A Sketch for Solstice

 Last night, after creating a sketch for a notecard for a friend who is having a difficult December, I made a sketch for me, while we were watching that old stop-motion animated show, "Santa Claus is Comin' to Town":

I hadn't planned to create a haiku-like thing, but it emerged;  in case you can't read it, it says, "Winter turns her back / On this foresaken season / Autumn of our woes."  I didn't realize that I had misspelled forsaken until I typed it out just now.  Intriguing! 

I was trying to create some sort of winter fairy-like creature.  As I often did, I drew the creature from the back, which allows me to avoid my lack of skill in sketching faces and hands; I drew the creature in a flowing dress, which allows me to avoid my lack of skill in drawing shoes from the back, and my difficulty with perspective (more specifically how to draw legs and arms in proper proportion to the body).

The gold marker for wings made me think about a star, so I drew one.  I wanted to draw a forest of Christmas trees, but I ran out of room on the page, so one tree would have to do.  I liked the ambiguity of the sketch.  Is that a winter witch or the angel Gabriel or some stray angel who stayed home from choir practice and so could not appear to the shepherds?  Is that the star that guided the Magi?  Are those ornaments on the tree or the red berries that are on some bushes this time of year?

The whole process delighted me and reminded me to return to this sketchbook more often.  I bought it about a year ago, thinking I wanted to create a daybook of sorts, a place to record sketches and haiku-like responses to the day, a place to record inspirations.  As I flipped back through it, and as I've been flipping back through my sketchbook that I use predominantly during my morning meditation time, it's good to remember how many sketches I made.

In the two sketchbooks alone, I made roughly 80 sketches.  I also made some individual sketches, which I then turned into notecards to send to friends.  That's a lot of sketching, and it's taken place in less than 30 minute increments.

When I met the family member of the friend who had a stroke, she said, "I wanted to meet this person who kept sending these delightful cards--you're so talented."

I don't think of myself as talented at sketching--I can't draw humans in a realistic way that would please me, the way I can sketch a tree or a flower.  Maybe I should change that:  I can't quickly draw humans, I can't consistently draw humans.

Let me record this idea, which is not a commitment at this point, but more of an idea that inspires me:  if I did a quick sketch of a human, a daily sketch, would I improve?  Or maybe if I saw my drawings of humans on a more regular basis, maybe I would get more comfortable with the quirky/imperfect way that I do it.

Haunted by Color, Soothed by Stitching

I turned in my last seminary paper on Saturday, and I turned in my last batch of grades a few days before that.  But yesterday, Thursday, was my first truly unscheduled day of this winter break.  On Sunday, I spent a good chunk of the day attending to my preaching job, on Monday I went to Columbia, on Tuesday I came home, and on Wednesday, I had a holiday lunch with the local church quilt group and an evening Zoom session.  At one point, my spouse said, "Did the Little Engine Who Could have a name?  Because you remind me of an Energizer Bunny in the way that you keep going."

It's a mix of metaphors, but I understand what he was saying.  Even when I'm on break, I'm not really on break.  I still have my part-time preaching job, and there are upcoming classes that start on January 7, onground classes where I need to create syllabi still.  And even though I know that I'm done with the fall semester responsibilities, both as teacher and student, I still wake up in the middle of the night feeling fretful.

I still did a bit of chugging along; I wanted to get to Michael's to get new sketchbooks while they were on sale.  So after rounding up the last of the recycling before the arrival of the trash collectors, I headed out to run some errands.  We did a bit of cooking, and then settled in to watch some plays by way of the National Theatre at Home.  I had to subscribe for a class, and we've been enjoying watching good theatre.  Yesterday we watched two plays.

I still felt fidgety, so I pulled out my basket of fabric.  I've been creating a quilt out of scraps of fabric--you may say, "Yes, that's the very nature of quilting, correct?  Scraps of fabric?"  But I began this project by thinking I would put the scraps together in a less organized way.  I thought I could pay no attention to size or color of each scrap and just put them together as I pulled them out of the basket.  Here's what I have so far:

Clearly, I'm not putting this quilt together in the random way I first envisioned.  But I'm having fun assembling my scraps into longer strips.  Here's the one I worked on last night:

And then I did a few quick sketches for notecards that I'm always creating.  You can see one nestled in the cloth:

Today I'll do a bit more writing than yesterday, a bit more shopping than yesterday (4 x the fuel points at Ingles!).  But I plan to keep doing some sewing each day.  It reminds me of this quote that I saw on the wall of the museum on Tuesday:

Part of a Prayer for Monastic Vocation

This week, I was part of a Zoom session, where, for closing prayer, the woman used part of the Mepkin Abbey Prayer for Monastic Vocation.  She reminded us that we could have an expansive view of that vocation.

I have been thinking about an expansive view of a monastery, something beyond the physical building.  Can our lives be a monastery?  I've written some poems about the heart as a monastery, although I can't find them right now.

I did find the Prayer for Monastic Vocation.  Long ago at Mepkin Abbey, the Abbot passed out postcards.  On one side was the prayer; on the other side, a picture of all the monks.  I put the postcard in the pocket of the winter lightweight coat that I rarely used in South Florida, and I was always delighted when found it in subsequent seasons.

It's still there!  Here's the passage that we used in closing prayer:

"We come before you now asking for the grace

To be faithful to our vocation

Striving to live in the communion of Love which surpasses all other gifts."

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

 The readings for Sunday, December 22, 2024:

First Reading: Micah 5:2-5a

Psalm: Luke 1:47-55 (Luke 1:46b-55 NRSV)

Psalm (Alt.): Psalm 80:1-7

Second Reading: Hebrews 10:5-10

Gospel: Luke 1:39-45 [46-55]


Finally, we have moved away from John the Baptist--although he's there, in utero, leaping at the sound of Mary's voice.

