Sunday, November 26, 2017

The Most Compelling Witness the World Has Ever Known

Sermon for St. Andrew's Sunday, Nov. 26, 2017
Matthew 4:18-22; John 1:35-42; Romans 10:8b-18

Here’s your bit of Bible trivia for this St. Andrew’s Sunday: Scripture gives us not one but two stories about how Andrew met Jesus and what Andrew did as a result. It’s something I love about Scripture, actually – that these two stories conflict with each other, and yet, there they are, right alongside one another in the Bible.
One is the story we just heard, from Matthew (and it’s in Mark’s Gospel, too). Jesus has been baptized and anointed with the Holy Spirit, and he’s spent 40 days in the wilderness struggling with Satan. Now he’s begun his public ministry, proclaiming, “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near” (4:17). And as he walks by the Sea of Galilee, he sees a couple of brothers, Peter and Andrew, out fishing. Now, these guys must have heard Jesus preaching earlier, because they aren’t zombies, just following anyone who tells them to. But when Jesus makes the invitation, he sets the hook in these fishermen: “Follow me, and I will make you fish for people” (4:19). And “immediately, they left their nets” and began to follow him (4:20).
So that’s the story we heard today. The other version of this event comes from the Gospel of John. Again, John the Baptist is there, naming Jesus as God’s anointed. And again, soon afterward, Jesus is walking by, and two of John the Baptist’s disciples set out to follow Jesus instead. One of these two was Andrew; the other isn’t named. They ask Jesus what he’s doing and where he’s going, and Jesus just looks back at them and says, “Come and see” (1:39). So, they do, and they spend the day in the presence of the Son of God himself. When that amazing day is over, Andrew runs home to share what’s happened with the person he’s closest to, his brother, Peter; and he says to Peter, “We have found the Messiah!” (1:41). This is why, through Christian tradition, Andrew is remembered, first and foremost, for bringing the renowned St. Peter on board. And it’s why, in our windows over the altar, we see Andrew to Jesus’ right and Peter to Jesus’ left – a little editorializing about pride of place for the guy, as the collect this morning puts it, whose claim to fame is that he “brought his brother with him” (BCP 237).
Of course, after the Gospel stories, Andrew didn’t just fall off the map. In fact, depending on which traditions you want to believe, he went all over the map. Different traditions say Andrew brought Jesus’ good news to Ethiopia, or to Ukraine, or to Russia, or to Greece, where he was martyred on an X-shaped cross. Even in death, Andrew was still on the move as his remains were reportedly taken to Scotland, which is why he became Scotland’s patron saint. And that explains why a bunch of people in Kansas City are wearing tartans and listening to bagpipes as they celebrate this day that honors a Palestinian fisherman.
So, other than giving us a chance to enjoy pipes and drums and tartan, what does all this mean for us? Where are we in these two stories of St. Andrew?
I think both stories of Andrew’s call matter for us because they call us along two different dimensions of our journey as Christians: to be disciples and to be apostles, to put down our fishing nets to follow Jesus and to bring someone along with us. God has created us for both aspects of our calling, for discipleship and apostleship – wired us to follow and wired us to invite. That’s not just true about religion but about all of our life in community. When someone or something offers us compelling answers, we’re more than happy to be led out of our darkness and into the light. And when we find that those answers work for us – whether to lose weight, or grow our portfolios, or find a like-minded community – when the answers work for us, we’re very happy to invite others to come with us, and see.
Next Sunday is the first Sunday of Advent, as well as the official conclusion of our season of stewardship. We’ll gather the pledges we’ve received so far and bless them as a foretaste of all that we’ll receive – pledges of money, certainly, but also pledges of time and talent through the parish survey we recently sent out. And because next week is the first Sunday of Advent, it will also be New Year’s Day, at least as far as the Church calendar is concerned. We’ll start a new cycle of Sunday readings and begin our season of spiritual new beginnings, the time when we prepare ourselves to receive the gift of Emmanuel at Christmas – God-With-Us to dwell in the dirty stables and hang on the crosses of our own lives, sharing everything we live and know and giving us eternal life anyway. It’s a great time for resolutions, as we prepare our hearts to receive our Savior.
