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“Blessed Are Those Who Mourn” 

There are few things in life that make us more uncomfortable than being asked to bear witness to someone else’s grief. We don’t like seeing people we care about hurting. And when someone we love is grieving, most of us have an almost irresistible urge to say something that will make things better.  

The problem, of course, is that we don’t always know what that something should be.  

So we reach for the familiar phrases 

At least they lived a good, long life.  

At least they’re not suffering anymore. 

At least you have so many wonderful memories.  

And sometimes those things are true. Sometimes they’re even comforting. But sometimes, when you’ve just lost someone you love, the last thing you want to hear is a sentence that begins with “At least.” 

Because no matter how long someone lived, you probably would have liked a little more time. And no matter how many wonderful memories you have, memories aren’t quite the same thing as being able to pick up the phone and hear their voice.  

Now I don’t think people say these things because they’re insensitive. Quite the opposite. I think we say them because we care. Because we want to help. Because we desperately wish there was something we could say that would make the pain go away.  

But grief doesn’t work that way. It doesn’t follow a schedule. It doesn’t respond particularly well to advice. And it certainly doesn’t disappear just because someone has reminded us of all the reasons we should be grateful.  

Which is why I find Jesus’ words in this morning’s scripture so remarkable. Jesus looks at his disciples and says: Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh.  

Blessed are you who weep now. Right in the middle of it. While the tears are still falling. While the loss is still real. And on this All Saints Sunday, as we remember those who have gone before us, I think that’s a promise worth paying attention to. Because Jesus doesn’t begin by telling us to stop mourning. He begins by telling us that even in our mourning, we are blessed.  

Now, I think we need to acknowledge something right from the beginning. When Jesus says, ‘Blessed are you who weep now,” it sounds a little strange. Because that’s not usually how we think about blessings. When a baby is born, we talk about what a blessing the child is. When someone receives good news from a doctor, we thank God for the blessing of good health. But, somewhere along the way, I think we’ve developed a habit of using the word ‘blessed’ as though it means roughly the same thing as ‘fortunate.’ 

If things are going well, we’re blessed.  

And the problem with that understanding is what it suggests about the people whose lives aren’t going particularly well. What about the person sitting in the hospital waiting room, hoping for good news that never comes? Is that person somehow less blessed? I don’t think so. And I don’t think Jesus does either.  

In fact, when we look at this morning’s scripture, Jesus seems determined to challenge almost everything we ordinarily associate with blessing.  

Blessed are you who are poor. 

Blessed are you who are hungry now. 

Blessed are you who weep now. 

These are not the people we typically think of when we hear the word blessed. And yet, these are precisely the people Jesus addresses.  

Jesus does this because he’s announcing something about the kingdom of God. He’s telling people who have been overlooked, excluded, and pushed to the margins that their circumstances do not determine their worth in God’s eyes. He’s telling people who have very little reason to feel fortunate that they have not been forgotten. And he’s telling people whose lives are marked by suffering that their present circumstances are not the final measure of what God has promised them. 

Because the kingdom of God operates according to a very different understanding of what it means to be blessed. In the kingdom of God, blessing begins with the faithfulness of God. And God’s faithfulness does not disappear when life becomes difficult.  

God does not abandon us when the diagnosis is bad.  

God does not turn away when our prayers seem to go unanswered.  

And God does not become any less present when someone we love dies.  

Which brings us back to Jesus’ words: Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh.  

Jesus doesn’t offer an explanation for their suffering. He offers a promise that their suffering will not have the final word. And I think there’s an important difference between those two things. Because when someone we love dies, we don’t necessarily need someone to explain why it happened. Sometimes there isn’t an explanation that will satisf17y us. Sometimes there isn’t a lesson to be learned. And the good news of the Gospel is that4 we don’t have to resolve those feelings before we can experience God’s presence.  

We don’t have to make sense of our grief.  

We don’t have to find something positive in our loss.  

Because the blessing Jesus proclaims isn’t a reward for how well we handle suffering. It's a declaration that even in the midst of suffering, we belong to God. And that belonging is something death itself cannot take away.  

One of the strange things about grief is how unexpectedly it can find us. Sometimes it comes at the moments we expect. Birthdays. Anniversaries. Holidays. Those occasions when we’re particularly aware that someone who used to be there isn't there anymore. 

But sometimes grief catches us completely off guard. You're making dinner, and you remember how someone used to prepare a particular dish. You're driving down the road, and a song comes on the radio that you haven't heard in years. You hear someone laugh, and for just a moment, it sounds exactly like someone you love. Or something happens in your life, and your first instinct is to pick up the phone and tell someone about it. 

And then you remember. 

You can't. 

And suddenly, a perfectly ordinary Tuesday afternoon becomes a moment of grief. 