I love this Gospel vision of improbable salvation: two very different women, yet God has need of them both. I love the way this Gospel shows that even the impossible can be made possible with God: barrenness will come to fruit, youthful inexperience will be seen as a blessing.

Take some Advent time and look at the Magnificat again (verses 46-55). Reflect on how Mary's song of praise sums up most of our Scripture. If we want to know what God is up to in this world, here Mary sings it for us. He has raised up a lowly woman (who would have been a member of one of the lowliest of her society). He has fed the hungry and lifted up the oppressed. He has continued to stay with Abraham's descendants, even when they haven't always deserved it. We can count on our strong God, from generation to generation.

Take some Advent time and think about Mary's call to be greater than she could have ever expected she would be. She could have said no to God--many do. But she said yes. That acceptance didn't mean she would avoid pain and suffering. In fact, by saying yes, she likely exposed herself to more pain and suffering. But in saying yes, she also opened herself up to amazing possibilities.

Think about your own life. Where do you hear God calling your name?

How can we be like Mary? How can we be like Elizabeth, who receives an even more improbable invitation? Where would we be led, if we said yes to God?

God has a greater narrative for us than any we can dream of. Let this be the year that we say yes to God and leave our limited visions behind.

Sermon for December 15, 2024

 December 15, 2024

By Kristin Berkey-Abbott

Luke 3:7-18

As I’ve spent the week thinking about this Gospel, I’ve been finishing papers for this semester’s seminary classes, including a class that looked at twenty-first century churches and what it means to be missional.  I’ve read about churches that do prayer walks through their neighborhoods, churches that partner with community groups, churches that are trying to be outward facing rather than inward facing.  As I’ve written a final paper that synthesizes all the texts, I’ve thought about John the Baptist and his approach to the seekers that came to him.

In seminary, we have not been trained to use the language that John does; imagine if I stood here and preached the kind of sermon that John preached.  Imagine if I called the congregation a brood of vipers—not just snakes, but the offspring of snakes.  If I used this language week after week, I imagine it wouldn’t be too long before you called Bishop Strickland.

But look at how the people in today’s Gospel respond.  I would be the one stomping away, saying “You can’t call me a baby snake.  I don’t have to listen to this.  Don’t threaten me with an ax and with fire.”  No, the people in our Gospel today ask, “What, then, should we do?”  

John the Baptist’s answer contains multitudes.  In it, we get a foreshadowing of some of the narrative story arcs that we’ll find throughout the Gospel of Luke and the book of Acts—which scholars believe were written by the same person and should be read together, as two parts of the same story.  

John the Baptist is asked the same question by three very different groups of people, all of whom have been told that the time to repent is now, lest they be like non-producing trees, thrown into the fire.  Scholars have puzzled over the first group, “the crowds” who do the asking.  Some Bible commentators suggest that this part of the crowd was the rich part.  They are the ones, in this time period, who have extra coats and food.

But given the specificity of the next two groups, I think we’re meant to see the crowds as “everybody”—it’s a group that can include the very wealthy to those of more moderate means.  If we’re very rich, we have an extra coat.  But even if we’re not very rich, we likely have something we can share, like food.  Even if we don’t have extra luxury items, like a coat would have been in first century times, we can share something that will sustain life.

Tax collectors are the next group that asks John to tell them what they should do.  The language of the Gospel shows what a surprise it is to find them among the group following John the Baptist.  Like Jesus will do later, John does not turn them away, but he does have specific instructions for them:  “Collect no more than the amount proscribed to you.”  You may remember that tax collectors were paid a percentage of what they collected, which gave perverse incentives to them to collect more than what was owed. Keep in mind that the population was already taxed at 30-40%--no wonder tax collectors were so hated, often linked with sinners in the same breath—the Pharisees will ask the disciples, “Why does your teacher eat with sinners and tax collectors?   Later in the Gospel of Luke, a tax collector will get a name-- Zachaeus, chapter 19,--and we will see what can happen when one becomes serious about repentance.

The third group, the soldiers who ask the same question have a different sort of power, and they can wield that power without caring who they hurt.  There will be no Senate investigations, no suspensions.  They, too, must harness the impulse to take more than what is owed.  

Notice how these last two groups are outsider groups—tax collectors were shunned by the Jews, and Roman soldiers would be avoided.  Today’s Gospel prefigures Christ’s actions, with Zacchaeus and others, with Jesus eating with sinners and healing community by way of inclusion. It also prefigures the actions of the disciples and apostles in the book of Acts, where the first Christians were primarily Jews who learned to share, and then the group was widened to include a Gentile here, a Gentile there—starting with Cornelius in Acts 10, and then many, many more, as we see in the letters of Paul.  John’s 3 groups of questioners gives a foreshadowing of what will come.

John calls the people who come to him a brood of vipers, but he doesn’t leave them dejected.  He gives them a choice—this life or that life?  A tree that bears good fruit or a non-producing tree that faces the ax and the fire?  

Last week I mentioned that John is preaching a message of repentance, but John delivers a message far deeper far more than a need to apologize and feel bad for all the ways that we’ve gone wrong, the way that repentance has come to be preaches.  The Greek word is metanoia, which means a turning around.  It’s a reorientation, a fundamental transformation of outlook, a mental and spiritual U-turn.

A wide variety of people came to John because they knew that their current lives were not working—the crowds, the people working for the government, the military, all sorts of people came to John to find out what to do.  They came to John—a weirdo in the wilderness who called them a brood of vipers.  We hear the story today and feel a tremor of truth.

