All Saints’ Day: The Church Triumphant Still Marches by Jeff Callaway

All Saints’ Day: The Church Triumphant Still Marches

By Jeff Callaway

Texas Outlaw Poet

When November 1, 2025 rises over Texas, I imagine Heaven crackling like sunrise over the desert—gold against the blue, saints blazing in the glory of God. The world below yawns off its sugar-hangover, plastic skeletons still dangling from porch rails, but the real story is not about ghosts or graveyards. It is about victory—about the saints who walked through fire and came out shining.

All Saints’ Day is not nostalgia. It is the declaration that grace has the last word. Every martyr who refused the emperor’s idols, every mother who whispered the rosary through war, every addict who fell to his knees in the dark and said “Lord, have mercy”—they’re part of this vast multitude before the throne of God. Scripture calls it “a great multitude that no one could number, from every nation, tribe, people, and language.” They are alive. They are watching. They are praying for us.

What All Saints’ Day Really Is

The Church calls it All Hallows’ Day—the solemnity that honors every saint in Heaven, both those canonized and those who never had a feast day or statue. It sits at the center of a three-day arc: All Hallows’ Eve, All Saints, and All Souls. The Church Militant here on earth joins hands with the Church Suffering in purgatory and the Church Triumphant in glory. The Catechism says the saints “do not cease to intercede for us before the Father.” They are the living proof that holiness is not optional; it’s our destiny.

The first Christians marked martyrs’ graves with simple bread and wine. By the fourth century, when persecution had harvested too many heroes to count, the Church gathered them all into one feast. In 609 A.D. Pope Boniface IV consecrated the Pantheon—once a temple to every Roman god—to the Virgin Mary and all martyrs, filling it with twenty-eight wagonloads of relics. Pagan dust became sacred ground. Later Popes Gregory III and IV moved the date to November 1 and spread it to the entire Church. By the ninth century, every monastery bell in Christendom rang for the saints.

Today, the bells still ring. The liturgical color is white, symbol of joy and resurrection. The Gloria and Credo resound in the Mass. Families visit cemeteries, light candles, and teach their children that death has no sting for those who die in grace. In Poland they blanket graves with flowers. In the Philippines, whole families camp overnight in cemeteries singing hymns. In Mexico the ofrendas glow with marigolds and sugar skulls—a fusion of Catholic faith and local color that still points toward eternal life. Across the world, November 1 is a holy day of obligation. Heaven demands attendance.

The Theology of Triumph

All Saints’ Day shouts a simple truth: holiness is possible. God’s call in Leviticus—“Be holy, for I am holy”—was not poetry. It was instruction. Saints are not born; they are forged. They fail, fall, and rise again. They are sinners who refused to quit. Each one became a mirror of Christ, radiating a different facet of His light. The Beatitudes—poor in spirit, pure of heart, merciful, persecuted for righteousness—are their battle manual. Their prayers, says the Book of Revelation, rise like incense before the throne of God. When we ask for their intercession, we are not worshiping them; we are asking comrades who have already finished the race to help us run ours.

The War for October 31

Somewhere between the Celtic fires of Samhain and the American shopping aisles of plastic horror, the vigil of All Hallows’ Eve lost its holiness. The night meant for prayer and fasting became a carnival of demons. Parents dress their children as witches, monsters, and serial killers, laughing as darkness masquerades as fun. The devil doesn’t own a day, but he thrives in confusion. Halloween, as marketed now, is his parody of sacred vigil.

The Church never feared harvest festivals. It baptized them. Pope Gregory the Great told missionaries to convert temples, not burn them, turning old customs toward the true Light. But what modern culture has done is different: it celebrates the macabre without resurrection, the grave without grace. Bishop David Konderla of Tulsa warned the faithful to avoid “frightful imagery that contradicts our faith.” The true Catholic response is reclamation, not retreat. Dress your children as saints, not specters. Hold All Hallows parties. Pray the Litany of the Saints. Let the world see joy stronger than death.

My Road to the Saints

My own conversion story winds through hell and back. I was a Baptist kid who lost the map, plunged into the occult, and nearly died chasing false light. When my heart failed in 2020—three stents, a lung collapsed, breath slipping away—I saw what the world can’t explain. In the blackness of the hospital room, the Virgin Mary appeared, radiant, gentle, utterly real. Beside her, Christ Himself—merciful, not condemning. That night the Texas Outlaw Poet surrendered. I promised I’d spend the rest of my days telling His truth.

So when I kneel on All Saints’ Day, I’m not reciting theory. I’m thanking the friends in Heaven who dragged me out of the pit.

