In the New Testament, the word saint is used to describe the entire membership of the Christian community. From very early times, however, the formal designation Saint came to be applied primarily to men and women of such holiness that they were and remain especially wonderful examples of Christian life and faith, and had days set apart to honor them individually.

The Church realized very early one that there were many men and women whose heroism and holiness were just as exemplary, but whose names had been lost and the memory of them not recorded. And so the Church set up a general All Saints Day to commemorate all of them, now no longer known to us by name.

Beginning in the 10th century, it became customary to set aside another day - a sort of extension of All Saints Day - on which the Church remembered that vast body of the Faithful, who, though certainly no less members of the Company of the Redeemed, are unknown in the wider fellowship of the Universal Church, largely because they lived modest, quiet lives, known only to family and close friends, and people in their village or neighborhood or parish church.

It was a day for particular remembrance of family members and friends, all those in our own lives past who had a godly and sanctifying influence on our lives.

But this might suggest that there is one for the real heroes, and a following day of quieter, more modest remembering of for all the others - the ones really so much better known to us.

That is not a very satisfying to assume or accept some sort of rigid distinction in Heaven, where, we are promised, no such A-Team/B-Team differences ever exists. And so by and large, while high-church Episcopalians have historically observed both individual weekday festivals, we and all our Church rested happily combining those two days into one final glorious day, today, All Saints Sunday - one integrated feast, which actually accords well the original biblical understanding of saints. As well as our dear love for those so precious to us.

And so today we rejoice in those famously and widely honored saints of the Church, and in the happy and wonderful memories of those equally dear, and genuine saints who were loved and are now treasured in the hearts of the people who knew them . . . us. Those saints who are living on in the minds and memories and lives of devotion and gratitude of those whose lives were touched by their witness, and are still touched. We celebrate the universal heroes high and lifted up and far off, and those who were not at all far off from us, but were and in Christ still are near - and dear: husband, father, mother, sister, brother, companion, friend . . . child. The people we lived with and loved, quarreled with and forgave. And were forgiven by. Cherished, and hurt, served, and annoyed. And who are now perfectly united with Christ, who have achieved what we seek to achieve, who have finished the race in which we still run, fought the good fight in which we still contend.

We are Christians and as such we believe that we do more than merely remember them, we still rejoice with them, in a fellowship that is unbroken. We believe that these saints, these we have loved who have gone forth, have been perfectly united with Christ. Christ in glory, Christ in the breaking of the bread, Christ in the hearts of his faithful people. They are one with Christ and one with us through Christ. That is what we mean by the Communion of Saints. That is what we mean by the Body of Christ. That is what we mean by the Church, in paradise, in heaven and on earth, what in grander days we always called "Christ's Church Militant here on earth." We are not separated from those we love anymore than we are separated from Christ himself. We are Christians, we are people of faith, we are people of the Spirit. But we are also human beings. We are people of flesh and blood, we are people who find expression in physical ways. We rejoice in the fellowship of those saints we love who are now perfectly united with Christ in glory, but it brings a wistful sadness, maybe even still breaks our heart, that we cannot see them, touch them, feel their physical presence. We can, and do, still talk of them, talk to them, ask their advice even, but they are not HERE with us the way they once were.

We are not weak in our faith when we are most keenly aware of our loss, and feeling sad because of it. Our Lord does not expect us not to grieve, does not expect us not to miss those who have departed out of this life and miss them terribly. He himself wept at the grave of his friend Lazarus. So pitifully that it moved even the judgmental Pharisees standing by to say quietly, "See how he loved him!"

Our Lord never misled us on this, never promised that his way would be the way of undiverted joy and bliss and sun-filled days. Never promised, that those who follow him and believe in him and love him and serve him would be blessed because they would never mourn, would be blessed because they would never feel poor in spirit. He did reassure us that those who mourn will be comforted, that out of our poverty of spirit we would one day discern the unsearchable riches of the Kingdom of God.

The way of Jesus, the way of his followers, the way of those who love him, and love each other in him, IS the way of suffering, sadness, and grief, just as surely as it is of joy and peace and glory. For us suffering, death and aching grief are only the beginning, all of that is really prelude to Resurrection, and to eternal life with those we love. And on that way forward and upward, somber and sad as it may be at times, and light and happy and satisfying as it genuinely is at other times, we are nevertheless always supported, encircled, enclosed, "compassed about" as the Church says, surrounded by those who have gone before us. Those we have known, those we have not known, those we have heard of, those we can only imagine, those who are forgotten, nameless to all.

We are surrounded by them all - not observed, not witnessed, not simply noticed, we are actually surrounded . . . yes, "compassed about" by a group, a crowd, a gathering so numberless that it can only be called a cloud, a cloud of those who have now first-hand, and for themselves, witnessed God's power and love up close and seen his face. These are they who have gone from suffering and death on into life. And supported by them, encouraged by them, strengthened by them, we continue the race. With patience and endurance and perseverance.

Every time St. Paul refers to death, he always refers to the ensuing life after that. Above all and in all and through all, hope and comfort and ultimate victory surges through every discussion he ever has of death, or suffering. And in his Epistle to the Romans, he names the source and substance of this durable optimism: "In all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am persuaded that neither life nor death, nor things present nor things to come . . . not anything, in all Creation can separate us from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus."

We are . . . persuaded . . . convinced that we are safe and sound and surrounded by the love of God and grace of Christ, and, so wonderfully supported right now by that grand, glorious exceeding great host, that . . . cloud of witnesses, that communion of saints, surrounding us, sustaining us, cheering us on, helping us forward with their prayers, bearing us up with their love, lending us with their faith when ours may mislaid, reminding us that "nothing can separate us from the love of God." or theirs. Nothing. Reminding us that there no real or lasting separation between us - they are there - in glory, and here - in tender love. We are one with them - we who feebly struggle and they who in glory shine are one, one with each other and together with them one with Christ. And Christ himself with all of us is one with God.