Like those people who came to John, we, too, can look around us and see that regular old life is not working for the vast majority of people.  We see fractures all around us and worry about what is coming.

John’s answer to the question of “What then should we do?” is still relevant to us here, so many centuries later.  Notice how mild it seems, at first glance:  share your excess.  Not give everything you have to the poor so that you, too will be poor, but share your excess.  In your job, act with integrity.  Don’t abuse the power that you have, but use it wisely.  Don’t act in ways that make people fearful.  Don’t issue threats.  Imagine what a different world we would have if everyone did this—how our interpersonal relationships would improve, how our communities could reknit themselves together, how our geopolitical relations would lead to a world of more flourishing.

John has good news for us this Advent season—the time is getting very late, but it is not too late.  There is time to turn around.  God has not given up on this creation the way that so many people have given up on God and everything else.  John calls on all of us to repent, to make a u-turn, to come back to the covenant with God.  It’s good news for all of us.

The Feast Day of Santa Lucia

Today is the feast day of Santa Lucia, a woman in 4th century Rome during a time of horrible persecution of Christians and much of the rest of the population, and she was martyred.  The reasons for her martyrdom vary:   Did she really gouge out her eyes because a suitor commented on their beauty? Did she die because she had promised her virginity to Christ? Was she killed because the evil emperor had ordered her to be taken to a brothel because she was giving away the family wealth? Was she killed because a rejected suitor outed her for being a Christian?  We don’t really know.  

She is most often pictured with a crown of candles on her head, and tradition says that she wore a candle crown into the catacombs when she took provisions to the Christians hiding there.  With a candle crown, she freed up a hand to carry more supplies.  I love this idea, but it wouldn't surprise me to find out that it isn't true.

Truth often doesn't matter with these popular saints like Lucia, Nicholas, and Valentine.  We love the traditions, and that means we often know more about the traditions than we do about the saints behind them, if we know anything at all about the saints behind these popular days.

This feast day still seems relevant for two reasons.  First, Lucia shows us the struggle that women face in daily existence in a patriarchal culture, the culture that most of us still must endure.  It’s worth remembering that many women in many countries today don’t have any more control over their bodies or their destinies than these long-ago virgin saints did. In this time of Advent waiting, we can remember that God chose to come to a virgin mother who lived in a culture that wasn’t much different than Santa Lucia’s culture: highly stratified, with power concentrated at the top, power in the hands of white men, which made life exceeding different for everyone who wasn't a powerful, wealthy, white man. It's a society that sounds familiar, doesn't it?

On this feast day of Santa Lucia, we can spend some time thinking about women, about repression, about what it means to control our destiny.  We can think about how to spread freedom.

It's also an important feast day because of the time of year when we celebrate.  Even though we're still in the season of late autumn, in terms of how much sunlight we get, those of us in the northern hemisphere are in the darkest time of the year.  It's great to have a festival that celebrates the comforts of this time of year:  candles and baked goods and hot beverages.

I love our various festivals to get us through the dark of winter. In these colder, darker days, I wish that the early church fathers had put Christmas further into winter, so that we can have more weeks of twinkly lights and candles to enjoy. Christmas in February makes more sense to me, even though I understand how Christmas ended up near the Winter Solstice.

I always thought that if I had a more flexible schedule, I'd spend December 13 making special breads, but that will have to wait.  My schedule is flexible, but much of today and tomorrow will be spent working on my final papers/presentations for three seminary classes.  

You could do baking though! If you’d like to try, this blog post will guide you through it. If you’re the type who needs pictures, it’s got a link to a blog post with pictures.  Enjoy.

Fall Teaching Tasks Complete with Seminary Writing Yet to Do

 I have posted my last set of grades.  I am not done with all of the work from Fall semester, but all my grading is done:  5 Spartanburg Methodist College classes and 4 online classes for Broward College.  For the online classes, I don't have to do some of the more time consuming work:  the curriculum is created and standard for online classes, and the course shell is the same from term to term--in many ways, I am the grader and the person who answers questions and encourages and sends reminders.  Still, it takes time, and it takes up a lot of space in my head at certain points of the term, like the end. 

Tuesday I uploaded all of the components of the final project for my Preaching class: Race, Gender, and the Religious Imagination.  I had to write an academic paper, then I had to create an event that would address some of the material the paper revealed, and I had to create/preach/record a sermon that I would preach for the event, along with a sermon manuscript.  It was one of the more complicated final projects, with lots of parts.

I still have three papers to write, but they feel doable:  one is due on Friday, one on Saturday, and one on Sunday.  The end is in sight!  I want to get as much done Thursday as possible.  My spouse has been fighting off a cold, and I worry that I'll wake up sick.

I thought I would get more done yesterday, but after getting up early to get grading done and get the Rogue in for new tires, I was tired by afternoon.  I took a nap and then got up to finish the gingerbread in the late afternoon.  I started the recipe in the morning, but the dough needs time to chill.  They were wonderful fresh out of the oven, but this morning, they are a bit crisper around the edges than I'd like.

As I look at my history in gingerbread, I am realizing that this is one cookie that almost never turns out the way I want:  soft on the inside, but with some resistance (but not overly crispness) on the outside.  It's usually a delicious cookie, if I didn't have my preconceived idea of what it should feel like when I bite into it.  And yes, I do see the life lesson there.

Let me bring this blog post to a close and actually post it.  I first started writing it yesterday and got sidetracked by the day's tasks.  And then let me get to my seminary writing.  

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The readings for Sunday, December 15, 2024:


Zephaniah 3:14-20

Isaiah 12:2-6 (Isaiah 12:6)

Philippians 4:4-7

Luke 3:7-18


Today's Gospel shows the fiery side of John the Baptist, who calls his audience a brood of vipers and warns of celestial axes coming to cut down the trees that aren't bearing fruit. Not a very Christmasy message.