So, with the stewardship season winding down and the Church’s new year on the horizon, here’s your call, as a spiritual descendant of St. Andrew. Here’s your call, as a steward of all the amazing gifts God’s given you. Here’s your call, as someone stepping into Advent’s preparation for God to be with you, at your side and in your heart. Your call is nothing less than Andrew’s call: to be both a disciple and an apostle. Your call is to follow Jesus – as Paul’s letter to the Romans reminds us very directly, “If you confess with your lips that Jesus is Lord and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved” (10:9). And, your call is to invite others along on your journey. As Paul also puts it in Romans, “How are they to believe in one of whom they have never heard? And how are they to hear without someone to proclaim him? And how are they to proclaim him unless they are sent?” (10:14-15) Our call is Andrew’s call, from both of his stories: To leave our nets and follow, and to bring someone along with us.
Now, when I hear someone say something like that, what comes to mind for me are all the reasons why I think I can’t do it. I’m not good enough to consider the Lord of the universe my friend and companion. I’m not really willing to give up everything to become all religious and lose the things I love about normal life. I’m not compelling enough to bring someone with me to some churchy event … and on any given Sunday, I’m not sure what I think about every word we pray in worship anyway.
If you identify with any of those feelings, I think you’re in good company. But here’s the thing. First, you are good enough – God says so. Second, you don’t have to become a nun or a monk or some crazy church person who wears crosses and Bible verses on your t-shirt. And third, you are the most compelling witness the world has ever known.
It’s that last one that makes you stop short, right? How can that be? Well, it’s all about context, and opportunity, and relationship. Here’s what I mean. St. Peter was St. Peter, for God’s sake. He healed people with only a word; he converted thousands by preaching Jesus’ resurrection; he did all that despite his own religious leaders’ attempts to silence him with beatings and imprisonments; he ended up dying a martyr’s death in Rome. Talk about a disciple and an apostle! A person like that would never have listed to me.
Well, probably not – unless, of course, I also happened to be his brother. Andrew didn’t quote Bible verses at Peter, or preach some inspiring sermon to him, or write a theological treatise to teach him the mysteries of God. Andrew simply brought his brother with him to experience something Andrew found compelling on his own journey. Andrew could make the ask because he had the relationship that counted.
So, on this St. Andrew’s Sunday, let me give you this challenge: Ask yourself, what do I find compelling about this journey of relationship with God, and who might I invite into it? There is no single answer to that question; in fact, there are scores of answers to that question. I know of a parishioner who recently started a new AA group that meets here, and its attendance doubled in the first few weeks. I know of a men’s group that had a conversation, over Bible study and beer, about who they might invite to come and join them. I know of a music program that offers prayer and praise, both Sunday mornings and two evenings a month, rivaling the best vocal music in the city. I know of outreach ministries that bring healing to people in our community and change lives for more than 400 kids at a school in rural Haiti. I know of a partnership with the Roasterie that’s providing our own St. Andrew’s Blend coffee, which we’ll enjoy on Sunday mornings here and which we’ll serve in the new HJ’s youth and community center rising up across the street. I know, and see, people before me here today who find some of their life’s best and deepest relationships through this family of St. Andrew’s, reveling together in times of joy and holding each other up in times of pain. There’s a lot that’s compelling about this journey with God that we’re taking together. And some piece of it would be authentic for you to offer as a way to invite someone else to come along, too.
You don’t have to give up your life entirely. You don’t have to become a street-corner preacher. God isn’t asking us to take ourselves out of the world we know. Instead, God’s asking us to connect the world we know with the kingdom Christ calls us to see coming near. Just interrupt your fishing long enough to get to know this Jesus we’re following. Just make an invitation to someone you know to come along and experience something that feeds you. Just leave your nets, at least for a while, and bring someone with you. Because, for someone out there, you are the most compelling witness the world has ever known.