Saint Joseph, Terror of Demons

He was my Confirmation saint, chosen because I needed a protector who doesn’t flinch. A workingman’s saint. When anxiety gnaws or bills tower, I whisper, “St. Joseph, guardian of the Redeemer, guard me.” Doors open. Work appears. Peace settles. He stands beside every father who still believes manhood means silent sacrifice.

Saint Thérèse of Lisieux, the Little Flower

When panic tightens my chest, I think of her writing in the convent: “I will spend my Heaven doing good on earth.” Her little way taught me sanctity hides in small acts—folding laundry, forgiving insults, breathing through pain. After my surgeries, I kept a single rose by my bed as a sign that she hadn’t forgotten me. It never wilted until the day I left the hospital.

Saint Joan of Arc

When corruption enrages me, I remember the peasant girl who told the king the truth. She said, “I was born for this.” So was I—to speak truth even when the mob jeers. Joan’s sword is not for blood; it’s for conviction. She reminds me that patriotism without virtue is idolatry and courage without faith is madness.

Saint Teresa of Ávila

During long nights of prayer, her Interior Castle sits by my chair. When my mind scatters, Teresa’s calm voice reminds me that God dwells in the soul’s center chamber, waiting. She taught me to turn suffering into contemplation, to see prayer not as escape but engagement.

Saint Padre Pio

The man of the stigmata. He lived pain as prayer. When my chest tightens and fear whispers that another collapse is coming, I call to him: “Padre Pio, let me unite this breath to Christ’s Cross.” Strength returns. Miracles don’t always cure; sometimes they simply keep you standing.

Saint John Paul II

He was the first pope I ever watched on television. When the world mocked holiness, he smiled and said, “Do not be afraid.” His devotion to Mary anchored my own. Through his Totus Tuus, I learned that consecration to Jesus through His Mother is not superstition but surrender.

These saints are not dead icons. They are alive companions. I speak their names every dawn in my litany, each bead of the rosary assigned to a friend who fought the good fight. My faith is not abstract theology; it is a network of love stretching from my Texas desk to the courts of Heaven.

The Communion of Saints in the Modern Storm

Look around: wars rage, families fracture, politics rot, and technology numbs souls. Yet the saints cut through the static. They prove that every age can produce holiness. The martyrs of ancient Rome faced lions; today’s martyrs face ridicule and lawsuits. The battlefield changed, not the enemy. Relativism whispers, “Do what feels right.” The saints shout back, “Do what is right.” They are the antidote to despair.

All Saints’ Day also dismantles the culture of celebrity. The world crowns influencers; the Church crowns intercessors. Heaven’s hall of fame is filled with janitors, nurses, mothers, monks—souls whose names only God knows. That’s the point. The feast celebrates anonymous holiness: the grandmother who prayed a rosary every night, the mechanic who refused to cheat, the hospice nurse who held a stranger’s hand. They will shine brighter than any headline.

Wisdom Woven Through the Feast

Every fact about this solemnity is a doorway into mystery. It reminds us that the Church thinks in centuries, not news cycles. The feast stands as a living catechism:

* It affirms the resurrection of the body and eternal life.

* It unites the three parts of the Church in a single act of worship.

* It proclaims that sainthood is attainable for laypeople, clergy, and royalty alike.

* It teaches that charity and justice are the twin rails of sanctity.

* It transforms remembrance of death into anticipation of glory.

Even the small customs—candles, white vestments, the hymn “For All the Saints”—carry theology in melody. Each lighted flame says: the darkness has limits.

America’s Need for the Saints

In a country tearing itself apart with ideology, we need intercessors who belong to neither party but to Heaven. St. Thomas More for integrity in politics. St. Katharine Drexel for racial justice rooted in charity, not rage. St. Damien of Molokai for compassion toward the outcast. St. Michael the Archangel for every police officer walking into danger. Saints are not mascots; they are blueprints. Their courage exposes our cowardice and their mercy restrains our vengeance.

When I write as the Texas Outlaw Poet, I try to channel that same paradox—righteous anger yoked to divine mercy. The outlaw in me rails against hypocrisy; the Catholic in me kneels before grace. That tension is the heartbeat of conversion.

My All Saints’ Day Practice

Every year I attend the vigil Mass on October 31. No costumes. No jack-o’-lanterns. Just candles flickering against the dark. After Mass I read Revelation 7 aloud: “They cried out with a loud voice, ‘Salvation belongs to our God.’” Then I drive to the cemetery where my ancestors rest, rosary in hand, thanking God for their faith. I leave a rose for my mother and a candle for the souls still waiting in purgatory. On November 2 I pray the Office for the Dead. The three days together—Eve, Saints, Souls—form a complete sermon: death, judgment, mercy, glory.

