‘After this I looked, and behold, a great multitude that no one could number.’

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Here St. John reveals to us what is a great and beautiful vision, of an army of the godly, manifold, so many that no one could number, from every tribe and language and nation. Clothed in white, with palm branches in their hands.

The aura of triumphant conquest drips from the pen of St. John, as he shows to us who feel ever alone how not so alone we are, for we are citizens of heaven now, and heaven seems to be filled to bursting with the company of heaven, the great cloud of witnesses, which stands over us, and with us, ever praying for us, that we may see in each of them an instance of the grace of God, and the face of Christ, imprinted on one more human, just like us, that we might be inspired by them, that we might imitate them, that we might thank God for them.

The Lutheran understanding of sainthood is sometimes a bit perplexing, even to those who were raised in our tradition. At the one time, we assert vigorously against our Papal friends that all Christians who have been baptized are saints, for they have put on Christ, who is holiness and righteousness, that is, saintliness, and that the proverbial ‘Grandma Schmidt,’ of always great, if ever local, fame, is no less a saint in the eyes of the Father than Augustine or Ignatius, or even St. Paul.

With the surest confidence we raise our hand against those who would have us believe that only those with righteousness exceeding the scribes and Pharisees, who lived largely sinless lives by the grace of God, are considered saints in heaven, while the rest of us, though saved, will spend a good few millennia preparing for the pearly gates by regularly bathing in fires of purgatory.

Surely, if John, even in those early days of the Church, witnessed an innumerable throng of saints praising the Almighty Victor in heaven, such sainthood cannot be limited to those handful of notable Christians to whom we always affix the title of ‘St.’

And yet, we still call certain people ‘St. This’ or ‘St. That.’ We still observe saints’ days, and name our churches after saints, some biblical, like St. James, some historical, like St. Olaf; but rarely if ever St. Grandma Schmidt.

The reason is that we understand that all saints are only so by being filled with the grace of God, and being conformed to the image of our Lord Christ. Yet the Lord Christ is infinite, and so His image cannot be fully expressed in any one baptized sinner, who is finite. So Christ’s image looks different in each of His saints, bound by, and expressed through, the vocation of the saint that He fills. In David, we see Christ as a king; in Aquinas, Christ as a scholar, in St. Laurance, Christ in His charity for the needy, in St. Patrick, Christ in His love for the lost sheep.

Christ, always different in the instance, but the same in His substance. Like a the sun’s light refracted through a prism to make many colors, so the saints are but Christ broken into His many radiances.

And in each of these radiances we find for ourselves and example, that we might imitate them, and be built up by them, for it is difficult for our imaginations simply to imitate the perfect, simple, immutable, eternal and everlasting God.

Yet there is something that we miss in St. John’s vision, without which we cannot understand the meaning of All Saint’s Day.

‘After this I looked, and behold, a great multitude that no one could number.’

‘Then one of the elders addressed me, saying, “Who are these, clothed in white robes, and from where have they come?” I said to him, “Sir, you know.” And he said to me, “These are the ones coming out of the great tribulation.”’

Who are these? These are the ones coming out of the great tribulation. And how many are they? A great multitude that no one could number.

This glorious and joyful throng, dear Christians, which St. John reveals to us, are the murdered, the dead, the persecuted, the reviled, those who suffered for righteousness’ sake, those hated for Christ’s name’s sake. Those who have every kind of evil spoken against them on Christ’s account. They are a great multitude, that no one could number.

They are nameless, and must remain so, for so many are we who will be hated by the world, that no life would be long enough to utter all their names. Perhaps this is part of what is intended by St. John when he writes in his Gospel that were everything written down that Christ had done, the world itself could not contain the books that should be written, if not in the three years of Christ’s work on earth in His flesh, born of Mary, then through His flesh incorporated in the Body of Christ, that is, His work done by His saints, His Church, which is His flesh and blood born of the life which pours into us from the Most Holy Altar.