Saturday, November 25, 2017

10,000 Thank-Yous

Sermon for Thanksgiving Day, Nov. 23, 2017
Deuteronomy 8:7-18; Luke 17:11-19

You’ve probably heard the claim that anyone can become an expert at something by practicing it for 10,000 hours.  Now, apparently other experts say that isn’t exactly true, that all the practice in the world isn’t going to let me nail a base stealer at second like Salvador Perez does.  Fair enough.  But still, all that practice is certainly going to sharpen your skills.  If you practice a foreign language for 10,000 hours, you can become pretty proficient in it.  If you make 10,000 fancy meals, you can become a pretty fine chef.  Practice may not make us perfect, but practice does make us different.  Practice changes us, forming us for good … or for ill.
So, this is Thanksgiving, not just our national day of eating and self-reflection but also a feast on the Episcopal Church calendar.  It seems this isn’t just a historical remnant of Abraham Lincoln’s gratitude for Union victories, nor a sanctified day of overindulgence, nor the calm before the storm of Black Friday, our national feast of consumerism.  This is Thanksgiving, when our readings, at least, call us to pause, to marvel at all that we’ve been given, and to reflect on where it all comes from. 
It seems we humans have a deep need for this kind of reorientation, given that Moses’ admonitions to the people of Israel ring perfectly true to us 3,000 years later.  Standing before the Israelites as they’re about to cross over the Jordan into the Promised Land, Moses gives his valedictory address, his last chance to guide the people as his own life is ending.  Moses paints a lavish picture of the abundance they’re about to receive.  He says, the Lord is bringing you into a land of flowing streams, wheat and barley, grapes and figs, pomegranates and olives, iron and copper; “a land where you may eat bread without scarcity, where you will lack nothing.” (Deuteronomy 8:7-10).  Interestingly, the Europeans who came to these shores saw this land of the New World in similar terms and, on their best days, blessed God for it … even as they also took it away from the people they met … again, like the Israelites.
Anyway, Moses’ point isn’t just that the people’s time in the wilderness is over.  His point is the responsibility that comes along with such astonishing blessing.  “When you have eaten your fill and have built fine houses and live in them,” Moses says, “…then do not exalt yourself, forgetting the Lord your God who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery….  Do not say to yourself, ‘My power and the might of my own hand have gotten me this wealth.’  But remember the Lord your God, for it is he who gives you power to get wealth….” (Deuteronomy 8:12-18)  And when you remember, Moses says, let that memory guide you into the practice of faithfulness:  “[K]eep [God’s] commandments, his ordinances, and his statutes…,” Moses says (8:11).  Remember, and follow God’s ways.  Remember, and live by God’s love.
So, this is Thanksgiving, here to remind us of the same truth Moses saw: Our blessings are not our own.  Our blessings are on loan to us from God, and God expects us to pass them along, to steward the incredible abundance we receive and then share it, both with the people around us today and with the future yet unborn. 
What do we need to do in order to be formed into those people God longs for us to be?  What does Jesus ask of the lepers whom he heals, bringing them out of the darkness of exclusion and into the blessing of relationship?  He asks them, simply, to say thank you.
It’s no accident that our lives of prayer and worship are focused on giving thanks, especially for we who are blessed with this rich Anglican tradition of ours.  Every Sunday, in fact, we celebrate Thanksgiving.  You may have missed it, in the same way a fish doesn’t notice the water in which it’s swimming.  But every Sunday, and right here this morning, we gather at God’s altar to celebrate Thanksgiving.  It even says so in the Prayer Book, both in English and in Greek.  This is a congregational-participation sermon, so please get out your prayer book and turn to page 361.  Look about a third of the way down the page, where we begin to offer the prayers that invite Jesus to come into our midst in the bread and wine of Holy Communion.  There, you’ll see the title of this section of the service:  “The Great Thanksgiving.”  The priest says, “Let us give thanks to the Lord our God,” and the people respond (go ahead, respond): “It is right to give him thanks and praise.”  And the priest continues, saying, “It is right, and a good and joyful thing, always and everywhere to give thanks to you….”  Every Sunday, we celebrate this Great Thanksgiving, and we offer it as the centerpiece of the larger service of Holy Eucharist.  That’s the Greek word I mentioned before, eucharist.  Know what it means?  That’s right – thanksgiving. 
Of course, there are many ways we each fall short, every day.  Like the people of Israel, we aren’t always so good at keeping God’s commandments, ordinances, and statutes, which is why we offer a confession most Sundays, in addition to our thanksgiving.  But I believe God isn’t looking for perfection from us.  I believe God is looking for us to be continually formed as followers and witnesses of Jesus Christ.  And a huge part of that formation is the spiritual practice of simply saying thank-you.  Saying thank-you to God 10,000 times may not make us experts in being followers and witnesses of Jesus Christ.  But I’d say it’s a pretty darned good start.
So, here’s your Thanksgiving challenge:  As you begin each day, and as your end each day, make it a practice to say thank-you to the source of your being and your blessing, the source of light and life.  Our Anglican tradition has recognized the helpfulness of that daily practice by giving us the gift of the services of Morning Prayer and Evening Prayer, which I would certainly commend to your use.  But even if you’re not ready for that quite yet, let me recommend to you one piece from Morning and Evening Prayer.  It’s called the General Thanksgiving, and it’s a treasure for the way its language both delights our ears and shapes our hearts.  I told you this was a congregational-participation sermon, so let’s finish it up by offering together the General Thanksgiving, found on page 101 of the prayer book:

