All Saints’ Day always sneaks up on me like that one parishioner who can move absolutely silently through the church hall and suddenly appear behind you asking where the extra coffee urns are kept. One minute it’s Thanksgiving; the next minute the calendar gently taps us on the shoulder and whispers, “Ahem… it’s time to remember all the saints.”
Now, “all the saints” is a rather sweeping category. Scripture gives us a roll call of the great and the grand: prophets, apostles, martyrs, and the occasional bewildered fisherman who somehow stumbled into sainthood simply by hanging around Jesus long enough. But the church, in its infinite and occasionally mischievous wisdom, insists that we remember all the saints — not just the gilded, glowing ones who get starring roles in stained glass.
That means the saints you and I have known — the ones who sat in our pews, sang slightly off-key in the choir, and never once found the correct page in the bulletin before the hymn was half-over. The ones whose holiness was not marked by halos, but by casseroles, committee minutes, and the distinct ability to make a child feel at home in God’s house.
I’ve met saints who carried burdens heavier than the church boiler (and if you’ve ever had to negotiate with a church boiler, you know that comparison is not made lightly). I’ve known saints whose quiet faithfulness held whole generations together. They never preached a sermon, but their lives proclaimed the Gospel with more clarity than any of us up at the pulpit could ever hope to muster.
And then there are the saints whose holiness was… let’s call it eccentric.
The saint who rewrote hymn texts on the fly when she didn’t like the theology.
The saint who politely informed me that the sermon “was lovely, dear, but about nine minutes longer than necessary.”
The saint who insisted on photographing every church supper, “just in case we need evidence later.”
And the saint who managed, without fail, to push open every door marked “Do Not Enter — Alarms Will Sound.”
Holiness, it seems, is not always tidy.
But here’s the astonishing gift: God remembers every one of them.
In fact, God remembers them better than we do. The psalmist says, “The righteous will be had in everlasting remembrance.” That doesn’t mean God keeps a celestial scrapbook. It means that their love — however imperfect, however quirky — is held forever in the heart of God.
All Saints’ Day isn’t about perfection. It’s about perseverance. It’s about the people who kept showing up. The ones who prayed when their words ran dry. The ones who risked kindness in unkind times. The ones who sat at hospital beds, washed dishes after funeral teas, taught Sunday school with three children and a felt board older than Confederation. The ones who held the church together not by heroics, but by habits of grace.
And here’s the profound truth:
We remember the saints so that we can remember who we’re called to be.
Not flawless.
Not famous.
Not always in tune.
Just faithful.
Faithful enough to trust that God is still at work.
Faithful enough to love one another.
Faithful enough to run the race that is set before us — sometimes jogging, sometimes limping, sometimes stopping entirely to read the map — but always, always keeping our eyes on Jesus.
So today, give thanks for the saints who shaped you — those you knew, those you miss, and those whose names you’ll learn only in eternity. And then remember this:
Somewhere, someone is giving thanks for you, too.
Blessed All Saints’ Day, dear friends.
May the light of the saints guide your steps, and may God grant us all the grace to shine—even if just a little—along the way.
A Prayer for All the Saints
Holy God,
On this All Saints’ Day,
we give you thanks for all those—great and small,
famous and utterly forgotten—
whose lives have shone with your light.
We remember the saints who stood boldly for justice,
and the saints who quietly carried casseroles to those in need.
We remember the ones who prayed with eloquence,
and the ones whose most honest prayer was simply showing up.
We remember those whose faith was majestic,
and those whose faith was held together with threadbare hope.
Gather our memories of them into your mercy, O Lord,
and remind us that not one of them—
not the polished saints nor the peculiar ones—
is ever lost to your love.
Grant us grace to follow in their footsteps:
to persevere when it would be easier to quit,
to care when the world rushes past,
to keep our eyes fixed on Jesus,
the pioneer and perfecter of our faith.
Make us mindful, O God,
that even now we are part of that great cloud of witnesses—
ordinary people who, by your Spirit,
are being shaped into signs of your kingdom.
Bless us with the courage to be faithful,
the humility to learn from those who’ve gone before,
and the joy of knowing that your saints surround us still.
We ask this in the name of the One
in whom all your saints find their rest and their rising—
Jesus Christ our Lord.
Amen.