That heaven was, and is, and ever shall be filled with such an endless flock of the despised dead, and that even St. Grandma Schmidt is counted among their ranks; this, dear Christian, let this steel you against the unbelieving world, against the Prince of this World, the Accuser, and against the kingdom of sin which even now sows rebellion and discord in your own soul.

Did you think these saints rejoice for no reason? They rejoice in the victory of Christ. Should Christ have a victory against no opponent? No, His opponent is every evil scheme and counsel of the devil, the world, and our sinful nature. They rejoice because the victory is hard won. They rejoice the enemy to be vanquished is great. They rejoice because at times, the battle seemed uncertain.

Even as it does for you and for me, whose faith is weak, and whose strength is fragile. Shall we gain the crown of triumph against the flesh, against the temptations of the world? Will we, indeed, not be ashamed of the Son of Man? When the Son of Man returns, will he indeed find faith upon the earth? Will he find faith within us?

It is easy to despair of ourselves, for in ourselves there is no hope. But Hope has risen from the dead, and lives and reigns to all eternity, the Son of Man, as He forever calls Himself, and from the beginning He has dedicated it: ‘It is not good for man to be alone.’

Our Lord Christ will not be alone. It is not good. And so He will gain for Himself so many friends, so great a Bride, so beautiful a city of men, the New Jerusalem, even you, dear Christian, that He has laid claim upon in Holy Baptism, that He has joined to His flesh in the Sacrament of the Altar. You, the pearl of great price, the treasure buried in the field, He has placed His flesh and blood within you, and He will not go home without you, for He will not return to His Father without all of Himself. He will not return empty. He will not return alone. The Word of God will not return void.

That you may be counted in the uncountable number. Those nameless myriads and legions of the saints, clothed in white.

Not every saint shall be one through martyrdom, nor the confession of the Name against tribunals and governors and persecutors. For God is not only glorified in the loud proclamation of Christ against the railings and viciousness of the godless. He is glorified in all those who despise death.

To despise death, is not to hate it. It is to count it as nothing. We who will live forever, how can we not count as nothing that which has no hold on us? A toothless lion, weakened and bleeding, roaring without bite, twice defeated, and already passing away?

We need not all be martyrs and confessors to make the good confession, and bear witness of the risen Christ. For the simple Christian, who in peace closes his eyes upon the linen of a soft bed in his own home. He too has despised death, for he too knows that soon his eyes will again open, and to a new thing. This, to confess that the Lord takes pleasure in His people, He makes beautiful the humble with salvation.

To honor this unnamed army of the saved, and one day to honor all of us now who defy the accusations of the heathen, and die in the Hope of the Resurrection, the Church consecrated this sacred Feast, of All the Saints; those who fill the halls of heaven, and who sing.

Sometimes I am curious as to what we shall sing in that eternal and limitless choir of the delighted. And I always think of one story, that it may please you.

When I was in high school, a certain wealthy CEO retired at a relatively young age to become the headmaster of my tiny impoverished private high school that met in the attic of an Anglican church. He was an extremely pious and educated man, a man with theological wisdom far beyond most clergy. While we were in class, he was whisked away from us by the news that his lifelong mentor and friend, a professor at a theological seminary, who had helped him become a Christian in some past time by the grace of God, was about to die. Our headmaster ran off to see him on his deathbed. Upon arriving, our headmaster attempted to comfort him by reciting to his learned friend the first question in the Heidelberg Catechism:

‘What is thy only comfort in life and in death?’

He expected his mentor to answer with the canonical response contained therein, a long and beautiful confession of God’s providence over all the affairs of man, and God’s inscrutable promise of redemption.

Rather, this dying man, this dying saint, simply answered:

‘Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so.’

And with that, he closed his eyes to the vale of tears, and opened them to the face of the Son.

That it may be fulfilled what is written:

‘Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.’

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Preached by Pastor Fields

Sermon Texts: Revelation 7:9-17; Psalm 149; 1 John 3:1-3; Matthew 5:1-12.