Our reading from Hebrews 11 is sometimes called the “roll call of faith.” It reads like a who’s who of the Bible: by faith the people crossed the Red Sea, by faith Rahab welcomed the spies, by faith kingdoms were conquered et cetera, et cetera.
But if you keep listening, this roll call turns somber. Others were tortured, mocked, flogged, stoned, sawn in two, killed by the sword. They wandered deserts and hid in caves. They were people of whom, the text says, “the world was not worthy.”
And if you thought all that was too cheerful, the author says: “yet all these, though commended for their faith, did not receive what was promised.” They ran, they endured, they persevered, and the finish line remained out of sight. Which means the race isn’t over. It’s been handed to us.
I don’t know about y’all, but I sometimes feel this sense of running without seeing the finish line. It seems to me that we live in a world where injustice drags on and peace feels impossibly far away. And that feeling is sometimes overwhelming, disheartening, and lonely.
Some of you might recall that I’ve told you this story before, but it bears repeating one more time because one of the ways we show solidarity with people is by reminding them they are not alone.
And last November, I spent three weeks in Palestine with an organization called Sabeel, whose mission is to accompany Palestinian Christians and learn how they draw on their faith in Jesus as a source of perseverance under oppression. And it was founded by an Episcopal priest by the way.
One of the people I met was Lulu Nasir, whose twenty-four year old daughter Layan was arrested without a warrant and held in administrative detention for eight months. She was never charged with a crime. Only her lawyer could see her. Not her mother, not her friends, not her church. She wasn’t even allowed to have letters. All messages to and from Layan had to be communicated verbally through her attorney.
But when Lulu spoke with us, she said that what sustained her was the conviction that somehow, through God’s abiding presence, Layan could feel her loved ones’ prayers and know she wasn’t alone.
And one month after my visit, those prayers were answered in part: Layan was released, after Episcopal and Anglican leaders, including the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Presiding Bishop, joined with global authorities in condemning Israel’s detention policies. Yet while we give thanks for that, we also lament that thousands of Palestinians remain in administrative detention, and thousands more, along with Israelis, have died in this ongoing war.
Violence and fear are still heavy weights clinging to humanity, causing us to stumble in the race for justice and peace. And in the face of it, it’s easy to feel like we’re running alone.
But Hebrews says otherwise: we are not running alone.
“Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight… and run with perseverance the race set before us, looking to Jesus the pioneer and perfecter of our faith.”
The Catechism in our red Prayer Book asks: What is the communion of saints? And it answers:
The communion of saints is the whole family of God, the living and the dead, those whom we love and those whom we hurt, bound together in Christ by sacrament, prayer, and praise.
That’s the cloud of witnesses. Not just the stained-glass saints (though if you notice that window over there, you can find a medley of martyrs depicted by their symbols that are usually the means of their executions). The cloud of witnesses is not just the famous names, but the whole family of God, biblical heroes and modern-day disciples like the ones in our memorial garden, those we admire and those we’ve wounded, those living and those departed, all bound together in Christ.
God has made us one with the saints in heaven and on earth, so that in our earthly pilgrimage, this earthly race, we may always be supported by the fellowship of their love and prayer.
Which means that Lulu was right. Prayer really does connect us. Layan really was held in love by a cloud of witnesses she couldn’t see. And so are we.
That’s the gift of the communion of saints. We are never left to run this race on our own.
The saints are not just relics of the past. They are companions of the present, encouraging us, praying for us, urging us on. Mary, the Mother of God, reminds us to magnify the Lord even when things don’t make sense and the world seems set against us. Augustine of Hippo reminds us that even our most tangled desires can be reshaped by grace. Francis of Assisi reminds us to live simply and care for all God’s creatures.
And the everyday saints in our lives, the grandmother who prayed for you, the friend who encouraged you, the parishioner who quietly yet warmly greeted you in your pew every Sunday, they’re a part of the cloud too.
Now, they weren’t perfect. They struggled, they failed, they fell short. But they didn’t stop running. And because they kept their eyes on Jesus, we can too.
So when the road feels long, when the headlines overwhelm us, when grief and fear weigh us down, look up into the stands. Every seat is full. The whole family of God is there, leaning forward, calling our names, and urging us on.
So friends, we are in good company. We are surrounded by a fellowship of love and prayer that no wall, no prison, no grave, no war can break. And the one who runs before us, Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of our faith, will see us through to the finish line. Amen.