But what a contrast to the message of excessive consumerism bleating at us from every portal of communication this time of year. I find it refreshing, this apocalyptic thread of Scripture running parallel to the beat of capitalism.

Go back to that agricultural metaphor of John's: "Even now the axe is laid to the root of the trees; every tree therefore that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire" (Luke 3: 9). The New Year approaches, and many people are thinking about how they've failed in their plans for this year, and how they might get on track for next year. Instead of focusing on appearance and weight loss, as so many people do, we might turn some attention to our spiritual lives. If God was a gardener, and we were trees in the orchard, what would God do?

Would we be chopped down, thrown into the fire?

John's message is not this one of despair. He doesn't say, "There's nothing you can do. The messiah is coming, and all is lost."

No, John tells us to repent. It's not too late. The word repent is often associated with seeking forgiveness of sins, but that's a very narrow definition. The larger meaning of that word is to turn. Turn away from what isn't working in our lives. Turn towards God and all the ways our lives could be better.

How are you bearing fruit? One reason God came to be with us, one reason God took on human form--to show us how to live. If living like Jesus is your goal, what kinds of practices can get you there?

What personality traits bear fruit? What needs to be chopped away? What spiritual practices should you think about incorporating in the coming year, to support your plans to be more Christ-like? More prayer? One day of fasting a week? Less spending on yourself? More sharing? More patience? More volunteer time? Cutting back on debt, so that you don't have to work such ridiculous hours? Living more simply, so that you have more to share with others?

I know, you're thinking that you don't have time for this kind of contemplation right now. You're very, very busy: Christmas gatherings to attend, shopping to do, cooking to complete, getting packed for your holiday journeys.

We live in a culture that likes to keep us busy. We are all too busy to heed John's message: "Repent." Turn around. Do it now, before it is too late.

What would our culture look like if we took Jesus as our model of behavior? If we trusted God more? If, instead of listening to the blare of TV and the Internet and the many forms of media, what would happen if we listened for God? What would happen if we structured our lives according to the plan that Jesus reveals? What would happen if we decided that Jesus meant what he said, and we structured our lives accordingly?

As you think about the implications of the answers to those questions, you see why our culture rushes in to fill the voids that most of us don't even perceive in our individual lives and larger communities. For if we lived our lives and made our decisions based on the Kingdom that Jesus reveals, it would be a very different world indeed. John gives us a hint later in the Gospel for today: if you have two coats, share with the person who has none, and likewise with food; don't cheat people; be content with your wages.

Repent. Turn away from the life of bloat and greed that our culture of consumption offers us. Turn towards a vision of Kingdom living. Don't wait until you're dead. Do what you can to create the Kingdom here and now.

An Afternoon in Which I Record a Sermon for Seminary Class

Yesterday's main task was completing as much of my seminary project that's due at noon today, as I could.  Part of that project involves recording a sermon, and it's a sermon that's supposed to be part of an event that I would create (if I had money, time, place, support) in response to my critical reflection paper.

I had written about the event, a retreat on the nameless women who helped shape the ministry of Jesus, a retreat to remind us that if nameless women can have this kind of influence, maybe we shouldn't be so quick to dismiss our own agency and power.

Since I live at a retreat center, I thought about all the places where I might record my sermon.  Yesterday was fairly warm for December, and the rain had held off, so I decided that an outdoor location wasn't an issue.  Plus I knew I wouldn't be in the way, as I might if I tried to use one of the indoor spaces around camp.  My spouse was willing to be the controller of the camera.

We went over to the lake, where there's a gorgeous outdoor space, and it's fairly quiet.  We experimented with filming several sentences, a few times, and then we made the recording.  You can view it here.

I thought about doing several more takes, but I know that this attempt is probably as good as some of the other attempts we might make.  I don't have fancy editing software or the knowledge of how to take the best bits and pieces of recordings to make a seamless whole.

Once I uploaded the video to my YouTube channel, I uploaded the video to the dropbox for my class.  And now I need to make the final polishings to my paper.  I am to the point where I need to do some final revisions and call it done.  I've been immersed in this project for days, and I'm probably not able to see it clearly, at least not before the noon due date.

I am always aware that I might be able to create something better, but my experiences as a writer, or as any kind of creative, reminds me that it's always the case.  And what else is always the case:  even if it could be better, my efforts are likely good enough.

Sermon for Sunday, December 8

 December 8, 2024

By Kristin Berkey-Abbott

Luke 3:1-6

When I looked ahead into the lectionary for Advent this year, I felt a bit of despair.  I wanted angels announcing good news—this year, more than ever, I felt hungry for that message.  Instead, we get passages that seem more fitting for the Baptism of Our Lord Sunday that we’ll celebrate in January.  I found myself asking, as you might be asking, “How is this an Advent text?”  Let’s take a deeper look to answer that question.

Luke begins by naming every important ruler, along with religious leadership.  In doing this, the Gospel writer anchors the story of Jesus in a particular place and time.  Unlike Greek and Roman mythology, God doesn’t act here outside of time or in an otherworldly way.  In fact, the audience for the Gospel of Luke would likely remember these rulers and the mighty deeds they had done and the mistakes they had made.

How might this passage sound if we transposed the names into more modern ones?  Let’s give it a try:  In the fifteenth year of the reign of President Trump, when Ursula von der Leyen was governor of Europe, and Xi Jinping (Shee Jin Ping) was ruler of China, and his brother Putin ruler of the region of Russia, and Netanyahu ruler of Israel, 2 during the high priesthood of Pope Francis, the word of God came to John son of Zechariah in the wilderness.  

