a few minutes, at the baptismal font, we will renew promises that sound remarkably like the Beatitudes.
We will promise to seek and serve Christ in all persons, love our neighbors, strive for justice and peace, and respect the dignity of every human being.
Those are enormous promises.
I am glad our response is not, "Certainly, I have mastered all of that."
Our response is, "I will, with God's help."
That may be the most honest summary of Christian discipleship ever written.
“I will, with God's help.”
Today we remember beloved lives, and we welcome one new one.
We give thanks for love received, and promise to pass that love along.
And two days from now, the country will vote.
Some will celebrate.
Some will be disappointed.
Some results may take time to become clear.
But Jesus' question for us will not simply be,
"What happened on Tuesday?"
It will be, "Who will you be on Wednesday?"
Will you be merciful?
Will you make peace?
Will you hunger for justice?
Will you remember that the person across the political divide is still your neighbor?
The blessed life is not a life in which we get everything we want.
It is a life in which we learn to give the love we have been given.
Because when all is said and done, what matters most may not be what we owned, what we accomplished, or what we won.
It may be whom we loved, and how well we loved them.
Maybe that is what it means to be a saint.
Amen.