All Saints’ Day
READING: Matthew 5.1–12; Revelation 7.9–end
Blessing Given and Received
I wonder who comes to mind when we hear the word “saint”?
Perhaps St Francis, speaking of peace and calling the creatures his brothers and sisters. Perhaps the saint our church is dedicated to, or whose name we bear. Perhaps someone remembered in a stained-glass window. Or perhaps someone much closer: a grandparent, a friend, someone whose quiet kindness helped us through a difficult time.
We sometimes say, “She’s a saint,” when someone has been exceptionally patient. Usually, we mean that they have managed something we would find difficult. Sainthood can sound rather exhausting.
But I wonder what changes when we listen to the gospel reading today and heard Jesus calling various categories of people “ blessed”
The poor in spirit. Those who mourn. The meek. Those hungry for righteousness. People showing mercy, making peace, suffering because they have stood up for what is right.
There is little here about being impressive. Jesus looks at people who know longing, vulnerability and loss, and declares that they belong within God’s blessing.
Perhaps that is where our understanding of sainthood needs to begin.
The saints are people through whom God’s blessing has become tangible – and people who have needed to receive that blessing themselves.
Think of someone who has helped us recognise God’s love. What did they actually do?
Perhaps they made room at their table. They remembered something we had told them. They listened without making us feel that our sadness had gone on too long.
Perhaps they asked for our help, giving us back a sense that we had something worthwhile to offer.
Such moments rarely appear in biographies. Yet they can change a life.
At the heart of Christian faith is a God who chooses to be with us: sharing our life in Jesus, entering our vulnerability and remaining alongside us in suffering.
To “be with” another person reflects something of that faithful love. It means taking time to enter their world, listening without assuming we already understand, and allowing ourselves to be changed by the encounter. We cannot remove someone’s bereavement or answer every anxious question. Yet companionship has value in itself. In shared silence, uncertainty and ordinary moments, we may both discover something of God’s presence.
I wonder who has stayed alongside us when there was little they could do to change what was happening?
Such companionship can reveal how much we need one another. Those offering care have their own vulnerabilities. The generous friend may be lonely. The person leading the prayers may struggle to pray. Someone accustomed to supporting others may find it difficult to accept help.
All Saints’ Day makes room for this shared humanity. Those we remember with gratitude had fears, doubts and unfinished struggles. They, too, needed encouragement, forgiveness and someone willing to sit beside them.
“Blessed are the poor in spirit.”
Could we hear these words as an invitation to loosen our need to prove ourselves, acknowledge our limits and become willing to receive love?
There is freedom in saying, “I don’t know.” Or, “I got that wrong.” Or simply, “Could you help me?”
I wonder whether some of our deepest encounters with grace have come when we finally allowed someone else to care for us.
In the book of Revelation, the other bible reading today, we are given a picture of where this life of blessing leads.
The writer of that book, John , sees a multitude beyond counting, drawn from every nation, tribe, people and language. Their differences remain visible within their belonging. These people have come through an ordeal. Their lives have known suffering.
Then comes the promise that echoes the Beatitudes: hunger and thirst will end; they will find shelter; God will wipe away every tear.
Those who mourn will be comforted.
On All Saints’ Day, many of us carry particular faces and names into that promise. We remember what those people gave us and feel the space their absence leaves. Faith allows us to bring gratitude and grief together. Our tears belong here too.
But these readings also turn us towards the world around us.
Jesus blesses the merciful and the peacemakers, those who hunger for righteousness. Revelation imagines people fed, sheltered and safe. That hope gives direction to our lives now.
In March this year, as violence escalated in Lebanon, St Joseph’s Jesuit Church in Beirut opened its doors to displaced migrant workers and families. Soon, around 200 people were sheltering there, receiving meals, mattresses, blankets and supplies for babies. Among them was Zahraa, who had found shelter in the same church during the fighting in 2024. When danger returned, she brought her young son back.
A church had become somewhere a mother remembered she could turn. Shelter took the shape of an open door and people willing to welcome her.
Those offering hospitality needed support themselves. Médecins Sans Frontières provided medical consultations and medication. Care depended on people bringing their different gifts together.
“Blessed are the merciful.”
They could not end the war, but they could share its burdens and help families through another day.
I wonder what it means for our churches to become places people know they can turn to when life falls apart?
Holiness takes shape in such acts of welcome, mercy and courage. Sometimes it requires public action. Sometimes it begins with noticing who has been left sitting alone.
During the coming week, we might spend time with the hymn “Brother, Sister, Let Me Serve You”, also known as “The Servant Song”. Its invitation to serve one another includes the willingness to receive another person’s service. As we listen or sing, we might bring to mind someone whose care we have received – and someone whose offer of help we find difficult to accept.
We will live this giving and receiving imperfectly. We will need forgiveness, encouragement and rest. The communion of saints has room for people still learning.
So I wonder: who has made room for our grief, shown us mercy or helped us believe that we belong? And whose blessing might we be invited to receive today?
Perhaps, through these ordinary exchanges of love, we have already glimpsed John’s great multitude.
Among those faces, known and unknown, we may recognise our neighbours, those we miss, and those we find difficult to understand.
And perhaps we can trust that there is room for us there too.
Image: Francis Joe Adique, Unsplash.com