Why This Feast Still Matters

Because the world forgets Heaven. Because headlines preach fear and the saints preach endurance. Because every sinner needs proof that redemption is real. Because holiness is not nostalgia but revolution—the only revolution that never sheds innocent blood.

All Saints’ Day teaches that sanctity is contagious. Read the lives of saints and you catch fire. Visit their shrines and you remember your purpose. The goal of life is not survival; it is beatitude. The saints are evidence that God’s grace can transform anyone: murderers like St. Paul, playboys like St. Augustine, skeptics like St. Thomas, doubters like me.

Heaven’s Song Over The World

As the sun sets on November 1, I imagine the saints hovering over every church steeple, their praise mingling with the crickets of the plains. St. Joseph standing guard over working fathers. Thérèse scattering roses over hospitals. Joan of Arc riding across prairie wind. Teresa whispering prayer into the souls of the weary. Padre Pio blessing every broken heart. John Paul II smiling down on every child clutching a rosary. They are not gone; they are present in power.

When I breathe hard from the scar tissue in my chest and panic flares, I picture that “great cloud of witnesses.” I remember that I am not fighting alone. The saints are the proof that faith outlives the flesh.

Closing: The Triumph of Heaven

All Saints’ Day is the Church’s victory parade—our annual trumpet blast across the battlefields of time. It is the day Heaven throws wide its gates and the saints lean over the ramparts of eternity to remind us: the war was won on Calvary. The smoke and confusion down here may blur the lines, but the banner of Christ still flies high, untattered, blood-red, and royal. Every saint, known or hidden, is a soldier beneath that banner. They fought not for applause or politics, but for the Kingdom that cannot be shaken.

This is no soft remembrance. This is a roll call of Heaven’s warriors. It is the sound of steel faith and burning love. It is the roar of martyrs who would rather die with truth on their tongues than live with compromise in their hearts. It is the whisper of quiet mothers, monks, and laborers who carried crosses no one saw and loved God in secret until the light of eternity revealed their crowns.

All Saints’ Day is proof that the Gospel works. That holiness is not a museum relic or a monastic dream. It is alive. It walks the earth in calloused hands and trembling hearts. The saints were made of the same clay as us—weak, doubting, sinful—but fired in the furnace of divine mercy until they became vessels of light. Their stories echo the same refrain: Grace is greater. Greater than sin, than fear, than despair, than death itself.

So let the world sneer at faith. Let it mock purity and market pleasure. The saints are not shaken. They have already crossed the finish line, and they are cheering for us to run harder. They tell us that the narrow road is still open, the confessional still breaks chains, the Eucharist still feeds the starving soul, and the Rosary still crushes the serpent’s head.

All Saints’ Day is a reminder that the Church is not a dying institution—it is a living body. Flesh and spirit. Earth and Heaven. The saints are not ghosts; they are our family. Their blood runs through the Mystical Body of Christ. Their prayers, even now, are like thunder rolling over a battlefield, rattling the cages of hell.

This day is not about looking backward—it is about marching forward. The Church Militant still fights, side by side with the Church Triumphant. Every Mass is a meeting ground between time and eternity. Every “Amen” we speak joins the hallelujahs of the saints. Every act of mercy is a sword swung in Heaven’s direction.

To every sinner reading these words: the invitation stands. The saints were not born holy—they were made holy by surrender. So lay down your weapons of pride. Trade your chains for a cross. Come home to the Sacraments. Come back to the fire. You are not too far gone, not too dirty, not too late. The same God who called the murderer Saul to become St. Paul, who lifted the weeping Magdalene from her shame, who gave Peter another chance after his denial—that same God is calling you now.

The devil counts his trophies in despair; Heaven counts its victories in conversions. The saints are proof that mercy always wins when a soul says yes. That’s why this feast is a celebration, not a ceremony. It’s a rebel yell in the face of evil. It’s the sound of chains snapping and graves emptying.

So let the secular world keep its plastic tombstones and candy. I will keep my rosary, my saints, and my hope. I will keep the feast that outlasts fear, the joy that death can’t steal, and the faith that hell can’t touch.

On November 1, 2025, I will stand with the Church Triumphant and say with every breath left in me:

“For all the saints who from their labors rest, who Thee by faith before the world confessed—Thy name, O Jesus, be forever blest.”

All glory to God through His saints.

Heaven wins.

Jeff Callaway

Texas Outlaw Poet

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