WE COME again to All Saints’ and All Souls’ Days, each of which begins with that wonderfully biblical and inclusive little word, All. I remember the effect that that word had on me, coming again and again as it did in the verses of Psalm 145, when I read that psalm a little before my own conversion. I remember how each all seemed to widen the circle of God’s love, till I began to wonder if even I, in all my folly and confusion, might be included in one of those alls:

The LORD is loving to everyone
and his compassion is over all his works.
All your works praise you, O LORD,
and your faithful servants bless you. . .
The LORD upholds all those who fall;
he lifts up all those who are bowed down.
The LORD is near to all who call upon him,
to all who call upon him faithfully.

In the end, it was those two little alls in verse 14 that included me: “The Lord upholdeth all such as fall: and lifteth up all those that are bowed down.”

But, to return to the two lovely Alls of All Saints’ and All Souls’, I have been reflecting on how easy it is for us to be partial and selective where God is generous and inclusive, and especially of how, when we think of great saints and holy souls, we tend immediately to think of already prominent people: the writers and teachers of the Church, the priests and prophets, the big historical figures, people who already have a bit of the spotlight, people whom the world also admires.

And also, as is perhaps fitting in a season of remembrance, we tend to restrict “All Saints’” to the departed, although, in fact, they have their own day in “All Souls’”. But what about the living? What about the ordinary saints, the ones we know? What of the saints we overlook, quietly toiling in their own modest sphere, secretly serving others?

So, in the spirit of the Beatitudes, and of Psalm 145, I chose to add to my sonnet sequence for this season, a sonnet about the ones we overlook, but whom God knows and loves intimately. It’s called “A Last Beatitude”:

And blessèd are the ones we overlook;
The faithful servers on the coffee rota,
The ones who hold no candle, bell or book
But keep the books and tally up the quota,
The gentle souls who come to “do the flowers”,
The quiet ones who organise the fête,
Church sitters who give up their weekday hours,
Doorkeepers who may open heaven’s gate.
God knows the depths that often go unspoken
Amongst the shy, the quiet, and the kind,
Or the slow healing of a heart long broken
Placing each flower so, for a year’s mind.
Invisible on earth, without a voice,
In heaven their angels glory and rejoice.