Remembering the Old Testament Family of God
There is something wonderfully Anglican about discovering, after All Saints’ Day and All Souls’ Day have been properly observed, that we are not finished with the saints yet.
Not remotely.
The calendar simply clears its throat, turns another page, and says, “Now, about Abraham…”
Today, November 4, we keep the Saints of the Old Testament—those remarkable women and men whose lives fill the ancient story of Israel and whose faith prepared the ground upon which the Gospel would eventually blossom.
Abraham and Sarah. Isaac and Rebekah. Jacob and Rachel. Joseph and Miriam. Moses and Aaron. Joshua and Rahab. Deborah and Gideon. Ruth and Naomi. Samuel and Hannah. David and Solomon. Elijah and Elisha. Isaiah and Jeremiah. Ezekiel and Daniel.
And many, many others.
Some were brave. Some were wise. Some were faithful. Some were astonishingly stubborn. A few managed all four before breakfast.
Which, when you think about it, makes them rather reassuring saints.
Saints Before Christianity
There is an obvious theological peculiarity in calling these people “saints.”
They lived centuries before Jesus. They knew nothing of baptism, Eucharist, bishops, church committees, parish budgets, or the mysterious ecclesiastical law requiring every church cupboard to contain at least seventeen objects whose purpose nobody remembers.
And yet we call them saints.
Why?
Because sainthood begins with God, not with us.
The word saint means, essentially, one who belongs to God—one who has been set apart by God’s grace and drawn into God’s purposes.
And long before Bethlehem, long before Calvary, long before Easter morning, God was already gathering a people.
God called Abraham beneath the stars.
God heard Hagar crying in the wilderness.
God wrestled with Jacob beside the river.
God spoke to Moses from a bush that burned without being consumed.
God called Samuel in the darkness.
God gave courage to Esther, wisdom to Deborah, loyalty to Ruth, songs to David, fire to Elijah, visions to Isaiah, lamentation to Jeremiah, and hope to people who had almost forgotten what hope looked like.
The Gospel does not suddenly appear in Matthew chapter one as though God had only just thought of it.
Jesus comes from somewhere.
He comes from a story.
The Family Album
Perhaps that is one way of thinking about the Old Testament.
It is the family album of faith.
And like every family album, it contains photographs we are proud to display and a few we would rather leave quietly in the drawer.
There are heroes in these stories, certainly.
But there are remarkably few people whom we would describe as uncomplicated.
Abraham trusted God—and occasionally panicked spectacularly.
Jacob was chosen by God and could also have sold used camels with alarming effectiveness.
Moses liberated a people and then discovered that leading liberated people was considerably harder than liberating them.
David wrote psalms capable of lifting the human soul toward heaven and made personal decisions capable of sending it rapidly in the opposite direction.
The Scriptures do not airbrush their saints.
And thank God for that.
Because if holiness required an immaculate résumé, most of us would be eliminated before the first interview.
The Saints of the Old Testament remind us that holiness is not human perfection.
Holiness is what happens when imperfect human lives are caught up in the persistent purposes of a faithful God.
That is very good news indeed.
A Table of Memory
These November days have been filled with remembering.
All Saints.
All Souls.
Richard Hooker.
Today, the Saints of the Old Testament.
And in these same days, many of our Hispanic and Latino neighbours have observed Día de los Muertos—the Day of the Dead—a rich tradition of remembering those who have died with love, colour, food, flowers, photographs, stories, and prayer.
One of its most recognizable traditions is the ofrenda, an altar or table of remembrance upon which photographs and treasured objects associated with the departed may be placed, often accompanied by candles, marigolds, favourite foods, and other signs of affection and memory.
There is something deeply human about that.
We remember people with things.
A photograph.
A recipe.
A piece of jewellery.
A chair nobody quite wants to move.
A handwritten note tucked into a drawer.
The coffee mug that should probably have been thrown away years ago but somehow cannot be.
These things become little doorways into memory.
And although Día de los Muertos arises from particular Mexican and wider cultural traditions that deserve to be honoured on their own terms rather than casually absorbed into somebody else’s religious customs, Christians can recognize something familiar in its insistence that remembering the dead is an act of love.
The Church understands this.
Every Eucharist is, among many things, an act of holy remembrance.
“Do this in remembrance of me.”
We gather around a table.
We tell the story.
We remember the mighty acts of God.
We remember Christ.
And somehow, through the mystery of grace, remembrance becomes communion.