Almighty God, Father of all mercies,
we your unworthy servants give you humble thanks
for all your goodness and loving-kindness
to us and to all whom you have made.
We bless you for our creation, preservation,
and all the blessings of this life;
but above all for your immeasurable love
in the redemption of the world by our Lord Jesus Christ;
for the means of grace, and for the hope of glory.
And, we pray, give us such an awareness of your mercies,
that with truly thankful hearts we may show forth your praise,
not only with our lips but with our lives,
by giving up ourselves to your service,
and by walking before you
in holiness and righteousness all our days;
through Jesus Christ our Lord,
to whom, with you and the Holy Spirit,
be honor and glory throughout all ages.  Amen.

Choosing Hope, Not Fear

Sermon for Sunday, Nov. 12
1 Thessalonians 4:13-18

Thank you, Steve, for that compelling witness about your stewardship journey.  You know, in seminary, when they teach you about talking with a congregation about the annual pledge campaign, the experts typically wouldn’t suggest that you do that on the Sunday following a horrifying church shooting.  But you know, that’s the world in which we live now.  For many of us, especially those of a certain age, we remember fondly a time when the church doors were left unlocked 24 hours a day so that neighbors could come in and pray.  In my church growing up, Christ Episcopal in Springfield, I remember where I was standing, as an acolyte ready for the procession to begin, when the service was delayed because of a problem in the chapel, which you entered by an exterior door.  It turned out that one man had killed another there, and the priest had to go administer last rites before presiding at the Eucharist.  That was 40 years ago, and the doors have been locked at night ever since – even in Springfield. 
Nostalgia makes us long for the “good old days,” whenever we might locate that time in our minds – a time when mass shootings were something we couldn’t fathom rather than something we struggle to prevent.  But last Sunday’s shooting during worship in Sutherland Springs, Texas, jolts us right back to the present moment.
When we see violence like that, it’s tempting to go down some dangerous roads.  We might begin to see threats everywhere we look and wonder whether we should even walk down the Trolley Trail or take kids to the park.  We might begin to believe we must take matters into our own hands and be ready to drop an active shooter wherever we might be … even at Jesus’ altar.  We might even begin to believe the two most pernicious lies the world tells us – that we are hopeless and that we are alone.  When we begin to believe those lies, the powers and principalities of darkness win.
I cast it in those terms intentionally because, as we look back on our past as followers of Jesus Christ, we notice that the apostle Paul found himself in a world just as threatening as ours, albeit for very different reasons.  Paul lived as a Jew, an ethnic and religious minority surviving at the whim of the Roman Empire, which taxed the living daylights out of its subjugated peoples and executed their leaders, like a certain Jesus of Nazareth, when they began saying challenging things.  But the danger came from the other side, too: Paul and his Christian communities also endured persecution from the Jewish authorities, who saw this Jesus movement as a threat to their authority and power. 
In Paul’s world view, the conflicts he and his communities faced were reflections of cosmic struggles taking place in a realm we can’t see.  Violence and persecution were the consequence of standing on the side of God’s realm of light and life, which Paul believed was battling and triumphing over the powers of darkness and death.  Jesus’ resurrection and his reign as Lord were the decisive blows against the powers that wield “hardship or distress or persecution or … peril or sword” (Romans 8:35).  From Paul’s perspective, the struggles he and his communities faced were part of a mopping-up action that would soon be brought to its fulfillment when Jesus returned in glory – which Paul expected to happen any day.
