Ephesians 1:16-18; Luke 19:1-8; November 2, 2025; All Saints’ Sunday
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“I do not cease to give thanks for you as I remember you in my prayers,that the God of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of glory, may give you a spirit of wisdom and revelation as you come to know him, so that, with the eyes of your heart enlightened, you may perceive what is the hope to which he has called you, what are the riches of his glorious inheritance among the saints.” — Ephesians 1:16-18
Isn’t it beautiful?
My second favorite line is “with the eyes of your heart enlightened, you may perceive what is the hope to which Jesus has called you.” Isn’t that just a wonderful image? “With the eyes of your heart enlightened.”
In our gospel text today, that we didn’t hear from, Luke 19:1-8, a short man, a tax-collector, named Zaccheus climbs a tree so that he can see Jesus with his eyes. Do you remember this story? So that with his heart he can perceive hope. And there, Jesus looks up and sees him in that tree and asks him if he could dine with him at his house.
Can you imagine how Zaccheus’ eyes and heart must have been enlarged and enlightened by that? That the Son of Man, the Savior of the World, would break bread and pour wine in his midst?
My friends, how was your heart enlightened when it first set eyes on Jesus? When the hope of the gospel first became known to you? When you heard of the dream of Heaven, and the good news of Christ’s saving love that could redeem even a sinner like you — did your heart not leap for joy?
Isn’t it amazing that we too might be seen by Jesus and called to be a guest at His table? At His estate in Heaven, where there’s an infinite allotment of seats, such that next to our loved ones — those who have lived and died – we can eat, and laugh, and live again, for eternity.
It’s all a beautiful idea, isn’t it, my friends?
“With the eyes of our hearts enlightened.”
My favorite line though is: “I do not cease to give thanks for you as I remember you…”
As I remember you.
You see, I’m a sucker for the psychology of memory… for its power, for its mystery, for even its unreliability, and the way it shapes us personally. What are we after all but a byproduct of memories? Good and bad. True and false.
The Wonder Years — the original one with Fred Savage — was/is such a great show. In one of my favorite episodes, the kids tie themselves to a tree to prevent it from being cut down, and young Kevin Arnold quips that “ours is a world too careless with its memories.”
And he is right. And I don’t want to be. I don’t want us to be.
For our memories are important, and need to be dealt with; and the fond ones, they need to be kindled, otherwise what was the point of burning them in in the first place?
The other day I drove to Peace Valley Park up where I live in Doylestown. A fitting name, if there ever was one. And there, I pulled up my car to take in the splendor I’ve looked over for years. The same view, that doesn’t change too much in appearance, where in autumn you can expect to see the leaves dance in color upon the ripples of the water.
And as I sat there, watching and daydreaming, I remembered. The benches I sat on with Anya when we were first dating. The paths walked with my dog while he was still breathing. The kayaks steered with my old youth group during covid, where the only places we could gather were those separated by space and distance. And now that we’ve become distant by separation and space, I thought to myself, I really miss those kids. Those old memories. All my friends and family that I no longer see to whom I still pay rent in my heart.
And, as I sat there, I prayed. Maybe not with words. But with the Spirit’s movement all the same. And in silence, with memory, I gave thanks.
Somewhere during those moments of quiet, my heavy eyes were lifted beyond the window, and I noticed that to my right, sitting in his own car, was an older gentleman, looking upon the water with the same drifting expression that I just held. And I wondered if perhaps he too was remembering the walks he shared. The benches he sat. The picnics and kayaks he enjoyed, where there was once light, laughter, paw-prints, and life.
We were separated by generations, him and me, and the space between our cars and windows, and yet the two of us were gathered in that same place looking upon the same view. With the eyes of our hearts searching for the same enlightenment. Looking to the water for the same comfort of a similar hope.
And it occurred to me, then and there, that this is the exact power and beauty of the church right here! Wherever two of us are gathered in His name.
For this place, my friends, it also doesn’t change too much in appearance, and you can come back, park, and see the same stained glass, the same chancel, the same pulpit. Where even when the colors are different, and the faces foreign, and our loved ones are realms by death apart, the baptismal waters of memory still claim us here and gather us to the same table and gospel of hope.
Isn’t it beautiful?
Isn’t it beautiful when we aren’t careless with our memories, but give thanks for all that Grace has meant to us and our families?
“Your eyes beheld my unformed substance,” the Psalmist writes in the 139th, “and it was you, o God, who formed my inward parts; and so I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.”
Your eyes beheld my unformed substance…
My friends, God not only sees us with a heart infinitely enlarged but sees us as we are, no matter how undeveloped, no matter how true or false, and loves and remembers us as God’s own. As God’s children. And even though all of us have fallen, God has treated us like we are saints. Named in the will and inheritance of grace.
And each of us beneficiaries have been promised by Christ to be taken into His paradise, where there will be fields, and gardens, benches and paths, and a lake in the middle of a deep valley of peace, where those we’ve loved in memory will live with us eternally in an everlasting hope, singing “streams of mercy, never ceasing, call for songs of loudest praise.”
Isn’t it beautiful, my friends?
So let it be.
Amen.