God Has a Long Memory
Perhaps that is what connects an ofrenda, All Souls, the Communion of Saints, and today’s remembrance of the Old Testament saints.
They all resist the terrible human temptation to believe that only the present matters.
Christianity has a very long memory.
Our faith did not begin with us.
It did not begin with our parish.
It did not begin with our denomination.
It did not begin with the Reformation.
It did not even begin with the Church.
Our roots stretch backwards through apostles and martyrs, through Mary and Joseph, through prophets and kings, through Ruth gathering grain in a field and Moses standing barefoot before the fire, all the way to Abraham staring into a night sky while God whispered a promise that seemed impossible.
And beyond Abraham, ultimately, to God.
Always to God.
The saints are not primarily monuments to human achievement.
They are witnesses to divine faithfulness.
The Great, Untidy Procession
I sometimes imagine the Communion of Saints as an enormous procession.
The apostles are there.
The martyrs are there.
Francis and Clare are there.
Augustine is there, presumably still explaining something.
Hooker is there, probably attempting to achieve a judicious Anglican balance between several people who have already begun arguing.
And somewhere near the front are Abraham and Sarah, Moses and Miriam, Ruth and Naomi, Elijah, Isaiah, Jeremiah, Esther, Deborah and David.
Not because they understood everything.
They didn’t.
Not because they were flawless.
They most certainly weren’t.
But because they trusted enough to take another step.
And perhaps that is what sainthood looks like from the inside.
Not certainty.
Not perfection.
Not spiritual heroics.
Just another faithful step.
Abraham leaves home.
Moses walks toward Pharaoh.
Ruth stays with Naomi.
David picks up five stones.
Esther walks into the throne room.
Jeremiah keeps speaking.
Mary says yes.
Peter gets out of the boat.
And somewhere, today, another ordinary person chooses forgiveness instead of resentment, generosity instead of fear, courage instead of silence, hope instead of despair.
Another step.
Another saint in the making.
Remember, and Walk On
So today we remember the saints who came before the Church itself.
We remember the ancient family of faith.
We remember those whose names are famous and the countless others whose names have disappeared from history but remain perfectly known to God.
Perhaps we might even imagine, for a moment, a great spiritual ofrenda stretching across history—not an altar to the dead, but a table of remembrance.
Abraham’s walking staff.
Sarah’s tent.
Moses’ sandals.
Miriam’s tambourine.
Ruth’s sheaf of barley.
David’s harp.
Elijah’s mantle.
Isaiah’s scroll.
And beside them, perhaps, the small objects through which we remember our own saints.
A photograph.
A prayer book.
A wedding ring.
A recipe card.
A well-worn Bible.
A gardening glove.
A golf ball, perhaps—because surely sanctification must occasionally involve the back nine.
All of them reminding us:
We did not begin this journey.
We will not finish it.
For a little while, the road has been entrusted to us.
The Saints of the Old Testament received the promise and carried it forward.
Generations after them did the same.
Eventually the promise arrived in Bethlehem, walked the roads of Galilee, stretched out its arms upon a cross, and walked out of a tomb on Easter morning.
And now the story has reached us.
For this brief and beautiful moment, the faith is in our hands.
So remember those who came before.
Give thanks for their courage.
Smile at their imperfections.
Learn from their mistakes.
Trust the God who remained faithful through all of them.
And then take your place in the procession.
Because the God who called Abraham beneath the stars is still calling.
The God who spoke through prophets is still speaking.
The God who carried generations through wilderness, exile, loss, homecoming, death and resurrection is still carrying us.
The family album is not finished yet.
There are still pages waiting to be filled.
And, by the grace of God, one of them belongs to us.
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Companion Prayer
God of Abraham and Sarah,
of Moses and Miriam,
of Ruth and David,
of prophets, wanderers, dreamers, and saints:
We give you thanks for those who carried your promise before us.
Through their courage and their failures, their faith and their questions, you continued to lead your people toward hope.
Teach us to remember those who have gone before us with gratitude and love. Help us treasure the stories they entrusted to us, learn from their faithfulness, and forgive their imperfections as we pray others will forgive ours.
Give us courage to take our place in the great procession of your people—not perfectly, but faithfully; not knowing the whole road, but trusting the One who walks it with us.
And when our journey is finished, gather us with all your saints at that table where memory becomes communion, sorrow becomes joy, and every wandering child finally comes home.
Through Jesus Christ our Lord.
Amen.