Remembrance Sunday - All are Alive to God (Luke 20:27–38)

“He is not the God of the dead, but of the living, for to Him all are alive.”

On this Remembrance Sunday, we pause to remember the countless men and women who laid down their lives in times of war, those who endured unimaginable suffering, and those whose futures were lost so that others might live in peace.  We remember, too, those who continue to serve in places of conflict today, and we pray for the day when war shall be no more.

But today’s Gospel reading might, at first, seem far removed from the solemness of this occasion.
In Luke 20, Jesus is confronted by the Sadducees, a first century Jewish Religious a group that denied the resurrection. They pose a tricky, almost mocking question about a woman who, under ancient law, marries seven brothers in succession, each of whom dies. “In the resurrection,” they ask, “whose wife will she be?”

It’s not really a question about marriage at all. It’s a question about whether life continues beyond the grave. It’s an invitation to hope.  And that’s what makes it deeply fitting for today.

We begin firstly by looking at the question beneath the question: 

In the passage, the Sadducees were asking what many people still ask today: Is there really life after death?  After the horrors of war, the trenches, the concentration camps, the bombings, can we still believe that there is something more, something beyond? Is it possible that death does not in fact have the final word?

It is precisely here that Jesus gives one of his most profound answers. He says, “The children of this age marry and are given in marriage; but those in the age to come can no longer die, for they are like angels … for they are children of God, being children of the resurrection.”

And then he adds these words that cut through centuries of doubt:  “He is not the God of the dead, but of the living, for to him all are alive.”

What does Jesus mean?  It seems that Jesus is suggesting is that that all life is held in God. even those we think of as gone are, in some mysterious way, alive in God’s presence.

When Moses stood before the burning bush, God identified himself as “the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob.” Jesus draws a simple but astonishing conclusion: If God is their God, and if God’s relationship with them continues, then they are not gone, they live still, in God.

This is what gives meaning to our remembering today. We do not remember the dead merely as figures of the past. We remember them as souls still alive in the heart of God today, still part of the great communion of life that binds heaven and earth together.

This insight resonates with what we hear today from people who have had near-death experiences, accounts that invite us to rethink what it means to die. One of the most remarkable of these is the case of Pam Reynolds, who underwent a rare brain operation in which her body was cooled and her brain activity completely stopped. During the procedure her eyes were taped shut so that she couldn’t see with her eyes or even open them, and loud lawn-mower type noise was being played into her ears to monitor if she was showing any brain activity, to make sure that she was in fact brain dead during the procedure.  And despite all of these things, during that time, when she was for all practical purposes clinically dead, Pam later reported floating above her body, seeing the surgeons at work, and accurately describing surgical instruments and conversations that took place while she had no measurable brain function and while her eyes were taped shut.  And despite the loud noise in her ears that should have made physical hearing impossible to her, especially because there was no brain activity, she even remembered the song playing in the operating theatre (Hotel California). Her experience startled even the medical team and continues to be studied as powerful evidence that consciousness may continue beyond the body.

Stories like these (and there are many), though each must be approached with humility and discernment, nevertheless suggest that awareness and life extend beyond the body. They hint, as Jesus did, that God is indeed “the God of the living”, that consciousness is not extinguished at death, but continues in another form, another dimension of divine life.

Even St Paul seems to have come to this realisation more fully over time. In his early letters, Paul spoke of those who had died as “asleep” until the day of resurrection. But in his later writings, such as in Philippians, his tone changes: “My desire is to depart and be with Christ, which is far better.”  It is as though Paul had glimpsed a deeper truth: that beyond the veil of this life, there is not unconscious waiting, but immediate communion with the Divine Presence. 

Thirdly in light of this verse from Jesus, it would suggest that to remember is more than to recall names and dates from the past it is in fact an act of faith.  When we stand in silence on a day like today, we are standing in a sense between two worlds, between the seen and the unseen.

In that silence, we hold before God not only the tragedy of war, but also the mystery of love that endures beyond death, and the deep act of faith that in some mysterious way, those who we remember live on, not just in our memories, but in the wider life of God. 

As the poet Laurence Binyon wrote:

“They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning,
We will remember them.”

The power of those words lies not in the sadness they express, but in the faith they imply, that those who gave their lives are still known, still cherished, still alive to and in God.

