This line from the Wisdom of Solomon caught my attention this week and wouldn’t let me go.
Wisdom of Solomon, or just Wisdom, is one of the deuterocanonical books, or Apocrypha, of our Bible. None of these books are in the Hebrew Bible, but almost all of them are in the ancient Greek version of the Old Testament, what we call the Septuagint: this was typically the Bible of the Jews in the time of Jesus, so he may have been familiar with them. They are not recognized as Scripture by most Protestants, they are incorporated into the Hebrew Scriptures by Roman Catholics, and they are segregated between the Old and New Testaments by Anglicans. Scholars don’t believe Wisdom is actually the work of King Solomon: it seems to have been written much later than his reign: most of the books in this section of Scripture date from the last two centuries BC.
We often hear most of this passage from the Wisdom of Solomon at funerals, and you can see why. The words are comforting for those who have lost a loved one, with their assurance that the deceased is safe in the hands of God and that all suffering is now ended. It’s not surprising that we hear these verses on All Saints Sunday. However, the passage used at funerals skips over some of the verses that we just heard, so you might have been struck, as I was, by the additional lines.
The simile that compares the souls of the righteous departed to sparks running through the stubble is a bright and arresting image. Think of a field of wheat after the harvest is over. Dry stalks – the stubble – poke up from the ground, no use to man or beast. In many cultures farmers use fire to finish off the remnants of this year’s crop and return nutrients to the soil in preparation for next season. Try to set aside the gut reaction the thought of a wildfire arouses in our California minds, and instead, imagine how the field looks as the fire takes hold and races across its surface, the dry stalks flaring up, popping and hissing, tracing patterns through the soil for just a few minutes before all is consumed and the fire dies down. Sparks through the stubble: a momentary brightness that leaves behind a richer soil in which future sowings can take root.
I hear a distinct echo of our current stewardship campaign in these verses: patient endurance produces a rich harvest, just as the patient endurance of honest, good-hearted people results in the reward of eternal blessing. But, along the way, on this All Saints Sunday, we are treated to this lovely visual moment, the sparks running through the stubble, the saints lighting up the world for their brief moment as the soil of faith is enriched.
Our Gospel today recounts the last part of John’s account of the raising of Lazarus. This is a story we often hear in Lent, just before Holy Week, the resuscitation of someone Jesus loved as a foreshadowing of the world-changing resurrection that lies ahead. So why do we hear it today, on All Saints Sunday? If you’ve ever attended a funeral where we celebrated the Eucharist, you have heard the priest say, “For to your faithful people, O Lord, life is changed, not ended.” (BCP p.382) For us who follow Jesus, death is not the last word. When our mortal bodies lie in death we know that the essence of who we are continues on in eternity, going, as the old prayer has it, “from strength to strength in the life of perfect service in [God’s] heavenly kingdom.” (BCP p.481).
The raising of Lazarus, one of God’s faithful people, and the witness of his devoted sisters Mary and Martha offers us the assurance that Jesus has power over the grave; that love is stronger than death; that the grief we know when a loved one dies can be redeemed by our faith in God’s healing grace. Alongside this existential comfort, the statement in this Gospel that Jesus began to weep carries the reminder that Jesus was fully human, that he suffered grief and loss just as we do, that God really does know our pain because God has suffered it through Jesus.
For me, this belief is central to my faith. When I am battered by grief, I know I can turn to God for comfort, because God has been through it; God has shared in the deepest sorrow, the most wrenching experiences that humans ever face. Jesus weeps with and for all of us who have lost loved ones, and he also embodies the possibility that there is hope after despair, light after darkness, life after death.
Every year on this Sunday we end the service by reading the names of those we have lost over the past year, both members of this congregation and those known to one or more of us. Each name opens a tiny window in someone’s heart, as they remember that person and give thanks for them. Some names will open that window, painfully, in many of our hearts, as we think of people like Ric Todd or Jill Sanford, fellow parishioners who left us in the midst of active ministry; or like Jim Hubbell and Theo Bellow, whose art touched us all and enriched the wider community.
Each one whom we name left behind some kind of legacy, whether it was children and grandchildren, or professional achievements, a bequest to their faith community, or memories of joy and laughter. We say their names because we want to honor them and give thanks that they lived and that they are not forgotten.
As we go forth from here today, how shall we honor our dead? How will our lives reflect the good the saints left behind? How will we respond to whatever Tuesday’s election brings? We will look for our place among the blessed: the peacemakers, the pure in heart, the fighters for justice, the builders of God’s Kingdom. Look to the saints. Remember what you cherished in them and strive to live up to their memory. Be the sparks among the stubble, and set the world alight with God’s love. Amen.
