The Holy Disruption of our communion of Saints

When I dropped Mac off for daycare on Friday, Halloween, I have never met a room of more joyful 3- and 4-year-old boys in my life. This was because on this day, the boys weren’t just boys, but instead they were the Hulk, Spider-Man, Captain America, Batman, and a Ninja Turtle. The amazement with which they all took each other in—recognizing their favorite characters in the faces and on the bodies of some of their best buddies—was so joy-filled, so wonder-filled. The way they looked at each other was striking. It was like they could see the characters they loved reflected in one another. They could see courage. Strength. Kindness. They were pretending, yes—but they were also reflecting something real. Something about the heroes they admired had taken root in them.

And as I sat down to write this sermon after that drop-off, I couldn’t help but think about how it is like the day we celebrate today—All Saints’ Day. Because on this day, we remember that the saints, those we name in the calendar and those we name in our hearts, are the ones who reflect back to us the goodness and courage of God. They help us remember who we are and who we’re called to become. They remind us that holiness is not about perfection, but about love taking shape in the real world—in bodies, in choices, in lives that answer God’s call.

There’s a quote I’ve been sitting with this week, which comes from a commentary on today’s reading. It says:

“Divine response takes concrete shape when those who have economic means do everything possible to change the desperate condition of the poor both through charity and by working for systemic change.”

That is what the saints do. They let divine response take shape by whatever means possible: in their hands, their words, their courage, their choices. They live out love in ways that change the world around them.

Our Gospel reading this morning, from Luke 6, is the Sermon on the Plain. Jesus blesses those the world calls unfortunate—the poor, the hungry, the grieving—and warns those who are comfortable and full.

If it sounds familiar, it should. Mary sang this same song when she learned she would bear God’s Son:

“God has brought down the powerful from their thrones and lifted up the lowly; God has filled the hungry with good things and sent the rich away empty.”

The Sermon on the Plain and the Magnificat are woven from the same cloth—you can tell that Mary, as Jesus’ mother, was responsible for his faith education. They proclaim the same pattern of God’s movement: the same rhythm of holy reversal.

From the very start of Luke’s Gospel, God is turning the world right side up. What looks like blessing is not always blessing. What looks like weakness may be strength.

The Gospel is not quiet. It disturbs what is complacent and calls us to the places where love and justice are waiting to take root. This is what we might call holy disruption. Not chaos for its own sake, but the sacred turning of the world toward mercy. Holy disruption unmasks what harms us and reorders us toward love. Jesus isn’t inviting us to despair or guilt. He’s inviting us to live as if God’s kingdom is already breaking in. And that invitation has always found its clearest echoes in the saints.

When we think of the saints—those officially recognized and those known only to a few—we might imagine people of perfect virtue, people unlike us. But the truth is that the saints have always been human, always flawed, and always, in some way, a little disruptive.

Saint Francis of Assisi grew up in wealth and privilege but walked away from it all to rebuild the Church from the ground up—literally and spiritually. He lived with the poor, embraced lepers, and preached to birds. His life was a joyful disruption of the values of his day. He showed that peace doesn’t come from status or possessions, but from kinship—with God, with creation, with one another.

Dorothy Day, centuries later, embodied that same gospel pattern in New York City. She opened her home to the hungry, the weary, and the lost. Through the Catholic Worker Movement, she built communities of hospitality and protest, insisting that faith is not just about belief but about how we live together. Her life was a living sermon: that mercy must have structure, and love must take form.

Saint Elizabeth of Hungary, a young queen, used her royal power not to gather wealth but to give it away. She built hospitals, distributed food, and emptied her family’s storehouses during famine. Her generosity disrupted the order of her world. She lived as though the boundaries between rich and poor, clean and unclean, royal and common, had already been erased in God’s kingdom.

And Fred Rogers, perhaps one of the gentlest saints of our time, transformed television into a sanctuary. He reminded children—and adults—that they were loved just as they are. In a world obsessed with speed and spectacle, he slowed us down long enough to see one another. His kindness was a quiet revolution, a holy disruption that softened hearts and made room for grace.

Saint Óscar Romero, Archbishop of San Salvador, began as a cautious priest, but when he saw the suffering of his people under violence and oppression, he could no longer remain silent. The Gospel took hold of him. His words carried the dangerous truth that the Church must be where Christ is—among the crucified of the world. His courage cost him his life, but not his voice.

And Marsha P. Johnson, a Black trans woman and activist, lived with the conviction that every life is sacred and every body beloved. She clothed the poor, cared for her friends living on the margins, and danced through the streets in joy and defiance. Her life proclaimed resurrection—the triumph of love over shame, of joy over despair. She showed the world that God’s image cannot be contained or erased.

Each of them, so different from one another, took the love of God seriously enough to let it reorder their lives. They were not perfect. But they were faithful. And through them, divine response took shape in the world.

It’s tempting to think that to be part of that kind of divine work, we need to do something dramatic or world-changing. But that’s not how holy disruption usually begins.

Holy disruption often starts small—through quiet acts of courage, mercy, and generosity. It looks like choosing kindness when we could turn away. It looks like listening across deep difference. It looks like noticing who is lonely or left out and intentionally making space for them. It looks like refusing to participate in harm, even when it’s easier to stay silent. And sometimes, it looks like challenging a pattern or a policy that leaves people hungry or hurting—because love demands it.

Most of us already have that instinct. We already feel the tug to join God’s healing work. Sometimes we just need the reminder that those small acts matter. The risk doesn’t have to be overwhelming—because we are not doing this alone. Our courage is grounded in God’s trustworthiness and in one another’s companionship.

We don’t do these things to become saints. We already belong to the communion of saints—by grace, by baptism, by the sheer gift of being God’s children. But we are invited to live like it’s true—to let our lives bear witness to that belonging.

When I think back to that group of little superheroes in the daycare classroom, I think about how they looked at each other. They recognized something they loved, reflected in one another. That’s what the saints help us do: they help us recognize holiness—not just in the great figures of history, but in our neighbors, in our families, in ourselves.

Each of those saints we named saw something of God reflected in the people around them, and they acted on it. They trusted that divine love could take shape in them—and it did.

We are invited to the same kind of recognition and response: to look around and see the reflection of God in one another. To remember that our own hands, our own voices, our own daily choices can be part of God’s holy disruption of the world’s harm.

On All Saints’ Day, we don’t just remember those who came before us. We remember who we are because of them.

We remember that holiness isn’t out of reach—it’s already in us. It’s in every act of compassion, every small risk for love, every choice to align ourselves with the mercy of God.

Just like those children in their superhero costumes, we are learning to see the reflection of what we admire—of who we are called to be—in one another. We are the communion of saints, living and learning and growing together. And when we join the holy disruption of God—when we let love take concrete shape in our world—we remind the world what divine response looks like.

So may we, too, take our place in that great communion—the heroes of faith and the children of God—and may our lives reflect the love that makes all things new.

Amen.