Sermon for August 17, 2025
The Rev. Taylor Vines
Our reading from Hebrews 11 is sometimes called the “roll call of faith.” It reads like a who’s who of the Bible: by faith the people crossed the Red Sea, by faith Rahab welcomed the spies, by faith kingdoms were conquered et cetera, et cetera.
But if you keep listening, this roll call turns somber. Others were tortured, mocked, flogged, stoned, sawn in two, killed by the sword. They wandered deserts and hid in caves. They were people of whom, the text says, “the world was not worthy.”
And if you thought all that was too cheerful, the author says: “yet all these, though commended for their faith, did not receive what was promised.” They ran, they endured, they persevered, and the finish line remained out of sight. Which means the race isn’t over. It’s been handed to us.
I don’t know about y’all, but I sometimes feel this sense of running without seeing the finish line. It seems to me that we live in a world where injustice drags on and peace feels impossibly far away. And that feeling is sometimes overwhelming, disheartening, and lonely.
Some of you might recall that I’ve told you this story before, but it bears repeating one more time because one of the ways we show solidarity with people is by reminding them they are not alone.
And last November, I spent three weeks in Palestine with an organization called Sabeel, whose mission is to accompany Palestinian Christians and learn how they draw on their faith in Jesus as a source of perseverance under oppression. And it was founded by an Episcopal priest by the way.
One of the people I met was Lulu Nasir, whose twenty-four year old daughter Layan was arrested without a warrant and held in administrative detention for eight months. She was never charged with a crime. Only her lawyer could see her. Not her mother, not her friends, not her church. She wasn’t even allowed to have letters. All messages to and from Layan had to be communicated verbally through her attorney.
But when Lulu spoke with us, she said that what sustained her was the conviction that somehow, through God’s abiding presence, Layan could feel her loved ones’ prayers and know she wasn’t alone.
And one month after my visit, those prayers were answered in part: Layan was released, after Episcopal and Anglican leaders, including the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Presiding Bishop, joined with global authorities in condemning Israel’s detention policies. Yet while we give thanks for that, we also lament that thousands of Palestinians remain in administrative detention, and thousands more, along with Israelis, have died in this ongoing war.
Violence and fear are still heavy weights clinging to humanity, causing us to stumble in the race for justice and peace. And in the face of it, it’s easy to feel like we’re running alone.
But Hebrews says otherwise: we are not running alone.
“Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight… and run with perseverance the race set before us, looking to Jesus the pioneer and perfecter of our faith.”
The Catechism in our red Prayer Book asks: What is the communion of saints? And it answers:
The communion of saints is the whole family of God, the living and the dead, those whom we love and those whom we hurt, bound together in Christ by sacrament, prayer, and praise.
That’s the cloud of witnesses. Not just the stained-glass saints (though if you notice that window over there, you can find a medley of martyrs depicted by their symbols that are usually the means of their executions). The cloud of witnesses is not just the famous names, but the whole family of God, biblical heroes and modern-day disciples like the ones in our memorial garden, those we admire and those we’ve wounded, those living and those departed, all bound together in Christ.
God has made us one with the saints in heaven and on earth, so that in our earthly pilgrimage, this earthly race, we may always be supported by the fellowship of their love and prayer.
Which means that Lulu was right. Prayer really does connect us. Layan really was held in love by a cloud of witnesses she couldn’t see. And so are we.
That’s the gift of the communion of saints. We are never left to run this race on our own.
The saints are not just relics of the past. They are companions of the present, encouraging us, praying for us, urging us on. Mary, the Mother of God, reminds us to magnify the Lord even when things don’t make sense and the world seems set against us. Augustine of Hippo reminds us that even our most tangled desires can be reshaped by grace. Francis of Assisi reminds us to live simply and care for all God’s creatures.
And the everyday saints in our lives, the grandmother who prayed for you, the friend who encouraged you, the parishioner who quietly yet warmly greeted you in your pew every Sunday, they’re a part of the cloud too.
Now, they weren’t perfect. They struggled, they failed, they fell short. But they didn’t stop running. And because they kept their eyes on Jesus, we can too.
So when the road feels long, when the headlines overwhelm us, when grief and fear weigh us down, look up into the stands. Every seat is full. The whole family of God is there, leaning forward, calling our names, and urging us on.
So friends, we are in good company. We are surrounded by a fellowship of love and prayer that no wall, no prison, no grave, no war can break. And the one who runs before us, Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of our faith, will see us through to the finish line. Amen.