To get the full symbolic impact of what Luke does, however, it’s not enough to think about these rulers in geopolitical terms.  Luke’s passage begins by naming the most murderous rulers, not necessarily the ones with the most political power or the ones governing the biggest chunks of land.  We could have an interesting conversation about whether or not I’ve picked the correct names, in light of that insight, and in the spirit of honesty, I’ll admit that I was choosing names that matched countries that seemed important in our own geopolitical discourse, not the names of the most bloodstained leaders.  I chose these rulers from our own time as I thought about one of the main themes of the Gospel of Luke—throughout this Gospel, Luke reminds us of the differences between earthly power and Divine power.

In this passage, by linking the religious leadership with worldly leadership, the Gospel of Luke reminds us that God is not contained in human temples and palaces.  Like other Advent stories, in this one we are reminded that God will come where we least expect to find God:  not in the corridors of political power, not in the beautiful cathedrals where religious authorities rule, but in distant outposts, in places that are untamed, with rivers that serve as borders, not the city walls.

Twenty-first century readers might miss the significance of this river:  a river is a river is a river, at least until its banks overflow.  But first century readers would understand the symbolism:  the Jordan is the river that the Israelites cross when they finally are ready to leave Egypt behind, after 40 years of wandering in the wilderness, taking the most circuitous route to the promised land.  Bible commentator Charlene P. E. Burns notes that in the book of Joshua, the Jordan is seen as cleansing the Israelites from “the disgrace of Egypt (Josh. 5:9)  and the river also figures prominently in the Elijah-Elisha stories of 2 Kings, where its crossing sanctifies Elisha as Elijah’s successor (2 Kgs. 2:6–14).”  Here, too, in the Gospel of Luke, the river Jordan is a marker between two time periods, just as John is a marker between two ages, the time before Jesus and the time of the coming of the Messiah, the fulfillment of an ancient promise.  Here, too, we wait and hope—a very Advent theme. 

The river Jordan also symbolizes a cleansing, a return from exile, and the words that John speaks in this passage hearken back to an earlier passage from a different time of exile, the one addressed by Isaiah.  Bible commentator Mariam J. Kammell  says, “Isaiah 40:3–5 was originally a word to the exiles in Babylon and so brought comfort to the people of Israel, that their time of oppression would end with God’s rescue— that God had not forgotten them and would not neglect them.”  Here’s another Advent message that many of us need to hear.  We are not waiting and watching in vain; God will act, promises will be kept, justice and mercy will be delivered.  

There’s an interesting connection and contrast between worldly power and Divine power in the idea of making straight pathways.  When I read this passage this year, I thought of all the winding roads that can take me from the Asheville area to Bristol; I am grateful for the quick restoration of I 26 which makes it possible for me to be here to be part of worship and to be part of this community.  I was grateful for it before I took the winding, twisty roads that Sunday several weeks after the hurricane.  I see the passage in our text today as praising direct routes, and judging by the roads we build and rebuild, most of us in the 21st century feel the same way.

But first century hearers of this text would have a different connection to Roman roads.  Roman roads were straight, but they weren’t built for every day people.  Indeed, most people would never be given permission to use a Roman road.  Roman roads were built for armies and for officials who needed to respond to an emergency, much the same way as our interstate system was designed.  All others would use the dirt paths and other routes in between places.  A path made straight would not be a sign of easy travel.  A path made straight would be a sign of impending war.

If we make the mountains low, how will we see the approaching armies and prepare?  If the paths are smooth, we seem even more likely to be killed in a war or carried away as a captive to be sold into enslavement.  First century readers might be puzzled by this symbolism in this speech of John crying in the wilderness.

In the many intervening centuries, we’ve seen John’s speech as declaring that we need salvation, and that salvation is coming soon.  But John is preaching something far more profound than feeling sorry for the ways we’ve sinned.  The Greek word is metanoia, a turning around, and this idea is so important that we get a fuller exploration of it in next Sunday’s Gospel reading.

Like first century people made anxious by the idea of straight pathways, we have an Advent message that might make us nervous, much as we need to hear it.  John the Baptist reminds us of all the answers we thought we had, all the power we thought we understood.  Like the Israelites, we might feel that we’re in exile, cut off from home.  Like ordinary people during the time of Roman empire, we might feel like all our protections have been taken away, like we’re sitting ducks on a wide highway.  Like John, we might be finding ourselves in a wilderness.  Perhaps it’s a wilderness of our own making, like a move to a new job or maybe it’s one that descended on us, like illness or death or loss.

Hear the good news again.  Your salvation is at hand: your grieving heart will be comforted, your anger and irritation will lift, the planet will heal itself, God will take care of you.  In short, everything you need is on its way.

In this year, in every year, that’s the Advent message so many of us yearn to hear, whether delivered by angels or in dreams or in the mouth of a prophet.  This year, hear the message again and believe.

The Feast Day of Saint Nicholas

Today, all over Europe, the gift-giving season begins. I had a friend in grad school who celebrated Saint Nicholas Day by having each family member open one present on the night of Dec. 6. It was the first I had heard of the feast day, but I was enchanted.

Still, I don't do much with this feast day--if I had children or gift-giving friends, I might, but most years, I simply pause to remember the historical origins of the saint and the day.

In different years, I might have spent some time looking at my own Santa objects. One year, my step-mom in law and my father in law gave me these as Christmas presents:

They're actually cookie presses, and the Santa figures are the handles of the press. I've never used them as a cookie press, but I love them as decorations that are faithful to the European country of origin.

It's always a bit of a surprise to realize that Saint Nicholas was a real person. But indeed he was. In the fourth century, he lived in Myra, then part of Greece, now part of Turkey; eventually, he became Bishop of Myra. He became known for his habit of gift giving and miracle working, although it's hard to know what really happened and what's become folklore. Some of his gift giving is minor, like leaving coins in shoes that were left out for him. Some were more major, like resurrecting three boys killed by a butcher.