Fourthly this passage invites us to  Live in the Light of Resurrection -

Jesus’ words in Luke 20 invite us not only to believe in life after death at some point in the future, but to live as people of resurrection here and now. If God is the God of the living, then life itself is sacred, all of life. We cannot honour the dead by perpetuating the hatreds that caused their deaths. We honour them by committing ourselves to peace, to working courageously, and counter to our natural inclinations, to breaking the cycles of vengeance and violence that still ensnare the world.

It is sometimes said that to err is human, to forgive is divine. I think it could also be said: to wish for revenge is human, to work for peace is divine. In the words of St Paul, “Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.” And it is precisely because we believe that our life in God transcends this world that we are strengthened to do so, just as it was precisely because Jesus knew that his life had come from God and that he would be returning to God that he could give his life away in love for the world. 

The resurrection faith that Jesus speaks of is not an escape from the world’s suffering, it is the power to transform it.  It is the assurance that love is stronger than death, and that even amid war’s darkest shadows, the light of God is not extinguished.

And so on this Remembrance Sunday, may therefore remember not only the lives lost, but the hope that sustaines us. May we remember that even in the ruins of the world, faith declares: He is not the God of the dead, but of the living for all are alive to God.

RECORDINGS WILL BE POSTED LATER TODAY 

SERMON ONLY

Luke 17:5–10 – Seeds of Faith and Service

I begin today with two stories that I believe flow naturally into our reflection on todays lectionary passage: The first story is our children's story for today -

Once upon a time, in a sunny garden patch, there lived a cucumber who was always smiling. The other vegetables called him the Happy Cucumber.
Every morning, he stretched on the vine and said,
“Good morning, sun! Good morning, rain! I’m so glad to be alive!”
The carrots were busy growing straight, the potatoes were snug under the soil, and the pumpkins were trying to get bigger and bigger. But none of them sang and laughed quite like the Happy Cucumber.
One day the garden grew worried. “Harvest time is coming,” whispered the beans. “What will happen to us when we’re picked?”
The Happy Cucumber just chuckled.
“We’ve been growing to give ourselves away! That’s the joy of being a vegetable. We get to bring smiles and nourishment to others.”
Sure enough, when harvest came, the Happy Cucumber was picked and carried to the big Harvest Feast. Children laughed at his funny smile, and everyone enjoyed a taste of the garden’s gifts.
And as they shared the meal, they felt a happiness as fresh and green as the Happy Cucumber himself.
From that day on, the children always remembered:
true happiness comes when we grow in gratitude,
and when we share what we have with others.

The second story comes from the Salvation Army - 

In the early days of the Salvation Army, there’s a story told about a domestic housemaid who came to faith in Christ. When she gave her testimony, she said that before her conversion, she would sweep the dust under the carpet to make the house look clean. But after her conversion, she could no longer do that. She said, “Now I lift the carpet and sweep the dust from underneath it.” Her faith had changed how she understood service: it was no longer about appearances, or about doing the minimum, but about serving faithfully and honestly, even in the smallest of tasks.

At Harvest, we gather to give thanks for the abundance of the earth—bread from the soil, fruit from the trees, nourishment from field and garden. It is a season that reminds us of both the miracle and the ordinariness of growth: a tiny seed becoming a plant, the work of human hands joined with the generosity of the earth, the sun, and the rain.

Our reading from Luke also speaks of seeds. The disciples ask Jesus for more faith, and he tells them that if they had even the smallest seed of faith—a mustard seed—it would be enough to move mountains, or at least to uproot a tree and plant it in the sea. He then goes on to speak of a servant who, having done their work, does not expect applause, but simply carries on with his or her duty.

How do we hear this on Harvest Sunday? Perhaps as a reminder that in the spiritual life, as in the natural world, growth begins small. The perennial wisdom that runs through the world’s traditions tells us that faith is not primarily about holding correct beliefs, but about opening ourselves to the deeper ground of life—the divine reality from which all things arise. As Aldous Huxley suggests in his book The Perennial Philosophy, there is one universal truth: that beneath all appearances is a sacred source, and our fulfillment comes when we align ourselves with it.

That alignment doesn’t require certainty or heroic effort. It begins with something as small as a seed: a gesture of kindness, a moment of trust, a willingness to forgive, a word of gratitude, a moment of prayerful surrender, an act of serving with integrity. In the great field of life, these are the mustard seeds that, when tended, can grow into a harvest of compassion and love.

