"Disciples Live By Faith" (November 9, 2025 Sermon)
/Text: Job 19:23-27a
“Why does wickedness happen?" This question—part philosophical, part theological—is the one posed to Galinda the Good Witch at the beginning of the musical Wicked. It comes in the midst of the show’s opening number, “No One Mourns the Wicked,” in which the people of Munchkinland rejoice that Elphaba, the so-called “Wicked Witch of the West,” has met her demise. The play then goes on to recount how Elphaba and Galinda became unlikely roommates at the University of Shiz where the two of them become conversation partners in answering for themselves - and for us - the question: “Why does wickedness happen?”
But long before that existential question brought those two characters together like a comet pulled from orbit as it passes the sun, another screenplay, a collection of poems you and I know as the Book of Job, wrestled with the same profound inquiry. Job, of course, wasn’t wicked. On the contrary, he was about as far from wicked as it gets. A man of integrity. Mr. Rogers on steroids. Mother Theresa to the max. He was the kind of guy who’d give you the shirt off his back. Job was as righteous as they come. But a life of integrity does not shield one from suffering (my apologies to the Enneagram Ones among us, for that’s a particularly tough pill to swallow for perfectionists!). Job loses everything: his family, his health, and his wealth.
Friedrich Nietzsche once famously said, “To live is to suffer; to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering.” The Book of Job is a collection of poems describing one righteous man’s search for meaning amid his suffering. When we seek meaning in the midst of wickedness, we all need conversation partners. We need these partners because answering the question of “why do bad things happen to good people?” is an existential inquiry that’s far too big for one person. No, Galinda needed Elphaba and vice versa. And Job, too, needed conversation partners as he wrestled with his plight. Today’s scripture appears in the middle of the largest section of the Book of Job (chapters four through twenty-five), where Job’s three friends (Eliphaz, Bildad, and Zophar) share their thoughts on the matter, each failing to convince Job of their arguments. In response to the second of those conversation partners, Job says the following:
For I know that my vindicator lives
and that in the end he will stand upon the earth;
and after my skin has been destroyed,
then in my flesh I shall see God,
whom I shall see on my side,
and my eyes shall behold, and not another.
While the NRSVue translates verse 25 as “for I know that my vindicator lives,” I suspect you’re more familiar with the translation, “for I know that my redeemer lives.” That was the title of a beloved hymn written by English Baptist minister Samuel Medley exactly 250 years ago. Coincidentally, it was originally sung to the tune DUKE STREET, which is the same tune we’ll use to sing our closing hymn today as well as the postlude Dr. Bill will play from the organ, a piece he arranged himself back in 1988. In 1775, Samuel Medley wrote this hymn which some of y’all might recognize.
I know that my Redeemer lives;
what comfort this sweet sentence gives!
He lives, He lives, who once was dead;
He lives, my everlasting Head.
It’s remarkable, really, that this triumphant text was first inspired by the words of a man who had every reason to despair. Job had done everything right. But he still lost. Years later, in a galaxy far, far away, Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the Starship Enterprise would express this messy reality with this proverb: “It is possible to commit no mistakes and still lose. That is not a weakness; that is life.” Job knew this reality all too well, although it took him quite a while to accept it. Who among us doesn’t struggle to hold the reality of wickedness in one hand and the existence of a God who’s both all-powerful and all-good in the other?
Remarkably, Job was able to stay faithful amid wickedness. We might be amazed by his perseverance, but I hope we don’t do so to the point that we forget that we are doing the same thing right now! You and I are gathered today because we know that our Redeemer lives. That’s what worship is all about. Yes, evil surrounds us, and our Redeemer lives. Yes, SNAP benefits are being denied to our neighbors, and our Redeemer lives. Yes, as Job said just a few chapters later in the book, “the wicked live on, reach old age, and grow mighty in power,” and our Redeemer lives. So, the question then becomes: how did Job keep the faith, and how might we do the same in these hectic times? How do disciples live by faith when all seems so unstable, unkind, uneasy?
Well, let’s start with what the Book of Job has to teach us about what faithfulness is not.
First, faithfulness in the midst of wickedness is not about denying reality. Job doesn’t deny his suffering or pretend that everything is okay. Faith isn’t about burying your head in the sand or ignoring the messiness of the world and the complex reality of wickedness. Don’t get me wrong, friends; optimism isn’t a bad thing! But optimism is not the same as faith. Faith diminishes when it’s separated from reality. Conversely, faith is strengthened when it is clear-eyed and focused on the broken places in the world where Christ is calling us to serve our neighbor.
Secondly, faithfulness in the midst of wickedness is not about withholding our pain from God. The character of Job is a master class in maintaining open communication with God, even when we might be tempted to turn inward and shut down. You see, Job’s three friends offer him overly simple arguments to explain his suffering. Each suggests a form of retributive theology, which holds that suffering is a direct result of one’s actions, good or bad. Job’s wife, on the other hand, maintains her husband’s innocence and instead encourages Job to curse God. Caught between these two arguments, Job eventually decides to confront God with no small amount of audacity. Job sues God, asserts his continued innocence, and demands an explanation from the Almighty. Job doesn’t passively accept his circumstances. Faith, then, is being honest with God in both our praise and our despair.
