When we walked into this sanctuary today, greeted by white and gold, with candelabras standing ready to name those we love and miss, we aren't just walking into an ordinary Sunday service. We are stepping into the presence of a vast cloud of witnesses.
We walk in surrounded by generations of saints whose prayers, sacrifices, and deep faith formed the very bedrock of our shared community. They are the ones who passed down to us a living heritage of grace. On All Saints Sunday, we don't just look back in quiet memory; we ask how their witness shapes our steps right now. How do we live, love, and lead in our own time as part of this enduring communion of saints?
Before we look at what it means to carry that legacy forward, let’s listen to our third reading today from 1 Kings.
The king went to Gibeon to sacrifice there, for that was the principal high place; Solomon used to offer a thousand burnt offerings on that altar. At Gibeon the Lord appeared to Solomon in a dream by night, and God said, “Ask what I should give you.” And Solomon said, “You have shown great and steadfast love to your servant my father David because he walked before you in faithfulness, in righteousness, and in uprightness of heart toward you, and you have kept for him this great and steadfast love and have given him a son to sit on his throne today. And now, O Lord my God, you have made your servant king in place of my father David, although I am only a little child; I do not know how to go out or come in. And your servant is in the midst of the people whom you have chosen, a great people so numerous they cannot be numbered or counted. Give your servant, therefore, an understanding mind to govern your people, able to discern between good and evil, for who can govern this great people of yours?”
It pleased the Lord that Solomon had asked this. God said to him, “Because you have asked this and have not asked for yourself long life or riches or for the life of your enemies but have asked for yourself understanding to discern what is right, I now do according to your word. Indeed, I give you a wise and discerning mind; no one like you has been before you, and no one like you shall arise after you. I give you also what you have not asked, both riches and honor all your life; no other king shall compare with you. If you will walk in my ways, keeping my statutes and my commandments, as your father David walked, then I will lengthen your life.”
Then Solomon awoke; it had been a dream. He came to Jerusalem, where he stood before the ark of the covenant of the Lord. He offered up burnt offerings and offerings of well-being and provided a feast for all his servants.
Later, two women who were prostitutes came to the king and stood before him. The one woman said, “Please, my lord, this woman and I live in the same house, and I gave birth while she was in the house. Then on the third day after I gave birth, this woman also gave birth. We were together; there was no one else with us in the house; only the two of us were in the house. Then this woman’s son died in the night because she lay on him. She got up in the middle of the night and took my son from beside me while your servant slept. She laid him at her breast and laid her dead son at my breast. When I rose in the morning to nurse my son, I saw that he was dead, but when I looked at him closely in the morning, clearly it was not the son I had borne.” But the other woman said, “No, the living son is mine, and the dead son is yours.” The first said, “No, the dead son is yours, and the living son is mine.” So they argued before the king.
Then the king said, “The one says, ‘This is my son who is alive, and your son is dead,’ while the other says, ‘Not so! Your son is dead, and my son is the living one.’” So the king said, “Bring me a sword,” and they brought a sword before the king. The king said, “Divide the living boy in two; then give half to the one and half to the other.” But the woman whose son was alive said to the king, because compassion for her son burned within her, “Please, my lord, give her the living boy; certainly do not kill him!” The other said, “It shall be neither mine nor yours; divide it.” Then the king responded, “Give her the living boy; do not kill him. She is his mother.” All Israel heard of the judgment that the king had rendered, and they stood in awe of the king because they perceived that the wisdom of God was in him to execute justice. --1 Kings 3:4–28 (NRSVue)
If you grew up watching classic TV, you might remember I Dream of Jeannie. Major Nelson stumbles across a magical bottle, pops the cork, and suddenly has a genie willing to grant his every wish. It touches on that universal human daydream: what would you do if someone handed you unlimited power and said, "Your wish is my command"?
If you were put on the spot by the Creator of the universe—no bottle required—and told, "Ask for anything you want," what would you say?
Be honest. Most of us might ask for a clean health report, a paid-off mortgage, or maybe for political campaigns to end at least three weeks earlier than they actually do.
When Solomon inherits the throne from his father David, he doesn't ask for invincibility, endless wealth, or the destruction of his opponents. He looks at the massive responsibility ahead of him and essentially says, "Lord, I’m way over my head here. I don't know what I'm doing."