My favorite story is the one of the poor man with three children who had no dowry for them. No dowry meant no marriage, and so, they were going to have to become prostitutes. In the dead of night, Nicholas threw a bag of gold into the house. Some legends have that he left a bag of gold for each daughter that night, while some say that he gave the gold on successive nights, while some say that he gave the gold as each girl came to marrying age.

Through the centuries, the image of Saint Nicholas has morphed into Santa Claus, but as with many modern customs, one doesn't have to dig far to find the ancient root.

I don't have as many Santa images in my Christmas decorations. Here's my favorite Santa ornament:

I picked it up in May of 1994 or so. I was visiting my parents, and I went with them on a trip to Pennsylvania where my dad was attending a conference. I picked this ornament up in a gift shop that had baskets of ornaments on sale. I love that it uses twine as joints to hold Santa together.

In the past decade, I've been on the lookout for more modern Saint Nicholas images. A few years ago, one of my friends posted this photo of her Santa display to her Facebook page:

I love the ecumenical nature of this picture of Santa: Santa statues coexisting peacefully with Buddha statues. And then I thought, how perfect for the Feast Day of St. Nicholas!

More recently, I have a new favorite Saint Nicholas image, courtesy of my cousin's wife:

In this image, Santa communicates by way of American Sign Language. As I looked at the background of the photo, I realized Santa sits in a school--the sign on the bulletin board announces free breakfast and lunch.

The photo seems both modern and ancient to me: a saint who can communicate in the language we will hear, the promise that the hungry will be filled.

In our time, when ancient customs seem in danger of being taken over by consumerist frenzy, let us pause for a moment to reflect on gifts of all kinds. Let us remember those who don't have the money that gifts so often require. Let us invite the gifts of communication and generosity into our lives.

Nuggets of Inspiration from Facebook Posts: C. S. Lewis on Saints and Theologian Ruben Alves on Hope

Every day I worry that I waste too much time zipping around to Internet sites, and I always feel I spend too much time on social media.  But each day, I get a bit of inspiration, a bit of uplift that keeps me hopeful that it's not a complete waste of time.  I've pasted some samples below.

And it's also worth remembering that I've always wasted some time:  trashy books, afternoon talk shows like Oprah, gossiping with colleagues.  It's good to remember that they weren't all complete wastes of time.  And it's probably unrealistic to expect myself to be productive every waking hour.

A Facebook friend who is a female pastor made this post:

As I drove to my last radiation treatment this morning and listened to the news about the escalation of the war in Ukraine and Russia, I remembered C.S. Lewis words, “How monotonously alike all the great tyrants and conquerors have been: how gloriously different are the saints." And here, I don't think he's talking about the saints with a capital S, but those who persist in the small, everyday acts of courage, hope, and kindness. These are the things that make for peace and that will, in the end, erase every memory of the great unoriginal tyrants.

A Facebook friend who is a female pastor made this post (completely unrelated to the above quote):

An Advent thought from Brazilian theologian Ruben Alves: “Hope is that presentiment that the imagination is more real, and reality less real, than we had thought. It is the sensation that the last word does not belong to the brutality of facts with their oppression and repression. It is the suspicion that reality is far more complex than realism would have us believe, that the frontiers of the possible are not determined by the limits of the present, and that miraculously and surprisingly, life is readying the creative event that will open the way to freedom and resurrection.”

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The readings for Sunday, December 8, 2024:

Malachi 3:1-4 or Baruch 5:1-9

Luke 1:68-79 (Luke 1:78)

Philippians 1:3-11

Luke 3:1-6

In this week's Gospel, we see and hear John the Baptist proclaiming the good news. We'll see him in different contexts throughout the liturgical year. Luke gives a rather tame introduction--no locusts or wild honey. But he is living in the wilderness, which has led me to think of the role of wilderness in the lives of believers.

Again, in this season of relentless festivity, this Gospel (and all the Advent readings) might give us a bit of disconnect. Why is John in the wilderness? What is the nature of this good news?

If we're living in the wilderness, we may feel cut off or otherwise deadened. It's hard to think about wilderness, in this time of overdevelopment. Many of us live in places where there is more concrete than desert (or other forms of wilderness). Perhaps one of these places of relentless "development" is where John the Baptist would come from, if we re-cast the story in modern terms.

Or perhaps it would be useful to think of wilderness in other ways. Perhaps the wilderness is not a geographical place, so much as an emotional one. Can we even hear this good news in the world we live in? We like to think that we're connected, but I've been wondering about all the ways that our technology keeps us disconnected. We text each other instead of having conversations. We get our news from so many sources, at every hour of the day, that we may go numb. The human brain was not made for such misery. Maybe the wilderness in which we find ourselves is one of shallow connection where our roots whither.

Many of us approach December with all kinds of dread. We don't have enough money to pay for necessities, much less gifts. We've lost loved ones, and the holidays remind us of those holes left by loss. We remember a time when we liked the holidays and we've lost that person who approached the season with wonder and joy. We have too much caretaking to do and no one taking care of us.

Listen to the words of John the Baptist again. Listen to God, who often calls to us from the wilderness. Let the words fill your heart with hope: "The crooked shall be made straight, and the rough ways shall be made smooth; and all flesh shall see the salvation of God." (Luke 3: 5-6).

Your salvation is at hand: your grieving heart will be comforted, your anger and irritation will lift, the planet will heal itself as it always does, God will take care of you and everything you need is on its way.

Glad tidings of good news indeed.

