Sunday 1 November 2015

Strictly All Saints

A sermon preached today at Leighton, Chirbury and Trelystan . . .

I don’t watch much telly. I never watch the soaps; sorry, soap fans, but I can’t stand them. Sport? Well, it’s mostly on Sky these days and I don’t have the Sky sports channels. Most of my TV viewing tends to be the more serious stuff, arts programmes, investigative reporting, wildlife documentaries; you know, the sort of thing you can admit to watching when you meet someone smart in the library. I’m not at all attracted by shows like X Factor or Britain’s Got Talent; even Gareth Malone doing his choral things I only sort of dip into now and then. But two shows definitely among my TV guilty pleasures are Bake Off and Strictly Come Dancing. If I miss them I’ll watch on i-player, and there’s not much on I’ll do that for.

Why bring that up on All Saints’ Day? The other day I was trying to work out what hooked me, a mostly non baker and definite non dancer, to Strictly and Bake Off. And what I came up with does connect with what I believe about the saints and about All Saints’ Day. And it’s this: although these two shows are competitive shows, and I am quite sure all the contenders are taking that seriously and really do want to win - in both shows the competitors are also hugely supportive of each other, and it’s that more than anything else that makes them - for me, anyway - such compulsive watching.

On Bake Off I love to see the bakers encourage each other and egg each other on, and maybe lend a hand or an ingredient now and again. When there’s even the hint of something darker (remember the freezer incident in last year’s Bake off?), it’s pretty much a national seismic shock, headlines in the papers. On Strictly what I love most is when I see the dancers, celebs and pros, run up the steps to join the other contestants after they’ve finished their dance (and probably been mauled by Craig Revel-Hall); I love the way they’re always applauded and cheered in what comes across as a very genuine camaraderie.

And I feel I can best understand and envision the “Communion of Saints” in that light. St Paul wrote that being a Christian is like being an athlete. You train hard for the race, and you run the best you can, you run to win. But the race of life isn’t about competing with each other, it’s about each of us doing the best we can. Jesus told his disciples they’d no right to sit in judgement on one another; we can only judge ourselves, not anyone else, and we judge ourselves against the example of Christ.

So, to switch the metaphor back to Strictly, we dance the best we can, and when we do make it up to the celestial steps, we’ll find a saintly bunch of fellow pilgrims there who’ve been cheering us on while we were out there and now they’re welcoming us home. As fellow pilgrims we travel alongside one another, always I hope in a spirit of mutual encouragement. But today we celebrate those who’ve finished their journey, and scripture and Christian tradition encourage me to believe they too cheer us on as we journey, or indeed as we dance, and they’ll be there to welcome us when the music stops.

When the music stops. The readings set for All Saints’ Day this year, Year B in our three year programme of readings, seem to me to dwell more on “when the music stops” than on the active ministry of today’s saintly pilgrims, today’s saintly competitors in the game of life. To be honest, I did wonder whether I’d downloaded tomorrow’s readings for All Souls’ Day instead. But I checked and they’re right: John in Revelation writes of a new heaven and a new earth in which death is no more; then John in his Gospel tells the story of the raising of Lazarus, Jesus’ friend and the brother of Mary and Martha. They’re not the readings I’d have chosen, but I can find an important All Saints’ Day message in them: in the communion of saints we on our journey now and they who’ve finished theirs are linked together in the life that only Christ can give.

And that’s why we can confidently expect that joyful welcome when it’s our dance that’s over, and it’s our turn to ascend those steps. And that’s why we can confidently believe that those we honour as saints (and untold numbers more whose names we no longer recall) are rooting for us now, as we do our best with our turn on the dance floor.

Actually, “Strictly” isn’t the best of images for me to have chosen. Some of you may be able and graceful dancers; I might as well be wearing wellies, for all the grace I ever had! At school we learned how to waltz. I can sort of do that, as long as I’m waltzing in a straight line; I never did get the hang of turning. At our school dance we used to waltz to every tune. The band played a foxtrot; we waltzed. The band played a quickstep; we waltzed. That took some doing, really.

But here’s the thing about sainthood. It’s not about how adept we are, how skilful or brilliant; it’s never about that. It’s about us offering what we can and what we are to God, and then it’s about what he does with it. That’s why (getting back to St Paul’s image of people in a race) the prize is awarded not only to the one who’s first across the line or who posts the fastest time, the prize is there for each one of those who try their best and persevere, who keep going and don’t give up.

So here’s why we honour people as saints. We don’t honour them as different and superior human beings, they’re not super-heroes like the ones in the Marvel comics. We honour them because they’re like us. That’s why their stories make sense; that’s why it’s good they’re cheering us on, good they’re there to welcome us at the top of the steps. To leave you with one last image of what saints are, and it’s my favourite one, the most important thing about saints is they’re like the stained glass windows we often find them in; glass is just ordinary stuff, but when the light of Christ shines through, something special happens. And we can do that, too.

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