Homily, Sharing a Table with Saints
All Saints’ Sunday, Year B, 2024
St. Peter’s Episcopal Church
Plant City, FL
The Rev. Derek M Larson, TSSF
Today’s Lectionary Readings:
In the name of God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.
If you could share a meal with anyone in history, who would it be?
I would share a meal with my grandparents. Linda, Bob, Marge, I would share a meal with them. There are others I’d love to share a meal with, Leo Tolstoy would be interesting. Teresa of Avila. The inventor of apple pie. But at the top of my list would be my grandparents. We were close when I was a child. I can remember going to their homes a few times a week. But they died young, and I didn’t get a chance to really know them as an adult. And I mourn that. And at times I’m even angry about it. I’m angry that my kids won’t ever know them. I’m angry that I didn’t treasure enough the time I had with them. I’m angry that death took them away from me. And so if I could share a meal with anyone in history, it would be my grandparents.
This morning we hear in our gospel reading the iconic story of the raising of Lazarus, and Jesus is angry. Jesus, standing at the grave of his beloved friend is angry. In our version the phrase we hear is, “greatly disturbed in Spirit,” but in the Greek, it’s really angry. Jesus is so angry that it brings him to tears. And he’s angry because death has separated Lazarus from him. Death has separated Lazarus from his family. There is a stone that stands as a barrier between them, and Jesus is upset. Probably everyone gathered here today, knows the feeling. To stand on the opposite side of that stone, your loved one behind it.
And so Jesus, in his anger, commands those around him, “Take away the stone.” “Lord, he’s been buried four days; there is a stench.” “No, take it away.” And so they roll away the stone. And then Jesus speaks into the darkness of the tomb, “Lazarus, come out!” And suddenly Lazarus comes out, and is reunited with Jesus and his loved ones.
In this story, Jesus does what all of us wish we could do, but can’t, and so we wait. We wait for the promise of the resurrection to be fulfilled, when all those who have gone on before us are raised and we join them in God’s kingdom. We wait for our own Lazarus moment. We wait for the day when all the stones will be taken away and the barriers which separate us will be broken. We wait for the resurrection of the last day.
But that is only half the story and half the doctrine. Yes, the promise of the resurrection is something we wait for, but the promise of the resurrection is also something that has already begun. In Christ, the bonds of death have already been mortally weakened, so that when Jesus himself was resurrected he breached the gates of death. Saint Paul says in his letter to the Corinthians that Jesus is just the first fruits of what is to come. That his resurrection begins a process by which resurrection comes to all.
And so, yes, we wait for the completion of that work, but we also affirm that now—even now—death is not nearly as strong as we make it out to be. Death has already been defeated, and while it has not yet been annihilated, it is mortally weakened. So that the barriers between us and those that have gone before are not nearly as strong as they seem. In Christ we affirm that death does not have the last word, and that those who die are not lost but continue to live on, in someway, in Christ. Continue to be members of the body of Christ. Continue to be connected to us. The barrier between us is thin. Together, past and present, in life and in death, we make up the communion of saints. And we really do, in someway, commune with one another. What we wait for is the bodily resurrection, but in the work that Christ has already begun our Spirits, together with those that have gone on before us, already have life together. The communion of saints transcends the barriers of death.
As the new rector, I’ve been spending a lot of time getting to know this place. I’ve been listening to stories and reading the history, and, like my grandparents, there are a lot of people from the history of this place that I would love to share a meal with. I’d love to gather around the table with Fr. Garvin, for example, and with Mrs. Gatlif. I’d love to share a meal with Dr. Stevens and Fr. Durst. With Sarah Bender, with Colonel Whitney, with Deacon Ray, with the Rev. Weddell, our first priest, and so many others. There are so many—too many to name—that have made this place what it is today that I’d love to share a table with.
But the truth is, I do share a table with them. This table. Around this table, we gather not just with those of us present in the flesh but with all those present in the Spirit. With all of those that have gone on before us. It’s why we say in the Eucharistic Prayer, “joining our voices with Angels and Archangels and with all the company of heaven.” Week after week we gather in this place as the communion of saints, past and present, living and dead. Because in Christ, the Communion of Saints transcends even the barriers of death. In Christ, the stone continues to be taken away.
So if there is someone that has gone on before you, whether they were here at St. Peter’s, or at St. David’s, or at some other church or place, someone that you would love to share a meal with, come to this table. They are here. Death is not as strong a barrier as it might seem. Even when it doesn’t feel like it, in Christ, death is on its way out and the barrier is thin. And at this table the Saints of St. Peter’s, together with all the saints of God—in life and in death, share a meal together as one. Amen.
Questions for Personal Reflection
- If I could share a meal with anyone, either living or deceased, who would it be and why do they hold such significance for me?
- Reflect on a time when I felt the weight of loss. How did that experience shape my understanding of death and resurrection?
- In what ways can I cultivate a deeper sense of communion with those who have gone before me, acknowledging their presence in my life today?
Thoughts on Faith 