Storytelling, Biblical and Otherwise

Yesterday I did storytelling assignments for two of my seminary classes.  I began the day by driving down to Spartanburg Methodist College for one last meeting.  In fact, I drove down early because one of my department colleagues suggested that we meet for lunch--lunch was hard, but breakfast worked out for most of us.  It was a delight.

I came home just in time to wish my spouse good luck as he headed to the dentist.  I knew he would be gone for awhile; it was a fix the cavities visit, not a cleaning.  I decided to go ahead and experiment with filming my final project for the Biblical Storytelling class.  We did our first storytelling during the onground intensive.  For the final project, we had to choose two other stories to go with it (one from the Bible, one from any source that made sense).  We had to memorize them so that we could inhabit them and tell them, rather than reading them.

If the above sentence confuses you, you can see my final recording by going to my YouTube channel.  The project is here.

I did so many recordings.  I had several that would have been fine.  When I make recordings, I get to a point where I say, "Well, it's probably not going to get much better than what I have."  I did this recording by telling the story in front of my laptop with the video camera running.  I learned a lot by doing it this way.  I could watch the filming as it happened, which shortened the learning curve.

There would have been both advantages and disadvantages to having someone else hold the camera, but in the end, I don't think I would have ended up with a better version, just a different version.  The other aspect of a class project is that there is a deadline, and I do have lots of other projects coming due, along with final grading.

I went for a walk, and then I came home and got ready for my Stories of Power class.  We've looked at a variety of stories for the class, and for our final project, we had to write a story of our own.  We did a class of writing prompts, which I wrote about in this blog post.  Even though I had already started to create my story, I found the writing prompts helpful in enriching the story; in fact, I probably had a stronger ending that I wouldn't have had without that drafting work.

Last night, we read our stories.  We had 10 minutes to read, and then there would be 10 minutes of feedback, "generous dialogue" by our classmates, with the author remaining silent.  

I was part of the group that read last night.  I was happy with my story, and I was satisfied with the feedback.  Once grades are in, perhaps I'll post parts of it here.  I'm not sure it's a story that would ever be published; it's not likely that kind of story.

It reminds me a bit of the sketching that I do and a bit like the blogging that I do.  They are both valuable, very valuable to me.  But in terms of anything that's immediately money making, nope.  

I had the story in my head for a few weeks, and when I finally sat down to write it on Saturday, it flowed smoothly.  I did some revising on Sunday--took out a chunk and tightened it a bit.  It was so enjoyable, it made me wonder why I don't do it more often.

I may do more story telling in the coming years, when I'm not close to overextended with seminary work, preaching work, and teaching.  For now, though, I'm happy to have these opportunities that give me MDiv class credit--hurrah for this program that lets me think about creative juxtapositions with theology.  

We Are Waiting, Jesus: A Closing Liturgy/Prayer for Advent

Yesterday, we watched worship from other churches where we have a connection.  I'm always interested to know what other churches are doing.  I had taken a walk with the pastor who was supply pastor at our local Lutheran church yesterday, and I wanted to know how her sermon would turn out, especially since her ideas about the fig tree inspired me to look at the Gospel passage with fresh eyes.

Her approach was different than mine, which was no surprise, but we both saw the leaves on the fig tree as a sign of hope, not a harbinger of doom (or a harbinger of autumn and winter being right around the corner).

Our Florida church observed World AIDS day, which seemed appropriate for Advent.  I thought about how I neglected to mention it, but I'm at a very different church in Bristol, Tennessee.  I could have made it fit with my sermon, though--drat for lost opportunities.

Our Florida church has an Advent liturgy that I've never seen anywhere else, and can't find now.  I'm almost sure it came from the Iona community in Scotland originally.  We close worship each Sunday in Advent with a prayer that says, "We are waiting, Jesus.  We are waiting in Pembroke Pines."  

Through the years, we've added various cities.  At first, it was just the cities surrounding the church where members live:  "We are waiting in Pembroke Pines and Hollywood, in Dania Beach and Ft. Lauderdale."  Now, as we livestream and record, the church has added all the cities/states where former members have moved.

Yesterday, I felt a sublime happiness to hear, "We are waiting, Jesus, in North Carolina."  How wonderful to know that although we are gone, we are not forgotten.  It's what the best liturgies do--sew the past to the present, while looking to the future.

Sermon for the First Sunday of Advent 2024

 December 1, 2024

By Kristin Berkey-Abbott

Luke 21:25-36

As I was thinking about this Advent text, I went to my file of sermons written to look up the sermon for last year’s first Sunday of Advent.  I was surprised to find out that a year ago, we had apocalyptic texts.  At first I thought I had my lectionary years mixed up, but no—last year, we had apocalyptic texts from Mark (the same reading we had two weeks ago), and this year, we get similar imagery from Luke.

If you leave church today feeling slightly confused, I don’t blame you.  We’ve got a Chrismon tree, but no Christmas carols.  The calendar says it’s December, and here we have a Gospel reading that might be more appropriate for Lent, with Jesus trying to tell his disciples what is coming their way.

It’s an interesting question, and one that theologians still wrestle with:  what is the Gospel writer of Luke trying to do with this scene?  Is Jesus warning his disciples about his own crucifixion?  Or is he giving them insight into some later time of doom?  And is he talking about doom or the restoration of the reign of God?

And back to us, as a congregation, who might be saying, “We need a little Christmas, right this very minute.”  In some ways, we’re so very different from the audience who first read the Gospel of Luke—many of them would remember the destruction of the Temple that Jesus seems to predict.  Many of them might be expecting Jesus to return physically in their lifetime—those first generation Christians likely longed for Christmas too, the second Christmas of Christ’s coming..  

