The Saints Are Still Here
All Saints Sunday sermon reflection by Pastor Hartman | November 1, 2026
30-second sermon summary
On All Saints Sunday, we remember those who have died and trust the promise of resurrection. But the story does not stop with them. We are saints too—still living in the middle of the stories we inherited, still able to speak up, love our neighbors, and make a difference. God’s love, witnessed in the cross, has no footnotes or fine print. So what will we do with the time we have?
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The empty space at the table
All Saints Sunday can be a hard day. We bring pictures and names. We remember a laugh, a voice, a place at the table that is empty now. Sometimes we remember someone with gratitude and sometimes with a complicated mixture of love, regret, and sorrow. Grief does not follow a schedule. And it does not become less real because we believe in resurrection.
When I preach at funerals, I sometimes say something that sounds out of place in a church: “This sucks.”
It is not polished. It is not meant to be. The death of someone we love hurts. Even when death comes after a long illness, even when we know a loved one is no longer suffering, we miss them. Christian faith does not ask us to pretend otherwise.
All Saints Sunday gives us room for both sorrow and hope. We name those who have completed their earthly journey. We hold them in gratitude. And we proclaim that their death is not the end of God’s love for them—or for us.
No asterisks on God’s love
In the sermon I returned to the cross. For me, the cross is a witness to God’s love for humanity, not merely to God’s love for people who manage to meet the right qualifications.
I said it this way: “No asterisks, no parentheses, no footnotes, no commas that limit, but for all people.”
I also raised a question about baptism. Christians have long taught that baptism joins us to Christ’s death and resurrection. I believe the reach of God’s grace is even wider than the boundaries we can draw around a sacrament.
That conviction does not make baptism unimportant. Baptism is a powerful gift and promise. In water and God’s word, we receive a tangible assurance of belonging to Christ. We can trust that promise even when we cannot trust our own strength.
But I will not speak as though human beings can set the final boundaries of God’s mercy. Other Christians, including faithful Lutherans, may describe the mystery of salvation differently. The cross keeps calling us back to the generosity of God.
We do not know every detail of what happens after death. I will not pretend to. But I trust the promise of resurrection and the love revealed in Christ. That promise is the ground beneath our grief.
A room full of saints
When we hear “saint,” many of us picture extraordinary people: heroes who lived long ago, people with halos, or people whose lives seem far more faithful than our own.
Lutheran language gives us another way to see it. We are saints and sinners at the same time: beloved by God, still imperfect, still learning how to follow Jesus.
That means All Saints Sunday is not only a day to look backward. Look around.
The person sitting beside you is a saint. The person listening online is a saint. You are a saint.
We are still here, and that means we are not finished. Faith for Real Life is not a slogan for the people who came before us. It is a call to the people living right now.
Seven generations—and the stories we carry
Our recent book study of Kaitlin B. Curtice’s Living Resistance stirred a question about generational memory. Some Indigenous traditions invite people to consider responsibilities across seven generations. We should not reduce diverse Indigenous peoples to one practice; Curtice’s book gave our group a way to examine what our own families remember and what we forget.
Can you name the people in your family seven generations back?
Most of us cannot. Perhaps we know the names of grandparents and great-grandparents. But a name is not the same thing as a story.
What did they believe? What did they fear? How did they treat the person who was overlooked? What courage did they show? What did their choices make possible for us?
We did not arrive here on our own. Our lives are a continuation of many lives. We inherit gifts. We also inherit mistakes and wounds that may need healing.
Remembering faithfully means more than praising our ancestors. It means choosing what to carry forward and what to change.
A line, a mobster, and a question of courage
In my family there is a story about my great-grandfather, my grandmother’s father, in Detroit during the Prohibition era.
As the story has been told to me, he was standing in a line for food when someone cut in front of him. He tapped the person on the shoulder and pointed him to the back of the line.
The man turned around. It was Al Capone.
According to the family story, Capone apologized and went to the back.
Now, I cannot independently verify a story passed from one generation to another. But that is partly the point. The story has survived because it says something about the courage my family wanted to remember: a willingness to say, “That is not right,” even when it might be easier to keep quiet.
There is humor in the family stories too, including our sometimes grand claims of Viking ancestry. I joked about having both Swedish and German roots and the stubborn streak they may have left me. We can laugh about those stories without treating a family legend as historical proof.
Beneath the laughter is a serious question: Will we use the courage we have been given?
Blessed is not the same as comfortable
Jesus’ Beatitudes (Matthew 5:1–12) speak blessing over people who mourn, who hunger for righteousness, who practice mercy, and who work for peace.
God’s presence is not reserved for lives that are comfortable or successful. The good news is that Christ is with us even when the world feels painful and uncertain.
But God’s blessing is not a permission slip to sit on the sidelines. It sets us free to show up.
We can notice when a neighbor needs food, or stand alongside someone who has been pushed aside. Also, we can speak when silence would be easier. We can help make our community a place where mercy is practiced and love shows up.
When we do these things it is not to earn sainthood but because God’s grace has already given us a place in the story.
We are living in the dash
At the end of the sermon, I recalled the familiar image of the dash between the dates on a gravestone.
We did not choose the first date. We do not know the second. But we are living in the middle of those two dates right now.
It is possible to spend so much time remembering what others did—or worrying about what will happen someday—that we miss the faithful work available to us today.
We can grieve, hope, and act at the same time. We can honor the saints who came before us by letting love take shape in our lives.
What story will people tell about our courage? Whose burden might be lighter because we were here?
What would it look like to live this ordinary week as saints who are still part of God’s work?
This week’s spiritual practice: Continue the Story
Continue the Story: Remember someone whose life shaped yours. Name the gift or value they passed on. Then carry it forward through one concrete act of love or courage this week.
Begin with one name. Tell one story. Then do one thing.
That is one way to live faithfully in the dash—held by the promise of resurrection, and free to love the world while we are here.
New Spirit Lutheran Church • Tucson, Arizona • Faith for Real Life