I think one of the reasons grief can be so difficult is that love doesn't simply disappear when someone dies. We don't stop loving people because they're no longer physically present. We don't stop being shaped by the things they taught us, the experiences we shared, or the ways they influenced our lives. In many ways, the people we love remain part of who we are. 

And on All Saints Sunday, the church gives us an opportunity to acknowledge that reality. 

Today, we remember the people who have gone before us. We speak their names. We give thanks for their lives. And we acknowledge the grief that accompanies their absence. But there's something important I want us to understand about what we're doing here today. 

Because All Saints Sunday isn't simply an opportunity to remember people who have died. It's also an opportunity to remember something we believe about the church. Every time we recite the Apostles' Creed, we profess our belief in the communion of saints. 

Now, that's one of those phrases we Presbyterians can say with remarkable confidence without necessarily stopping to think about what it means. We believe in the communion of saints. Wonderful. What exactly is that? 

Well, for starters, when Presbyterians talk about saints, we're not talking about a special category of Christians who managed to live exceptionally holy lives. We're not talking about people who never made mistakes, never lost their tempers, or never said something they probably shouldn't have said at a Session meeting. If perfection were a requirement for sainthood, I suspect the communion of saints would be a considerably smaller gathering. 

No. 

In the Reformed tradition, the saints are the people who belong to Jesus Christ. Ordinary people. Imperfect people. People who tried to live faithfully and sometimes got it right. People who tried to live faithfully and sometimes got it spectacularly wrong. People who trusted in God's grace because, like the rest of us, they needed it. And the remarkable thing about the communion of saints is that it includes more than the people sitting in the pews beside us this morning. 

It includes the faithful who have gone before us. The generations who built churches, taught Sunday school, sang hymns, served their neighbors, and passed the faith along to those who came after them. It includes the people whose names we remember today. And it includes countless others whose names we may never know, but whose lives remain known and cherished by God. 

Because the church is not simply a gathering of people who happen to be alive at the same time. The church is the body of Christ. And our belonging to that body is grounded in something stronger than our own mortality. It's grounded in the faithfulness of Jesus Christ. Which means that death, as painful and as final as it can feel to those of us left behind, does not have the power to separate God's people from the love of God. 

Because the promise of our faith is that death does not get to take everything. Death does not get to undo the love of God. Death does not get to erase a life that has been held in God's care. And death does not get to sever the bonds that unite us in Jesus Christ. For we grieve as people who trust that the story doesn't end at the grave. 

And perhaps that's one of the most important things about All Saints Sunday. We don't gather to pretend that death doesn't hurt. We gather to proclaim that death doesn't win. We gather to remember that the people we love are not forgotten by God. And we gather to trust that the same grace that held them throughout their lives continues to hold them beyond death. 

Which brings us back to Jesus' promise. "Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh." Jesus doesn't tell us when that laughter will come. He doesn't promise that every sorrow will be resolved in this lifetime. But he does promise that the world as we experience it now, with all its grief and loss and heartbreak, is not the world as God intends it to remain forever. 

And that promise is something we can hold onto. Even when we're still weeping. Even when the empty chair is still empty. Even when the grief is still very much a part of our lives. Because the hope of the resurrection is not that we will eventually forget the people we have lost. It's that God has not forgotten them. And God has not forgotten us. 

In just a few moments, we're going to gather around this table. And I think there's something especially beautiful about celebrating the Lord's Supper on All Saints Sunday. Because when we come to this table, we don't come alone. We come as part of something much bigger than ourselves. We come as members of the body of Christ, united with Christians throughout the world and across the generations. 

We come remembering the people who taught us to pray. The people who brought us to church. The people who showed us what it looks like to love our neighbors. The people whose faith helped shape our own. And we come remembering those whose absence we still feel. 

But this table is more than a place of remembrance. It's a place of promise. Because every time we break the bread and share the cup, we proclaim that the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ have changed what death means for us. We proclaim that death is real, but it is not ultimate. We proclaim that grief is painful, but it is not permanent. And we proclaim that the love of God is stronger than anything that threatens to separate us from it. 

Including death itself. 

Friends, I don't know what grief you carried into this sanctuary this morning. Perhaps you're mourning someone who died recently. Perhaps you're remembering someone who died many years ago. Perhaps you're grieving something that doesn't have a name we can read aloud or a bell we can ring. But whatever grief you've brought with you today, I hope you'll hear the promise Jesus makes. 

Not that you shouldn't be sad. Not that you need to move on. Not that everything will somehow make sense if you just have enough faith. 

But that you are blessed. Right here. Right now. 

Even in the midst of your grief. 

Because the God who held those we love throughout their lives continues to hold them still. And the God who holds them is the same God who holds us. So come to the table. Come with your memories. Come with your gratitude. Come with your grief. And come with your hope. Because Jesus Christ has promised us that death will not have the final word. 

And one day, by the grace of God, the tears we shed today will give way to joy. 

For Jesus says: 

"Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh." 

Amen.