“I am the Alpha and the Omega”, says the Lord God, who is and who was and who is to come, the Almighty.
~Revelation 1:8
 
Christ the King Sunday can have a problematic ring for some people. Even the less magesterial Reign of Christ doesn’t entirely get away from the problematic imagery of kings and coronations and unfettered power. This is something of the point, though, of this particular Sunday festival. The ways in which God “reigns” or acts as “king” is so profoundly different from human ways. And the ways in which God shows God’s unimaginable power and sublime presence—especially through the story of Jesus is precisely an invitation to reimagine our own approach to power and goodness. Indeed, Christ’s “coronation” is on a cross. And the story of his death, alongside his life and resurrection expose the truth of the ways in which power is abused and destructive of the most perfect of things, and how it could be so different if we were to follow in Jesus’ way.
 
We are pleased this Sunday to welcome Kevin Glackin-Coley. Kevin is the new director of REACH and brings important understandings of the kin-dom of God through his experience beside our Renton neighbors. Kevin will preach for us and then offer some of his time during an Aftertalk conversation to allow for our questions, to reconnect ourselves to the story and work of REACH which has been an important one for us historically, and to imagine new paths of partnership going forward.
 
Enter into worship.
 
Readings:  2 Samuel 23:1-7 † Psalm 132:1-12 or Daniel 7:9-10, 13-14  † Psalm 93 † Revelation 1:4b-8 † John 18:33-37
 
 
About the Art: Hansen, Eugenio. Alpha and Omega, from Art in the Christian Tradition, a project of the Vanderbilt Divinity Library, Nashville, TN. https://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=57533 [retrieved November 11, 2024]. Original source: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Alpha_omega_uncial.svg.

​For nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom; there will be earthquakes in various places; there will be famines. This is but the beginning of the birth pangs.
~Mark 13:8
 
In the beginning is my end. In succession
Houses rise and fall, crumble, are extended,
Are removed, destroyed, restored, or in their place
Is an open field, or a factory, or a by-pass.
Old stone to new building, old timber to new fires,
Old fires to ashes, and ashes to the earth
Whis is already flesh, fur and faeces,
Bone of man and beast, cornstalk and leaf.
~T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets, East Coker I
 
We hear a lot in the political sphere about “burning it all down.” And no wonder! When the system doesn’t work for you, it certainly doesn’t incline you to support it. We could imagine this has truth within the religious sphere as well—especially where religion is expressed in deeply imperfect institutional norms.
 
We should be clear. Chaos is unfortunate at best. The unsettling of principalities and powers and their institutions creates harm that is distributed in unequal shares, harming those Jesus called “the least of these” most. But there is hope buried in this rubble. Jesus sees the signs of unrest, of relationships and governance so broken that they are already crumbling. It is not an end, though, as much as a beginning when God is in the mix.
 
Or, as the preacher to the Hebrew congregation said it (Hebrews 10:23-25): “Let us hold fast to the confession of our hope without wavering, for he who has promised is faithful.” Indeed there is more good, practical advice for us today as well in this ancient wisdom: “And let us consider how to provoke one another to love and good deeds, not neglecting to meet together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another, and all the more as you see the Day approaching.”
 
Enter into worship. 


Readings:  1 Samuel 1:4-20 † 1 Samuel 2:1-10 † Hebrews 10:11-14, 19-25 † Mark 13:1-8
 
 About the Art: Old growth tree in rainforest on Meares Island near Tofino, British Columbia. From Visual Communications, vcmedia.org, [retrieved October 21, 2021]. 

Then the women said to Naomi, “Blessed be the LORD, who has not left you this day without next-of-kin; and may his name be renowned in Israel!”
~Ruth 4:14
 
The book of Ruth is a story about immigration. Naomi and her daughters-in-law are climate refugees forced to flee Bethlehem (“house of bread”) because there is a famine. No bread.
 
The story raises for us, then, questions about how to take this story and the persistent claims within our Judeo-Christian story that blessing comes when you offer hospitality, when you embrace someone you aren’t supposed to, when you give of yourself in ways that go against your best interests, when you take a chance—especially when many of our neighbors seem to see it differently. To make an uncareful one-for-one comparison across the years and cultures is probably not helpful, but there are good questions to ask here for us as a worshiping community, and for us as a people.
 
There’s a clear-eyed sense in the biblical story that those pushed to the margins of polite society get taken advantage of. Regularly. They get assigned last place by default. You get the sense that there are systems that are so ravenous that they have no limits when it comes to what and who they will devour.
 
Mark and Ruth both introduce us to such ones who are in threat of being annihilated at the hands of those who have more than they need. And yet, they both are revealed as rich beyond our imagination in terms of faith, resourcefulness and strength, and God as a defender of them. What might we learn in our own time about the foundations on which wholeness, well-being, and possibility are built?
 
Enter into worship.
 
Readings:  Ruth 3:1-5, 4:13-17 † Psalm 127 † Hebrews 9:24-28 † Mark 12:38-44
 
 
About the Art: Katie Hoffman, The Widow’s Mite, from katiehoffman.com, [retrieved October 14, 2021]. 

Jesus said, “Take away the stone.”
~John 11:39a
 
It is no accident that this All Saints Sunday comes to us in the fall in the northern hemisphere. Daylight wanes. Animals are busy preparing for winter. A season is ending. But as the trees drop their leaves, the harvest is in full motion. Seeds for a spring that seems far in the future, are gathered and planted. Sorrow and joy are so often such close companions. It is no less true for Jesus who weeps for Lazarus only breaths before he raises him to life. Death and new life are intricately linked. They are chapters in our same story of God-with-us.
 
On the eve of a consequential election, it is good for us to remember—to remember our stories and the people who shaped them in their own time. It informs our own way of being in our time. Our confidence, our sense of agency going forward is so deeply dependent on our memory of God with us throughout time and space, in and out of season. It is good to remember that God is not just God when things go well, but that, indeed, our faith is built equally well for difficulty and uncertainty as celebration.
 
What stories do you need to mark, remember, unearth, mourn, and celebrate this year? This Sunday we will again take time to remember and bless those who have gone before us. Bring pictures or a token of remembrance with you as we remember the saints of our own and our collective stories and lean in once again to holiness of all life.
 
Enter into worship.
 
Readings: Isaiah 25:6-9 † Psalm 24 † Revelation 21:1-6a † John 11:32-44
 
About the Art: Mural of Christ's tears over the bombs of war, from Art in the Christian Tradition, a project of the Vanderbilt Divinity Library, Nashville, TN. https://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=55059 [retrieved October 21, 2024]. Original source: http://www.flickr.com/photos/69705352@N04/6335749211/.