As it turns out, today is the 87th anniversary of Kristallnacht, or the night of Broken Glass, the evening of riots in 1938 in Germany when more than 1,400 synagogues and prayer rooms throughout Germany, Austria, and the Sudetenland were destroyed. 7,000 jewish businesses were demolished and 30,000 Jewish men were arrested and incarcerated. Kristallnacht is widely regarded as the official transition to open violence against the Jewish people.
The noted Jewish scholar, Nobel laureate, and Holocaust survivor Ellie Weisel once recounted a poignant moment as described by Martin Thielen: “A group of men in his barracks decided to have a trial - a trial unlike any trial you’ve ever heard of before. These men decided to try God for the horrors of the Holocaust. They had been men of faith, but their faith had profoundly disappointed them. So they decided to put God on trial for abandoning the Jewish people. Young Wiesel was asked to witness the proceedings. The charges were brought; the prosecutor listed them one by one: God’s people had been torn from their homes, separated from their families, beaten, abused, murdered, and burned in incinerators. A defense was attempted. But in the end God was found guilty of abandoning his people, maybe even guilty of not existing. When the trial was over, a dark and profound silence fell on the room. A few moments later the men realized it was time for the sacred ritual of evening prayer. At this point in the story, Wiesel recounted a remarkable fact. These men who had just found God guilty of abandoning them - these same men began to pray their evening prayer.”
Friends, that’s faith. Faith doesn’t sugarcoat the horrors of the world. Sometimes, faith means putting God on trial and demanding answers to the unanswerable. But then it picks itself back up and keeps enduring, trusting that the silence of God isn't a permanent verdict.
What faithfulness is, in the context of the Book of Job, is amazement. When God receives Job’s summons and takes the witness stand, Job makes the prosecution’s case. "I’ve been righteous and you’ve been cruel,” Job asserts. "Answer yourself, God of Creation!" Now here, we wish God would “come clean” and finally explain to Job the reason for his suffering. But God provides no simple explanation; for there is none to be had. Instead, God invites Job to the spiritual practice of amazement. Famously, God says in chapter 38, “Where were you when I laid the earth’s foundation?” God goes on to describe various aspects of nature, from the creation of the earth to the behavior of wild animals. “Who provides food for the raven when its young cry out to God and wander about for lack of food?” God reminds Job of both the complexity and majesty of the world and the limits of human perspective.
Some of us, I’m sure, may find such a response inadequate, and I respect those feelings because there are times when I also share that sentiment. I hold that thought in one hand, and in the other, I choose to hold amazement and wonder. When I myself am daunted by the enormity of the world’s grief, I take the wisdom of the Book of Job and take Mary Olivers “Instructions for living a life: pay attention, be astonished, tell about it.” Ultimately, Walter Brueggemann asserts, Job’s journey of faith is about surrendering his moral certitude and understanding that his integrity and righteousness doesn’t save him. God saves him.
This is what Brueggemann had to say on the topic on a sermon he gave at Columbia Theological Seminary, my alma mater:
The battle to be fought in the church now, in our society generally, is for speech and faith that will sustain us. Job, and even more his friends, are models of ideological certitude.
That kind of moral certitude, however, does not matter ultimately, because we are not saved by our virtue. No one can stand in the face of the whirlwind on a soap-box of virtue. Virtue has many ideological faces in our society-and they all kill. It may be the over scrupulousness about sexuality and piety and all those treasured old-fashioned virtues. Or it may be the ideological agenda of the right, getting things settled about prayer in the public schools or homosexuality or the Panama Canal. Or it may be the strident programs of the left and being correct about abortion and welfare and divestment. Whichever party we belong to, we hold it all dear and precious, and we brood in our virtue, confident that the others are without credibility.
Job learned what we all learn sooner or later. Virtue does not suffice. Integrity does not give life. Being right is no substitute for being amazed.
Being right is no substitute for being amazed. If you remember nothing else from this sermon, remember these words: Being right is no substitute for being amazed. That is what faith is about, especially when wickedness tries to suffocate our theological imagination. We keep returning, time and time again, to amazement. And if we think this is some meaningless, abstract theological exercise that’s a waste of time when people are concerned about basic needs like food, remember this: amazement inevitably leads to gratitude. And gratitude, in turn, inevitably leads to generosity. And generosity is what heals our world. It is what feeds our neighbors. It is the fierce gentleness that stands fearlessly between those who suffer and the violent ideologies that assail them.
So friends, let us be faithful practitioners of wonder in a broken world. Because that’s what disciples do.
I’ll close by returning to our wickedness conversation partners, Elphaba and Galinda. At the end of the musical, the two enemies-turned-friends sing the number “For Good,” in which they say goodbye to one another, ask for forgiveness for the times they’ve hurt the other, and stand in awe and wonder at what they’ve learned from each other.
Like a ship blown from its mooring by a wind off the sea,
Like a seed dropped by a skybird in a distant wood,
who can say if I’ve been changed for the better?
But because I knew you, I have been changed for good.
Friends, together we are disciples—imperfect and generous, capable of both great good and deep wickedness—on this journey of life. And perhaps we can learn from Elphaba, Galinda, and all those who open themselves to the spiritual disciplines of wonder and gratitude that being right is no substitute for being amazed.
In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God's children, say: Amen.