The English text says he asks for an "understanding mind." But in the original Hebrew, the phrase is lev shomea—literally, a "listening heart."
Notice Solomon doesn’t ask for a sharp, aggressive intellect to outsmart people. He doesn’t ask to be the loudest voice in the room. Instead, he asks for a heart that listens—a heart tuned to God, tuned to truth, and tuned to the needs of the people he has been called to serve.
And notice who gets heard first. Right after this dream, two women come to Solomon. They are sex workers—people living on the absolute fringes of society with no status, no wealth, and no political capital. In the ancient world, they should have been invisible to a king. Yet, Solomon’s listening heart makes space for them. He listens to their grief, he reads between the lines of their desperate situation, and he seeks genuine protection for what is vulnerable and alive.
Notice what these women bring into the courtroom: profound, raw grief. One mother has lost her child in the night, and the other is terrified of losing hers. They don’t pretend everything is fine, and Solomon doesn’t ask them to brush their pain under the rug.
That is so important for us to hear today. On All Saints Sunday, we carry grief into this sanctuary. We carry the ache of empty chairs at our dinner tables, the longing for parents, partners, children, or friends who shaped our faith and are no longer here. And son, as those candles are lit, their light will quietly mark the lives of those we miss so deeply.
And if we are being completely honest, many of us are also carrying a different kind of grief right now—a collective fatigue, a sorrow over how fractured our culture feels, a worry about where our nation is heading as we approach an election, and a weary sadness over how hard it has become to talk to one another.
Here is the truth: it is okay to name our grief. In fact, it is necessary. When we stop pretending we have it all together, when we speak our heartaches out loud to God and to each other, we take a crucial step forward in our healing. Naming our grief doesn't make us weak; it makes us honest. And it opens a door for grace to enter the dark places we usually try to hide.
That kind of radical honesty is precisely what our ancestral legacy is built on. As Lutherans, we have a wonderfully realistic view of saints. We know that saints aren't perfect, flawless superheroes who lived up on pedestals. They were saint and sinner all at once—imperfect, flawed people who made mistakes, got things wrong, and yet were held, redeemed, and made holy by God's steadfast grace alone. Even Solomon, for all his wisdom, was deeply human and made plenty of missteps down the road. We honor our ancestors not because they were morally invincible, but because in their messy, saint-and-sinner lives, they named their pain, trusted God's promise, and tried to cultivate listening hearts. They left us a legacy built not on human perfection or worldly power, but on God's faithful grace.
That legacy brings us right into our calling as citizens and neighbors today.
In that same Lutheran tradition, we talk a lot about vocation—the simple, holy idea that God doesn't need our good works, but our neighbor certainly does. Participating in our civic life, taking time to vote in this upcoming election, and engaging in our communities isn't about saving the world or claiming ultimate power. God already holds the future. Rather, civic engagement is just one quiet, practical way we let our faith be active in love for our neighbors.
What if our duty as Christians, and as citizens, begins with asking God for the very thing Solomon asked for? What if we prayed for a listening heart?
A listening heart doesn't mean we abandon our convictions or stop caring about justice. Solomon used his listening heart to execute true justice. But a listening heart does slow us down. It gives us room to acknowledge our shared grief and heartbreak. It helps us listen past the noise to hear the actual suffering in our communities. It helps us ask: What decision here protects life? What path serves the common good? How do we care for the neighbor who has no voice in the room?
We stand on the shoulders of saints who weathered wars, economic collapses, political division, and deep personal loss—ordinary sinners transformed by extraordinary grace. They survived because their hope wasn't anchored in temporary political kingdoms, but in the enduring promise of Christ. They passed that promise on to us.
As you cast your vote this week, and as you walk through the days after, carry that ancestral legacy with you. Don't be afraid to name your grief and take those steps toward healing. Put away the need to win every argument. Take a breath. Ask God for a listening heart—one that seeks wisdom, extends mercy, and remembers who we belong to.
May the God of our ancestors grant us the wisdom to listen well, the courage to seek justice, and the grace to love our neighbors through it all. Amen.
Preached Sunday, November 1, 2026 - All Saints Sunday - at Vista Lutheran, St. Louis Park, MN.