So, writing to the Christians in Thessalonica, Paul urges them to remember where they stand in this cosmic conflict.  “We do not want you to … grieve as others do who have no hope,” he writes.  “For just as Jesus died and rose again, even so, through Jesus, God will bring with him those who have died. …  For the Lord himself, with a cry of command, with the archangel’s call and the sound of God’s trumpet, [the Lord] will descend from heaven, and the dead in Christ will rise. …  Then we who are alive … will meet the Lord … and be with the Lord forever.” (4:13-16)  When Paul writes about the “coming of the Lord” (4:15), he’s using a technical term in Greek for a state visit by the emperor,1 so he’s making a very clear statement about who’s really in charge – and it’s not the emperor.  Despite the struggles of the moment, Paul says, do not join those “who have no hope” (4:13).  “Encourage one another” instead (4:18).
Of course, the “principalities” and “powers” (Ephesians 6:12 KJV) look different in their presentation now.  Today the “hardship and distress” comes to us in a litany of shootings: Sutherland Springs and Las Vegas and Charleston and Orlando and San Bernadino and Virginia Tech and Killeen and Aurora and Columbine and Sandy Hook Elementary.  And we feel a growing sense of impotence to stop such madness, getting caught on the horns of a dilemma between gun control and constitutional rights, rather than seeing gun violence as a public-health crisis, one every bit as serious as tuberculosis or polio were, and just as much within our capacity to address.  Instead, we see hardness of heart defeating the common good.  But if the apostle Paul were standing in this pulpit today, I think he would tell us the response of the Christian community remains the same.  When the powers and principalities of the world threaten us, choose against them.  Choose community and hope over isolation and fear.
What does that look like?  I read an interesting post from my seminary this week. The writer was struggling with just these questions – when 26 people die going to church, how in the world can people of faith respond in a meaningful way?  But the post noted that “when violence intrudes into the places we thought were safe, one thing that can make a huge difference is knowing we’re not alone,”2 a reality we embody by reaching out rather than drawing in.  We stand with Christians across the centuries, and stand against the power of violence, when we make the choice to stand together: when we grieve deep loss, when we gather to pray, when we visit someone who’s sick, when we cook for a friend, when we work for social change, when we act to help light overcome the darkness.  The impact of these actions may seem tiny compared with the impact of hundreds of bullets.  But I think Paul would tell us to “encourage one another with these words” and actions “so that you may not grieve as others do who have no hope” (1 Thessalonians 4:18,13).
And though it may sound self-serving to say this, I will say it anyway because I believe it to be true:  We also take a stand for light overcoming darkness when we build the capacity of a church family to be light in the darkness.  Yes, we are in an annual pledge campaign, and I would want you to fill out a pledge card in any case.  I would want you to be on that journey Steve talked about, taking the next step in a spiritual practice of giving, seeing your giving as a connecting point with God potentially just as strong as the prayers you offer in bed each night or the meal you serve to a person who’s hungry.  Those things would always be true.  And, in the midst of the darkness we see around us, I ask you to turn in a pledge card as an act of solidarity and an emblem of hope.  Making a pledge, you put on the “whole armor of God” (Ephesians 6:13) – the belt of truth, the shield of faith, the breastplate of righteousness, the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the Spirit of love.  Making a pledge, you “equip the saints for the work of ministry [and build] up the body of Christ” (Ephesians 4:12), within this church family and for the world.  Making a pledge, you choose hope over fear.  And right now, there is nothing your heart, or the world, needs more.

