"He loved them to the end." John 13:1b, NRSV

The hardest time of a loved one's transition, in my opinion, are the moments right before it happens, when the family gathers to say goodbye and usher them into Life Eternal. It may be difficult or impossible to remember a time when they weren't in your life. How will you go on without them? You don't know what’s on the other side of this journey, which makes the moment particularly unsettling.

When I visited the Holy Land, I found myself regularly taking off my shoes and stepping into whatever body of water was there. For me, there is a liminality to standing with my feet submerged, not far from dry ground. Whether a boat ride or baptism, you're going somewhere you've never been when you decide to take that step.

The disciples have no idea where their own journey will take them. Peter is at first reluctant to even dip his toes into the water—into the liminality. But they'’re assured they'll be with Jesus on the other side.

I used a photo of my own feet as I stood on the banks of the Sea of Galilee as a reference for this painting. Unknown to me at the time, the Golan Heights were about to be bombed later that day.(1) But at that time, the water calmly danced over my ankles, making its own art as it bent and reflected light around them. I've signed the piece in such a way that invites you to turn it any number of orientations. What changes for you when the feet are facing downward, upward, or sideways? I invite you to embrace that disorientation, if only for a moment, and try to find your footing.

-Rev. T. Denise Anderson

1 In May, 2018, Iranian forces in Syria fired rockets into the Israeli-controlled Golan Heights. To learn more about the event and the conflict that led to it, read: "Iran Fires Rockets Into Golan Heights From Syria, Israelis Say" by Isabel Kershner. The New York Times. May 9, 2018. nytimes.com/2018/05/09/world/middleeast/israel-iran-attack.htm

In the chapter just before this, Lazarus dies and Jesus weeps. But after being laid in the tomb, Lazarus is raised and made well. This act solidifies for the chief priests and Pharisees that Jesus is a dangerous threat. In response, they order for his arrest and plot how they will kill him. Jesus retreats from public ministry, hiding out in the wilderness in Ephraim. As the Passover nears, people begin to wonder: "Will Jesus be here?"

Despite the threats mounting, Jesus does return. On his way to Jerusalem, he stops in Bethany, seeking refuge and comfort in the home of his friends. Martha cooks a feast, and Lazarus—healthy and alive—joins him at the table. In resistance to death, as an act of extravagant love, Mary anoints Jesus with a fragrance that fills the whole room. Her actions could appear impulsive, but if you were saying your last goodbye to someone you loved, how would you act?

This image began as a painting on raw canvas. With fluid strokes of paint, I allowed the colors to run and bleed into each other. As I drew Mary kneeling, I omitted the other details in the scene, removing Jesus’ feet, the other guests, the table full of food. I wanted to focus on Mary’s brazen act of pouring out the expensive perfume, a commodity valued at a year’s worth of wages. The luxurious liquid is expansive, flowing out toward us as the viewer. It bleeds into the red, foreshadowing the blood Jesus will soon shed.

The vessel she holds is lined with gold, a reference to the ancient Japanese practice of Kintsugi, of repairing broken pottery with gold lacquer. The art of Kintsugi embellishes the cracks and transforms a shattered vessel into a new object of beauty. In this embodied act of worship, Mary is practicing Kintsugi—boldly celebrating the beauty of life even as death approaches.

-Rev. Lisle Gwynn Garrity

"I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert." Isaiah 43:19, NRSV

Dear God, we perceive it. Our initial reaction appears to be a tendency to dig in our heels. We are all holding firm to the past in one way or another. May your wisdom fall upon us, helping us to let go of the things of old. Amen.

In this text, I see water flowing in the abstract. Patterns of fallen chariot wheels, footprints of the jackal and the ostrich, and imagery of creation give detail to the shape of a vessel amidst the flow. God is doing a new thing!

When I sing hymns, I feel the power and the joy. I feel the beauty and the freedom of God’s new way in this wilderness. Yet, when I live my daily life in the midst of God’s current shifts toward a new thing, it feels rocky, painful, devastating, and infuriating.

It is so easy to let fear take over. Isaiah sings of God, of God doing a new thing. Isaiah helps us to remember, to embrace, to find the positives in the midst of the current drastic changes. Who are we to stand in the way of the flow of the Holy Spirit? Isaiah reminds us to open our minds to a new way.

Holy One, as we lean into your new way, may we find the songs to sing, as Isaiah did. May we flow on this new path with your Holy Spirit. May we find the hope that allows us to navigate the pain and the jagged devastation of daily life in the midst of change. You are doing a new thing! May we bear witness and join Isaiah in song. Amen.

-Hannah Garrity

How often does society wish us to feel like we are wasting soil? The whole capitalist system lurches forward, powered by our collective sense of unworthiness and our searching for worth based on what we produce. This parable upends the notion that we are what we produce and speaks truth: you are worthy. You deserve rest and care simply for existing. What a gift!

In this image, I wanted the fig tree to look unremarkable, surrounded by the hands of the Gardener reaching down to lovingly massage the soil. The sleeves contain patterning of simplified visual references to everything a plant needs to not only survive, but to thrive. Starting close to the roots and moving upward, the patterns include water, air, sunlight, nutrients, and space.

The emphasis in this image is on what is happening below the surface, in the depths of the dirt. The roots stretch toward the hands of the Gardener as the specks of dirt seem to also image the stars of the vast universe. Within us, despite what we produce, despite what can be seen at the surface, we contain multitudes. We bear the image of God, and our mere existence makes us worthy of Sabbath and the loving arms of the Gardener reaching out to provide us with everything we need.

On a personal note, the Full to the Brim theme keeps bringing me back to the image of resting while God reaches to embrace us. Lately I’ve spent so much time and energy fighting so hard to get some kind of tangible grasp of God, all the while feeling so empty. I’m realizing that I need to practice surrender, allowing God to find me where I am, and to receive God’s care and love, filling me to the brim so I can then be full to pour out once again.

-Rev. Lauren Wright Pittman

In my early 20s, in the midst of too many life transitions to navigate at once and a personal crisis that deeply unraveled me, I called an old family friend who happened to live in the new city I had just moved to. I don’t remember what I said, exactly, but the friend instantly sensed that I needed more than just a phone conversation. She invited me to meet her at the park near her apartment. We went on a walk, and as the daylight waned, she said, “Would you like to stay for dinner?”

I’ll never forget the way she warmed up homemade soup from her fridge and fixed me an arugula salad. She dressed it with olive oil and lemon juice, and to my surprise, added a pinch of salt and a shake of pepper. Like manna in my desert, that meal nourished me at a time when I did not think I was worthy of being fed.

The prophet Isaiah brings a message of good news to the Israelites, though they have been in exile for so long that perhaps they’ve forgotten there is a story beyond scarcity. Through Isaiah, God invites them into an abundant life rich with food that is free and waters that satisfy.

In this image, a feast is savored and shared. The brackets, which look like doves flying inward, also form the shape of a vessel that is simultaneously upright and full and also upside down and poured out. We fill up so we can pour out—we can’t give from an empty cup.

In this text, there is no doubt that God’s expansive mercy is abundant. The only question—for the Jewish exiles and for us—are you ready to be restored? Can you believe you are worthy of God’s nourishing grace? Will you allow yourself to receive it?

-Rev. Lisle Gwynn Garrity