For suffering for doing good is better, if suffering should be God’s will, than to suffer for doing evil.
~1 Peter 3:17
 
“I don’t go looking for trouble,” said Harry, nettled. “Trouble usually finds me.”
~Harry Potter in
Prisoner of Azkaban
 
The old adage about not seeking out trouble has been passed through generations in many societies. Harry Potter wasn’t the first to say it, by any means—nor the first to then pursue his troubles through the remainder of his adventures!
 
The thing is life has its troubles—no matter how hard we work to insulate ourselves from them. This seems to be the point of Peter’s letter to the church: You’re going to have trouble; it is a feature of life, so you might as well be doing something worthy of them. To receive a message from God or an angel, for example, rarely seems to offer blessing in any straightforward way. For Mary it will spell profound trouble—a double-edged sword of loss and her own soul pierced as well—but oh, what is gained!
 
The promise of Advent seems to be that if we have something worth troubling about, we just may find ourselves with more abundant stores of resilence, open to the possibility not of despair, but of joy. If there is a difference that faith and its purposefullness offers it may be that we find in our trouble the promise of meaning that sustains us and helps us (all) to thrive. Doesn’t it seem then, that we might as well double-down on the good?
 
Enter into worship.
 
Readings:  Isaiah 41:4-5, 8-10, 17-20 † Psalm 27:4-5, 7-10, 13-14 † 1 Peter 3:13-17 † Luke 1:26-38
 
 
About the Art: The art for this Advent season is shaped around the theme of “Many Pieces, One Story.” Each week the art will feature a quilt that holds meaning. Today’s image is of a baby quilt for Barbara and Scott Anderson’s first child Claire. They were living in Missouri at the time, away from family and long-time friends. A group of college friends sewed the quilt to welcome Claire into the world.

“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/.

​Many sternly ordered him to be quiet, but he cried out even more loudly, “Son of David, have mercy on me!”
~Mark 10:46
 
In the center of the story in Mark for this week, right after Bartimaeus raises his voice to call out for mercy, Mark tells us that Jesus stands still. It is a striking image, especially amidst the frenzy of the scene, Jesus stopping. Standing still. Listening. Bartimaeus calling out. The crowd shouting him down, seemingly everything and everyone against him. And then, Jesus calls him to the still, quiet center and lifts his voice for all to hear.
 
Our last of four encounters with the book of Job is striking for its similarities. Job, after finally receiving a response from God, lifts his voice and is restored. But what does he say? It is not as clear as we might hope. We need the voice of suffering to be raised for truth to be present, even if it undoes us a little bit in order to remake us all.
 
Such is the cycle of faith. Death leads to rebirth. Confusion leads to understanding. Unsettledness leads to new forms of life-giving order.
 
Enter into worship.
 
Readings: Job 42:1–6, 10–17 † Psalm 34:1-22 † Hebrews 7:23-28 † Mark 10:46-52
 
 
About the Art: Picasso, Pablo, 1881-1973. The Blind Man's Meal (detail), from Art in the Christian Tradition, a project of the Vanderbilt Divinity Library, Nashville, TN. https://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=54229 [retrieved October 14, 2024]. Original source: http://www.flickr.com/photos/clairity/2232804348/
 
Misery, old age, privation, and destitution permeate the canvases of Picasso's Blue Period (1902-4). By enveloping these dire subjects in a palette of blues, the artist moved the wretchedness to a picturesque and even sentimental sphere, one whose mood corresponds to contemporary angst-filled Spanish literature.
 
The Blind Man's Meal is one of the bluest of the Blue Period paintings. By highlighting the blind man's ear and emphasizing his slender hands, Picasso poignantly expressed that touch and sound are the man's only means of perceiving the world around him.

Then the Lord answered Job out of the whirlwind…
~Job 38:1
 
We are in something of a storm ourselves these days—whether we choose to acknowledge and address it meaningfully or not. Catastrophic weather events signal a climate crisis that is not going to go away by itself. We know these are not, as we used to call them, “acts of God” but weather patterns that have worsened as a result of human action. And there are consequences. We are already experiencing profound stress around immigration patterns, but these will only get worse with an explosion of climate refugees. And these will only be further exploited for politically manipulative ends. Our future is in question and wisdom seems scarce.
 