1.       HarperCollins Study Bible.  Note on 1 Thessalonians 4:15. 2223.
2.       Minnix, Gina.  “Refusing to Let Violence Take Us Over.”  Sowing Holy Questions, Seminary of the Southwest, Nov. 8, 2017.  Available at: https://ssw.edu/blog/refusing-let-violence-take-us/.  Accessed Nov. 10, 2017.

'Thy WIll Be Done' ... but by Whom?

Sermon for All Saints' Sunday, Nov. 5, 2017
Revelation 7:9-17; 1 John 3:1-3; Matthew 5:1-12

Today, we’re marking All Saints’ Sunday – a time we celebrate the countless faithful people who’ve loved God and loved their neighbors in this first chapter of eternal life.  A little later, we’ll remember those we’ve buried from St. Andrew’s since last All Saints’ Sunday, giving thanks for the witness of their lives and rejoicing that those lives continue in God’s heavenly country.
And today, in what may seem like an odd juxtaposition, we also celebrate the sacrament of baptism, welcoming a new child of God into the family, Ella Rose Mitchell.  It’s not just the circle of life we’re remembering with this.  The deeper, and deeply unlikely, truth is this:  As baptized people, you and I share the same call as the saints who’ve gone before, as well as the same promise of eternal blessing.  This day is about all the saints – including the one sitting next to you and the one you see in the mirror. 
That reality may be hard to accept.  But the Feast of All Saints is here to tell us the truth that our lives are more than what we see, day to day.  We got a beautiful glimpse of that reality from our readings this morning – the end game, what our faith and practice as followers of Jesus is leading us toward.  In this life, what saints experience can feel like dubious blessing – being broken in spirit, hungering for righteousness, practicing mercy, being pure in heart, struggling to make peace, even enduring others’ ridicule and disdain.  But that dubious blessedness will come to its fullness in a future chapter of eternal life, when we “hunger no more and thirst no more” as God guides us to “springs of the water of life” and “wipe[s] away every tear from our eyes” (Revelation 7:16-17).  We are ever walking a bridge between who we are and who we will be, in the fullness of God’s time – and in so doing, we have the opportunity, as saints, to evoke heaven among us and point others toward it. 
Every Sunday, even every day for many of us, we offer a prayer whose implications ought to make us stop short:  We pray, “Thy kingdom come; thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.”  It’s a beautiful petition, but I wish the Gospel writers had used active voice in remembering Jesus’ words in the second clause.  “Thy will be done” … OK, by whom?  Who is it we’re imagining doing God’s will to bring about the kingdom, God’s beloved community, here on earth as it is in heaven?  Now it’s time to look in the mirror once again, because the answer will be staring you in the face. 
So, how do we saints do that?  What is God’s will, and what does it look like for us to do it on earth, as it is in heaven?
Of course, the promises of the baptismal covenant flesh out our call, and we’ll renew that covenant again this morning.  But what ties those promises together?  What’s the bottom line?  Well, it’s the Great Commandment, of course – to love God with all our heart and soul and mind strength, and to love our neighbors as ourselves.  But given the way we use the word “love,” we can quickly hear that as a command to feel a certain way about God and our neighbors.  That’s not it.  Maybe it’s just my bias, but I don’t think God is nearly as interested in how we feel as in what we do.  Loving God and neighbor is about building relationships.  That’s the work of a saint, including the one you see in the mirror.
So, I want to tell you about some saintly relationship-building that’s happening around here.  You can see it in the work of our Vestry leaders, staff, and clergy.  You saw an example last week, as the Endowment Commission sponsored coffee hour and invited you to join the Legacy Society – just one of many commissions and groups setting up shop in the Jewell Room to help you to get involved.  Staff and parishioners have been reaching out to parents of our youth to invite them into the fun of youth ministry.  Deacon Bruce, Elaine Crider and I did a series of trainings for lay pastoral-care givers, to get more of us actively into the work of loving one another.  Mtr. Ezgi is inviting younger adults and parents into Bible study, or a young-adults group, or gatherings for recently married couples and baptismal parents.  We’ve brought back Holy Happy Hour, as well as the Happy Hour Concerts. 
