All Saints and All Souls usually fall within half term and we have quite often found ourselves in a Roman Catholic country , so one of the images that I associate with it is the sight of graveyards awash with chrysanthemums and family parties visiting and tending the graves in crisp autumn sunshine. Another holiday image is of the frescoed interior of Greek Orthodox Churches where an army of saints arranged in ranks worships the image of Christ above the altar. A third picture is the magnificent altarpiece of the Adoration of the Lamb in Ghent by Van Eyck which trumped the treasures of Bruges on another holiday. I needn’t describe the altarpiece as you will know it from the hymn “Jerusalem the golden, with milk and honey blessed” . Our hymn is a translation of a medieval hymn by Bernard of Cluny and Van Eyck must have had it, or something very similar in mind.
Each of these images captures an aspect of All Saints, but as the title of the festival perhaps hints, there is a certain catch all aspect to it. We tend to think of the saints as not necessarily those whom the church has chosen to honour, whether locally or universally, but all our Christian forebears now resting from all their labours, labours which with their help, we continue on earth. It is a time when we are especially conscious of the link between the living and the dead, and between earth and heaven.
The idea of a link between heaven and earth is central to sainthood; the cult of saints arose through the belief that particularly heroic Christians, usually martyrs, could continue their good work by being somehow present on earth, whether in the form of relics or in a shrine devoted to them. It remains the case that the Roman Catholic church, the only church as far as I’m aware that continues to canonise saints, requires proof of miracles. It seems rather absurd to expect miracles from an English gentleman like Cardinal Newman whose value and continuing influence is in his thought and writings, and perhaps especially in his wonderful hymns. These are, of course, a link and continuing influence, rather more significant, I suggest than miracle cures.
Alongside this influence and inspiration is a feeling of community and common purpose. The decorative scheme of the sort of Greek church which I was describing is centred on the Liturgy or as we call it the Eucharist. The idea is that as Jesus comes into our presence at the Eucharist so we and the whole creation in heaven and on earth worship him. The obvious expression of this is the Sanctus; “Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord God almighty, heaven and earth are full of your glory” In the Greek church, we sense this vividly as we join the rows of saints worshipping God. Greek churches are often quite small and unprepossessing on the exterior but inside the careful management of space and light and darks, with albeit usually rather faded colour and dim gilding, give a moving impression of a microcosm within, a miniature of the whole universe. We are present as the body of Christ composed of all who are, who have been and who will be, everywhere.
We can share a little of this experience today and in doing so we will find a useful antidote to two rather unhelpful ideas about Heaven. They both rely on the notion that Heaven is remote; somewhere quite other, and specifically where we hope to find ourselves when we are dead.
The first problem is seeing Heaven as a reward; the belief that an action is desirable or not for its consequences and specifically that doing good will secure the reward of a place in heaven (or avoid one in hell). The consequences of our actions are, of course, important and in many circumstances we do indeed decide what to do on the basis of what will happen as a result. But it just does not feel right to treat acts of bravery, or unselfish kindness, or generosity, as good, other than because they exemplify a law of life; a law summarised in loving our neighbour. There isn’t any question of a reward, heavenly or otherwise.
Another unhelpful attribute of heaven is centred on its other-worldliness; heaven is not here. Van Eyck paints heaven as suffused by a lovely light, the grass is dotted with exquisite flowers, the saints are dressed in magnificent robes, and their expressions are of earnest joy; the trees and buildings in the background are perfectly arranged and proportioned. It is inspiring but, despite being an idealised version of the real world, it is strangely unsatisfactory; it is beautiful but unattainable. It is escapism. In the crowded and smelly cities of Van Eyck’s Flanders it was some comfort to think that there was something so much nicer waiting for you afterwards. Even in the comparative material comfort of Hampstead, there are attractions in an escape from anxieties over money, children, health or housing or the pain of illness and sorrow of bereavement. On one reading, the Beatitudes seem to encourage this idea; the poor in heart, the peacemakers, those suffering for righteousness will be rewarded, but not it seems in this life. The Beatitudes may also suggest that the kingdom of heaven is closer than sometimes appears.
But there something rather supine in the idea that heaven is a reward or an escape. The idea that the world is bad leads to the attitude that nothing can really be done about it. Our efforts to bring about peace, plenty or the relief of suffering seem to be doomed because the world is necessarily full of strife, dearth and pain. The Gospel, on the contrary urges us to engage with the world. Not only does God become man in Jesus, but Jesus spends his time transforming the lives of the disabled and sick around him and promoting an ethic which would transform the morality and conduct of the world, if adopted. And in imitation of Jesus, the saints whom we venerate today were all in various ways worldly men and women actively bettering the lives of those around them.
In St Paul’s language we are parts of the body of Christ, each with an individual role but equally members of a whole. We are also part of a story; heirs like the ancient Israelites to a promise so there is a purpose to our existence. We may express this by visiting our forebears’ graves and picnicking among the chrysanthemums; we may imagine ourselves into an ideal landscape suffused with light of unreal and piercing clarity; or we may lose ourselves in the ranks of fading bearded old men and the damp smell of antiquity, oil lamps and incense, but most importantly, and attainably, we can achieve the same in our worship today as we share the one bread and become one body with all on earth and in heaven.
I was irritated recently by the report of a priest saying, during the Pope’s visit, that we should go to church in order to get to heaven; I took him to mean that going to church is chore but like all good behaviour it will be rewarded in the afterlife. I thought it was Christianity at it most absurdly superstitious and contractually legalistic. Reflecting on the festival of All Saints I have come see that he meant something much more important; that our coming together to worship alongside the saints and all creation is in fact to experience heaven. And if heaven can be experienced in church, it is something we can also bring about in our lives and in the world. Amen.