It seems that God has waited patiently while Job and his friends have waxed eloquent about his own past, present, and future, considering, reasoning, arguing about the problem of pain. Finally, out of the torrent, God speaks: “Who is this [speaking] words without knowledge? … Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth?” What ever gave you the idea that this is all about you? Likewise, in Mark 10, James and John are ready to center themselves as they demand of Jesus that he make them his right and left-hand men as if that’s what’s needed in the present moment.
 
Perhaps these ancient texts from another time and place have something to teach us not only about suffering, but about our own time and place, about our relationship to all that is holy and good, and about priorities and investments we must make as we seek to join God in mending the world.
 
And to that mending, this Sunday we will take a little time to put these stories in context of our own, and of our mending and (hopefully) faithful response to what we see happening around us. We will take a more conversational tack this Sunday. Join us!
 
Enter into worship.
 
Readings:  Job 38:1-7, 34-41 † Psalm 104:1–9, 24, 35c † Hebrews 5:1-10 † Mark 10:35-45
 
About the Art: Idaho Squall, Scott Anderson, 2021.

As he was setting out on a journey, a man ran up and knelt before him, and asked him, “Good Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?” Jesus said to him, “Why do you call me good? No one is good but God alone.
~Mark 10:17-19
 
Do you ever find yourself in conversations in which you feel you are talking past each other? The rich man walks up to Jesus and asks him a question about salvation…or about self-justification. And Jesus seems to fixate on a single word: Why do you call me good? Who is good, but God?
 
Job seems to be good. At least he is blameless. He sticks to his claim that his suffering is not justified. It has not been earned. He is, to use the biblical sense of the word, “righteous.”.It is not the result of some sin or failure on his part. And, according to the story, he appears to be right, or, to use a biblical word, “righteous.” Mark’s rich man may be as well. And it appears—at least for Job, and the rich man too—not really to matter or, at least, not to be the main point. Job laments. “[His] complaint is bitter” (Job 23:2).The rich man, when confronted with a life-shifting challenge “went away grieving.”
 
Maybe Jesus has a point. Maybe our (relative) goodness—as hard as we try to maintain it—isn’t the main thing, in suffering or in salvation. There is a turn to be made here, a discovery or recovery that holds out hope for our ultimate well-being and wholeness. Can we find it together in these times?
 
Enter into worship.
 
Readings: Job 23:1-9, 16-17 † Psalm 22:1-15 † Hebrews 4:12-16 † Mark 10:17-31
 
 
About the Art: Repin, Ilʹi︠a︡ Efimovich, 1844-1930. Job and His Friends, from Art in the Christian Tradition, a project of the Vanderbilt Divinity Library, Nashville, TN. https://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=57620 [retrieved October 8, 2024]. Original source: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Job_and_his_friends.jpg.

​Let the little children come to me; do not stop them; for it is to such as these that the kingdom of God belongs.
~Mark 10:14
 
Mark notes that Jesus is “indignant” when he says this because the disciples seme to have no time for these children and are running them off. Indeed, the culture of their day did not center kids in the same way our culture does.
 
And yet, it is clear that being a child in our own time is a treacherous reality. The ubiquity of school shootings is perhaps the first thing that captures our attention, but self-harm with guns is a much larger problem and a further indication of the trauma that so often accompanies the uncertain experience of our youth and their future on a warming planet. What are we to do with such an unsettling reality and Jesus’ commandment?
 
Of course we are never promised all will go well. The accompanying story of Job certainly reminds us of this. It begins like a fairytale: Once there was a man in the country of Uz named Job…
 
It may start that way, but it takes us in very different directions. If we read all of chapter 1–why not do that before Sunday?—we would find he was the greatest man in all the East. And then in chapter two God even ups the ante by boasting that Job is not just the greatest in the East, but in all the earth.
 
Despite his goodness, there is no fairytale (middle or) ending for Job. We may find ourselves asking “why” questions: Why do the innocent suffer? Why are things as they are? But it never really answers them, inviting us instead to deeper and more productive questions that scrape against our real life experiences and invite us to consider the ways in which God births goodness from evil, blessing out of testing, and peace out of chaos in our homes and in our communities for the sake of our children and our future.
 
Enter into worship.
 
Readings: Job 1:1, 2:1-10 † Psalm 26 † Hebrews 1:1-4, 2:5-12 † Mark 10:2-16
 
 
About the Art: Johnson, William H., 1901-1970. Come Unto Me, Little Children, from Art in the Christian Tradition, a project of the Vanderbilt Divinity Library, Nashville, TN. https://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=56876 [retrieved September 30, 2024]. Original source: https://americanart.si.edu/artwork/come-unto-me-little-children-11621.