Hebrews 11:29-12:2
A dear friend and colleague of mine often recounts the story of a beloved parish elder, a matriarch that has been a part of his congregation for her entire long life. They were speaking about the vastness of the church they both love, a large downtown parish that could comfortably hold our entire building inside its sanctuary with room to spare. The congregation on Sunday morning never fills the space, and they were reflecting on what it feels like to worship in a church that is a lot emptier than it used to be. The parishioner smiled at my friend, a brand new priest at the time, and reminded him of something that I think has shaped his ministry ever since. She looked at him and said “They’re never really empty you know. The pews. The pews aren’t ever empty. When we’re praying here, they’re full. Full of saints.” She didn’t mean the saints depicted in the windows, or the saints on the calendar. She meant the saints she grew up with, the voices she heard praying and singing and preaching all through her childhood, all the family and friends and neighbors who had gone to glory ahead of her, all the people whose impact she still felt every time she sat down in her family pew. An outsider might walk into that church on a Sunday morning and claim its half empty. But once they entered into the community, heard the word read and preached, received the sacrament- then they’d see that there’s not an empty seat in the house.
That parishioner understood from a lifetime of faith what our preacher is trying to communicate in the letter to the Hebrews. She understood the cloud of witnesses, and it gave her eyes to see abundance where others might see decline. She had faith, and hope, because she had seen the faith and felt the hope of others in a community of imperfect believers. I hope we might borrow her perspective for a moment, step into her vision of what the Church is, as we listen to what the Spirit is trying to tell us this morning.
The letter to the Hebrews is a pastoral letter to a discouraged and disheartened people. These Jewish followers of Jesus have experienced isolation, separation, persecution, and grief. They are struggling with the ways discipleship has complicated their relationships with family, friends, and the authorities. They’re missing the ones who are no longer with them. They are missing the way things used to be. They’re looking backward, and so the pastor who writes this letter turns toward their point of view. The writer to the Hebrews looks back into their shared history, to the stories and heroes that make up their culture and their ancestry. Sometimes we need to look backward, to look to the past, to be reminded of who and where we’ve come from. Sometimes we need the comfort of familiar stories, familiar saints.
Some of you may recognize from our Bible study the names and places the letter lists as touchstones for its uprooted audience. The escape from Egypt through the Red Sea; the toppling of power at Jericho; the hospitality of Rahab. Some of the heroes may be more or less familiar- Gideon, Barak, Samson, Jephthah, David, Samuel. There are unnamed others- prophets, judges, military leaders, mothers and wives and daughters, martyrs. The original audience of this letter would have their own heroes, their own saints and martyrs and teachers in the faith who had gone before, just as we do. There were likely empty seats at the table, empty pews in the chapel, when this letter was read aloud to the congregation of Jewish Christians for the first time. The cloud of witnesses mentioned in this letter was not a pretty phrase but a prayer, a reminder and a comfort to a grieving and anxious people. In looking back to the stories of the saints, we find that they are always looking forward, toward us, beyond us, ahead of us to the promised land, the heavenly kingdom, the resurrection and the life. With them we can turn, and orient ourselves toward the future, supported by the joy of those who have already tasted the kingdom for themselves.
This is why we tell the stories of people, why the scriptures are full of the individuals who listened for God and believed in God’s promises. This is why we celebrate saints and name our churches and our children for them. This is why we look at old pictures and tell stories about the ones we’ve lost and sing their favorite hymns and keep coming back to the places that mattered to them. Because the pews are never empty, not really. They’re very full, surrounding us with a great cloud of witnesses. Witnesses to the goodness of God. Witnesses to the love of Jesus. Witnesses to the kinds of people we might be, if we live our lives in the light of Christ. Witnesses to the hope that is in us, a hope that has withstood death and persecution and shame and suffering and the tests of time and doubt. We are here today because of our hope, but also the hope of all who came before us. We are here today because someone hoped we would be. This parish exists because a group of people needed a place to worship and serve God, and they hoped it would meet that need for others. The pews are here because someone hoped they would be a place of sanctuary and rest. The walls and the floor and the roof of this house of worship were quite literally built on a foundation of hope. And so were we. So were you. Let us also lay aside every weight, and all that separates us, and let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us. Look around. There’s not an empty seat in this place. We are surrounded by hope.
Mother A Writes 