And soon, you’ll receive an invitation to take a parish survey.  Part of that effort is about keeping the database as clean and useful as possible.  But many of the questions ask you to share feedback and think about how you might like to get engaged in something fun and meaningful.  I hope that, from the information we get back, we can put together several groups of people with similar interests and affiliations – dinner groups, or movie groups, or book groups, or (our collective personal favorite) wine-tasting groups.  The point is to help us do the work of saints, which is building relationships.
You can also see St. Andrew’s saints building relationships through the service they offer.  I am deeply tempted to start calling out specific people, but I also know I’d leave out more saints than I could name.  But just a few collective examples:  How about the ladies of Simply Divine?  As you know, Simply Divine will be closing soon; the last hurrah (and final sale) is next weekend.  In the shop’s decades-long run, the Simply Divine ladies have created a fun and welcoming space for parishioners to come together, and they’ve strengthened many community ministries with thousands of dollars in grants each year.  And all of that came from the hearts and hands of ladies who’ve been willing to give of themselves for the kingdom’s work, and I appreciate them very much.  Here’s another example: the choir, who offered that amazing Bach Cantata last weekend.  You can’t imagine the hours of service they give to help us grow closer to God, but they also build community together as they do it. How about the members of the Outreach Commission and the parishioners who come out to throw parties for moms and kids at Rose Brooks, or work with kids at local schools, or provide warm clothes for hundreds of people at the Free Store, or build relationships with our partners in Haiti?  All of that is kingdom work, building beloved community among our own family and with the world.
And then, there are the dollars that help make relationship-building possible.  Coming together for worship takes lights and heat and bulletins, not to mention Saint Robert Tillman and Saint Mary Sanders, here nearly every Sunday to meet your needs.  In addition, hosting book studies and prayer groups and meetings and community organizations takes a building that keeps the heat in and the water out.  You all know it takes dollars to fund the people and the infrastructure for ministry here.  And I want to tell you about the giving of a few saints whose examples inspire me.
I know staff members who give to the church that pays them, because they believe in the work we’re doing and because they love the people who are doing it.
I know one parishioner who began this year offering a generous pledge, more than mine, certainly.  For next year, it’s quadrupled.  The church has made a difference in this person’s life, and now this person will make a huge difference in our ability to bring more people together.
And I want to share with you something about our Vestry members.  This year, every Vestry member had a pledge turned in within the first couple of weeks of the pledge campaign.  That’s servant leadership – and it doesn’t stop there.  I asked the Vestry members if they would let me know whether they practiced tithing, giving 10 percent of their income toward God’s work in the world.  Five Vestry members are at or beyond that point in enabling God’s will to be done on earth as it is in heaven. 
You don’t have to be there yet.  Not many of us are, honestly, but that’s OK.  It starts with making a pledge.
Actually, I guess there’s a step even before that:  Walk into the Narthex after worship today and simply let someone take a quick Polaroid shot of you to put up on the door to the parking lot.  That door is a growing icon of the company of saints in this place, the household of God into which we enter in baptism, the family of God we know as St. Andrew’s.  As our reading this morning puts it, “See what love the Father has given us, that we should be called children of God; and that is what we are” (1 John 3:1). From our newest saint this morning, little Ella Rose, to those of you who’ve been here across the decades, we are God’s family in this place, trying to do the will of our heavenly parent, which is to love, with flesh and bones on it.  We are St. Andrew’s, and we are here to build relationships, one saint at a time.  And as the Feast of All Saints reminds us, every saint matters.  There is no “us” without you.