All
Saints’ Day (Observed)
November
2, 2025
Text: Rev. 7:9-17; 1 John 3:1-3
I
have always been captivated by this line in the hymn, “For All the Saints” (LSB
677:5): “Steals on the ear the distant triumph song.” Stop and think about that a minute. First of all, that means there is real
singing, by real people, in a real place called heaven, that can really
be heard. It is a vivid assertion of concrete
reality in the face of our all-too-often dreamlike, fairytale-ish
conception of what happens to believers when they die.
And who
are the real people who are singing?
Not just nameless, faceless masses of Christians. But those very people we just
commemorated. Ellie. Lib.
Don. Even little Chazaya, who was
not even born when she joined the heavenly choir. They are singing. Full throated. Full of joy and peace and consolation for all
their tears. And they are hearing. Sublime music beyond our imagination. With St. Peter. St. Paul.
Martin Luther. His beloved
Katie. Mary and Joseph. King David.
Adam and Eve. And all our fathers
and mothers in the faith. And then, yes,
a great multitude from every nation, tribe, people, and language, standing
before the throne of God, and of the Lamb, clothed in white robes, with palm
branches in their hands.
And what
are they singing? The triumph
song of the Lamb, the very Son of God, slain on the cross for the sins of
the world, but standing, risen, living, victorious over sin, death, and
the devil, in whom, and by whom we live.
It is the New Song the Psalms so often bid us sing (Ps. 96, 98,
149). They are singing some version of
“This is the Feast!” Read about that,
not only in our First Reading (Rev. 7:9-17), but also in Revelation 5 and 19. “This is the feast of victory for our
God. Alleluia” (LSB 155).
But
then, I think this is what really captures my imagination. We can almost hear it. We can’t, yet. It’s so distant. But we can. We even join in, in some sense, albeit hidden
under great weakness, haltingly, not always on time, often out of tune. We don’t hear it by the bodily eardrum. (Not yet, anyway. That is still awaiting resurrection.) But we hear it by faith. And if you listen really hard, and
imagine… not something imaginary, but something you know to be quite
real and true, because God has revealed it in His Word… there are
times when the people of God here on earth are really letting it rip on
some glorious hymn, and you think, "Just maybe... almost... is
it?... Could it be?... Is that the
angels, and the archangels, and the whole heavenly host, lauding and magnifying
the Lord with us?"
Because
they are, you know. We say that
in every Divine Service, just before the Sanctus (“Holy, Holy, Holy”),
the song of the Seraphim (Is. 6). When
we gather around the altar of Jesus Christ, where He is bodily present, giving
Himself to us, for our forgiveness, life, and salvation, we are in the
throne room with them. Heaven has
come down. We are with the angels. And all the saints. That includes our loved ones who have died in
Christ, but live. That is why we sing
the song of heaven. We’re in
it! In some hidden way, we’ve
stepped out of the confines of time and space.
Eternity has overtaken us. Listen
closely, beloved. You can almost
hear it. You can almost see
it. You can almost taste it.
Almost. Not quite.
This is the “now/not yet,” the “already, but still waiting” paradox of
our life in Christ. “Beloved, we are
God’s children now,” John writes, “and what we will be has
not yet appeared” (1 John 3:2; ESV; emphasis added). We are God’s children now, and we have
eternal life now, because we are baptized into Christ. That is a present reality. But that life, and that status as God’s
children, is hidden this side of the veil. Paul says, “your life is hidden with
Christ in God” (Col. 3:3). That is
why you look around you, and you see the mess we’ve made of this world, and you
look within you, and it’s worse still.
You see your sin. You know your
guilt. You feel your death. And you think, “How can I possibly be God’s
beloved child? How can I possibly
believe I already have eternal life?”
The
key words… the words to which faith must cling… are “hidden with Christ in
God.” Hidden. So of course you can see or feel
this eternal life of yours. But hidden does,
necessarily, mean present. And
then, with Christ. Think about
all that was hidden from our eyes as Christ was dying on the cross, and buried
in a tomb. No mere mortal could
simply see that as His glorious victory over sin, death, and hell. No mere mortal, in that moment,
anticipated the resurrection! That
Christ Jesus would emerge from the grave, alive forevermore! And bestowing life on all of us. So, your eternal life is that
kind of life: hidden under the cross and death, but soon to emerge in your own
bodily resurrection from the dead. And
finally, in God. Safe. Certain.
Eternally decreed. The Day of
life’s unveiling is known only to God, but it is coming. Soon.
Then, it won’t be hidden anymore.
Death will go to hell. God will
wipe away your tears. And you will stand
face to face with all those people already on the other side. And your eardrums will hear the song. And you’ll join in once again, only now with
rhythm and pitch, because it won’t be distant anymore. Because, not only will you see your loved
ones who have died in Christ, face to face.
You’ll see Jesus, as He is, John says in our Epistle (1 John
3:2). And seeing Him as He is,
you’ll be like Him. Or, as Paul
puts it another place, “transformed into the same image…” the Image of God,
fully restored in you!... “from one degree of glory to another” (2 Cor. 3:18). In fact, Paul says that transformation is
going on in you already now. You
just can’t see it yet.
So,
in the meantime, the song. In
some way, you sense it. Like Radar
O’Reilly, who senses the choppers are coming before his ears can hear
them. Like beleaguered troops under fire
who feel the rumble of reinforcements before they arrive. Listen. Listen. He is coming.
And all His hosts attend Him. Now,
it appears you are cornered by death.
The fight is fierce, the warfare long.
But strain your ears. What
is that din afar off, but coming closer all the time, just over the
horizon? You know it. It is not yet distinct. But already, you recognize it as music
emblazoned on your own unconscious memory.
The Spirit has placed it there.
It steals on the ear. It steals
on the heart.
And
what is the result? “(H)earts are brave
again, and arms are strong.” You turn
back to the battle, knowing your salvation is near. So near, that in reality, it is already
here. Accomplished fact. Soon you’ll see it. And everyone will know it. So, as the writer to the Hebrews exhorts us:
“since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses”… all the
saints who have gone before us… “let us also lay aside every weight,
and sin which clings so closely, and let us run with endurance the race that is
set before us, looking to Jesus, the founder and perfecter of our faith, who
for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame, and
is seated at the right hand of the throne of God” (Heb. 12:1-2).
Heaven
is here, now, because Jesus is here, now. Who else is in heaven, for whom you long, to
see them again, and be with them again? They
are here, too. They are with you,
now. And you are with them. In Jesus, the Lamb, enthroned on the altar,
hidden under bread and wine. I don’t
know why we take this for granted. It’s
because we aren’t listening, I suppose.
And then we lose heart. But here
He comes, anyway. And here they
come. And we are swallowed up in the
great host of heaven. We’re carried along
by those who have gone before. They
worship. They sing. They point us to the Lamb. And there is nothing left for us, but to fall
on our knees before Him, and join our voices to the song. In the Name of the Father, and of the Son X, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
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