And what of the second part of Jesus’ teaching—the servant who does what is required without seeking thanks? In the context of Harvest, this speaks to us of humility. The farmer does not boast that they “made” the crop grow; they plant and tend, but the life force comes from beyond them—from sun, soil, and rain. Likewise, in our own lives of service, we are called to contribute faithfully, not because it will earn us recognition, but because it is our natural participation in the greater life of the Spirit. Service, when it is pure, is an offering rather than a transaction or the desire to get something in return like that housemaid who sense of service and work was transformed by her faith in Christ.

Humanity is slowly becoming more and more aware  that to live in this world is to be part of the interdependent web of existence. Harvest is the season when that truth becomes visible in the very food we eat: each loaf of bread is a communion of soil organisms, sunshine, farmers, millers, bakers, and hands that share it. Faith the size of a mustard seed means trusting and honouring this great web of life, aligning ourselves with it, and playing our part within it—not grandly, not with thought of reward, but with quiet gratitude.

And so today, as we celebrate Harvest, may we remember:
-that the seeds we plant—whether of love, justice, or kindness—are never too small to matter;
-that we live not by our own efforts alone, but by the grace of a universe alive with sacred generosity and sustained by the Invisible Hand of God, the Divine
-and lastly that our calling is simply to play our part, faithfully and humbly, in the great harvest of life.

Luke 16:19-31  - The Call to Compassion

In our passage from Luke’s Gospel today, Jesus tells a story, a parable, of a rich man who lived in luxury every day, while a poor beggar named Lazarus lay at his gate, covered in sores and longing for scraps of food. When both died, their fortunes were reversed: Lazarus was carried to Abraham’s side, a place of comfort, while the rich man found himself in torment. The rich man begged for relief, but Abraham explained that a great gulf separated them, and that in life the rich man had ignored Lazarus’s suffering.

As we consider the parable today is from Luke 16:19-31, I would like to make a few interesting observations -

Firstly, isn’t it interesting that in this parable, Lazarus the poor beggar is given a name.  But the Rich Man is not.

There is something quite unusual about that in the world of ancient literature.  In the ancient world, reading and writing were the preserve of the rich and the well-to-do. And so almost all literature tended to be written by the rich, for the rich and about the rich. Because of this, in ancient literature, the rich were named, but in contrast, the poor masses were simply part of the expendable un-named masses and their lives were regarded as being of less value than those of the rich.

Some would argue that  things haven’t changed all that much. In our world today, it is still largely true the more money you have, generally speaking, the more value is put on your life.  If the child of a rich person goes missing or dies, the story could easily make headlines... but if the child were from a poor family, hardly anyone takes notice. Our world does not value all lives equally.

But in this parable, this whole order of things is turned upside down. In this parable, the poor beggar is given a name. And by contrast, the Rich Man is left nameless. Very unusual in the ancient world of literature.

It seems to me a deliberate story-telling device to communicate the sense that the values of this world are not the values of God. In God’s scheme of things, lonely beggars on the street are named and valued. The way of Jesus turns upside down the ways and the values of this world.  This is a major theme in Luke’s Gospel. In the Song of Mary when she praises God when she finds herself pregnant with Jesus, she speaks of how God will raise up the lowly and bring down the mighty from their thrones. In God’s scheme of things, lonely beggars on the street are named and valued.

Secondly, isn’t it interesting that the dogs in this parable seem to care more for Lazarus than the Rich Man. The Rich Man seems completely oblivious to the presence of Lazarus. It is like Lazarus doesn't even exist to him.

Have you ever had the experience when it felt like someone was looking right through you, as though you didn’t even exist.  Like you were just a non-person.  In highly patriarchal cultures, woman often speak of this experience of being treated by men as though they were not real persons.

That is the sense you get from this parable. How difficult would it have been for the Rich Man to let Lazarus eat from the scraps under his table?

What does this parable say about the state of the Rich Man’s soul that he could so easily and so thoroughly block out the need of a fellow human being and even pretend that he does not exist at all.  The Rich Man has cut himself off from an important part of what it means to be human.  In psychological terms, when a person is unable to empathise with another human being in their suffering, such people are called socio-paths. The inability to empathise with another is a sign of a mal-formed humanity.

But look by contrast at the dogs.  In his deplorable state, the dogs come and lick his wounds. When I first heard this parable, I interpreted this as simply pointing to the fact that dogs are disgusting and a sign of just how deplorable this man’s condition was. But when I allowed the image to sit in my mind for a while the thought struck me: Isn’t this the way a mother dog would treat her little pups:  licking their wounds to clean them, as an act of motherly care.  Isn’t this how dogs lick themselves when they are wounded?

And so isn’t it interesting that even the dogs show more love and care to Lazarus than the Rich Man? An animal, who we regard as sub-human shows more care for Lazarus than his fellow human being.  We might ask the question - has the Rich man begun to lose his humanity?

Thirdly, isn’t it interesting in the parable that when the Rich Man dies and is on the other side, that he is still primarily motivated by self-concern.  The only reason he calls out is because he is now suffering. But even in the state of his suffering, his attitude towards Lazarus has changed very little. At least now he acknowledges the presence of Lazarus. This is progress. But even in his state of suffering he  is still caught up in his old way of looking at things.  Although he has finally acknowledged Lazarus’s existence and even calls him now by name, he still wants to use Lazarus as a servant for his own ends. He wishes to treat Lazarus as a servant to run an errand for him, bringing him a drink of water from across the great divide. Lazarus is not yet being treated by the Rich Man as a full human being of equal value and equal dignity.

It raises a question: What if hell is not a physical place at all, but rather a metaphorical description of the state of the soul – a soul that has turned in on itself, self-obsessed, self-absorbed  with a distorted view of the world and others and as a result cut off from others and  as a result also from God, the source of all love and true joy. What if hell is a heart whose door is closed and locked from the inside.  What if release from this hell can happen, the moment we awaken out of our own self-absorbed-ness.

There are signs of hope in this parable. Sometimes suffering can have its benefits – it can be a catalyst for growth and self-understanding. It would seem in this parable the Rich Man’s suffering has had some impact upon him. At least now he sees Lazarus as a human being with a name. In his suffering we also see a glimpse of hope that there is still a glimmer of love and care in his heart... he is concerned about his brothers. He doesn’t want to see them suffering. That is a glimmer of hope.

Even in Stalin, the faintest glimmer of of the image of God remained in him. Despite all his murderous human rights abuses, Stalin still showed a love for his mother.  And there lies the hope for all humanity, that ultimately, no matter how much it is covered up and covered over, there is nothing that can ultimately destroy the image of God within us.

The great gulf or chasm in the parable between the Rich Man on the one-side and Abraham and Lazarus on the other is one that neither Lazarus nor Abraham are able to cross.  Why can’t they cross it?  Because the gulf or chasm exists in the heart and consciousness of the Rich Man.  It can only be crossed when the Rich Man’s consciousness is healed.

 It seems like an impossible situation. How will the Rich Man find relief from his suffering? But interestingly, a little later in Luke’s Gospel, in the story of the Rich Ruler who walks away from Jesus because he is unable to give his wealth away, Jesus reminds us that what is impossible for human beings is not impossible for God (Luke 18:27).-

And though the door of the heart is locked from the inside,  at the end of John’s Gospel, we hear of the ability of the Risen Jesus to appear behind locked doors, perhaps an image of the Risen Christ’s ability to appear behind the locked door of our hearts and souls to help liberate us from the hells of our own making.
Evangelical preachers would hold this passage up as proof of eternal hell… but interestingly there is nothing in this passage to suggest that the Rich Man’s suffering will last forever.

In Timothy 2:4-6 we read: “God desires everyone to be saved” And in Ephesians 1:11 we read that God accomplishes all things according to his counsel and will.  If God’s desires all to be saved, then in God’s time God will accomplish all things according to his will.

In 1 Cor 15:28 Paul speaks of the day when God will be all in all. This is the final end of Paul’s Theology: That God will be all and in all.

How can God  one day be all and in all, if some are left suffering for all eternity?  God will only one day be all and in all, if in the end all without exception are saved from the hells of their own making and brought into the wide embrace of God’s love and mercy. Amen.

In closing:  How are we to respond to the beggars and the destitute lying at our gates?  And what might this mean for us who live in first world countries where there may not literally be beggars lying at our doors?  Does this absolve us from needing to respond to the needs of the suffering in other parts of the world?