We are not so different, those first followers of Jesus and our 21st century congregations.  Through the generations, we’ve had to learn to live in the in between times.  Our Bible readings for today remind us that the long view is far longer than many of us might like.

In our Christian congregations, when we hear about the reign of God that Jesus proclaims, we think of this inbreaking of the Kingdom, the community, of God as beginning with Jesus.  But Jesus and the early believers were Jewish—the ones who wrote our New Testament texts would have been steeped in much older timelines, timelines that would tell us that God has been at work in the world for thousands of years before Jesus makes an appearance.  Our reading from Jeremiah today reminds us that God is a God of covenant.  The arrival of Jesus doesn’t end that covenant—no, the arrival of Jesus expands that covenant.

The words of Jesus tell us of the scope of the promise.  The world as we see it is not the finished creation.  God did not create perfection and then leave humans to wreck it—although that is certainly part of a theology that is supportable from the Bible.  But it is only part.  

God does not leave humans alone in the wreckage.  God has not abandoned us for a better creation that God made after this one that we live in.  The writer of the Gospel of Luke was addressing those early Christians who survived the uprisings that led to the destruction of the Temple and the expulsion from ancestral lands—texts like today’s Gospel try to answer the question:  “What happens now?  How do we continue to live?”  

Think of those first century Christians who have heard the Good News that Jesus proclaims:  a new world is emerging, where the lowly will be lifted up, the powerful will be made to share resources.  And yet, that’s not the world we see around us.

As we move through our Advent texts, we may feel the same kind of jarring disconnect.  We live in a society that has been celebrating Christmas for months now, if the store displays are any indication; indeed, on this first Sunday of Advent, many Christmas items are reduced.  We live in a world where many people can’t afford any of this holiday cheer, no matter how deeply reduced it is.  We do not see the poor lifted up.  We do not see the powerful brought down.  Indeed, it seems that with every passing year, the powerful make gains, perhaps through their connections, perhaps through their talents, perhaps through activities that would send ordinary citizens to jail.  Meanwhile ordinary citizens struggle just to make ends meet.

How do we survive in these in between times?  We know the promises that God makes.  But the fulfillment seems so far away.  

Our non-Christian culture, not surprisingly, would tell us that we survive by making purchases:  maybe it’s a fancy vacation or some other item on our bucket lists.  Maybe we console ourselves with our favorite foods, or maybe we’re a bit more selfless as we buy gifts for others or make donations to worthy causes.  But unsurprisingly, Jesus has a different approach to the question of how to survive in the in between time.  We stay alert, and we watch, and we pray.

I’ve read today’s Gospel text many times, but this year, it lands differently with me. Jesus tells us that we’re living in difficult times that are about to get much more difficult.  He’s talking, most likely, about Roman oppression that’s about to get much, much worse, while my brain goes to global warming and a bird flu that’s in the process of becoming much more transmissible.  In this autumn of disruptions and unexpected crises, it’s not hard to see signs of coming apocalypse all around us.  

At the close of this year of upheavals and coming chaos, verse 34 lands differently.  In this time of crisis, what does Jesus recommend?   “Be on guard so that your hearts are not weighed down with dissipation and drunkenness and the worries of this life.”  

That’s what Jesus tells us:  Don’t let our hearts get heavy with all these worldly worries.  Maybe you, like me, are saying, “Great, that advice again.  So, Jesus, tell us exactly how to do that.”

This year, like past years, I’m seeing Jesus tell us to pray.  But this year, I’m interpreting the fig tree differently.  I started thinking about the fig tree in this passage, when I took a walk with a pastor friend who is also preaching on this text today.  She was planning to focus on the tree, who continues making its way through the seasons, even when the world is falling apart.  In the face of apocalypse, the fig tree produces leaves.  Instead of a harbinger of doom, the way I’m prone to see it in this text, it can also be seen as a harbinger of life.

And that’s the larger message of this passage.  Jesus tells us over and over again that the world may be falling about, and we may feel like we’re sitting in the ruins of everything that’s good.  But this wreckage can be a sign of better times ahead.  Jesus tells us not to focus on the wreckage, but to remember the promise of God, who is at work in the world, creating beauty where many of us might only see brokenness.  God is at work, like that fig tree, sprouting new life, even as old world orders crash to a close.  God invites us to be part of the new life, a branch on a tree that is far from dead.

The Feast Day of Saint Andrew

Today is the feast day of Saint Andrew, remembered as the first disciple. He's the brother of Simon Peter, and Andrew is the one who told Peter about Jesus. Andrew followed John the Baptist, and John the Baptist introduced Jesus as the true Messiah. Andrew believed, and Andrew brought his brother to see what he had seen.

Tradition has it that the brothers didn’t give up their family fishing business at first, but eventually, Christ requested full commitment. I’ve always wondered about the family relationships that simmer in the background of the Gospels.

I remember one Gospel reading that mentioned Jesus healing the mother-in-law of Simon Peter. I thought, mother-in-law? That means there must have been a wife. What did the mothers and wives and mother-in-laws think of the men abandoning their fishing business to follow Jesus?

I also think about the sibling relationships here. What does Andrew think about Simon Peter, who quickly moves into the spotlight? Is Andrew content to stay in the background?

We know from the passage in Matthew that begins with Matthew 20:20, that there is competition to be Christ’s favorite. We see the mother of James and John who argues for her sons’ importance. We see the other disciples who become angry at the actions of this mother. I extrapolate to imagine that there’s much jockeying for position amongst the disciples.

Christ never loses an opportunity to remind us that he’s come to give us a different model of success. Again and again, he dismisses the importance that the world attaches to riches, to status, to a good reputation. Again and again, Jesus instructs us that the last will be first. Jesus tells us that the way to gain prestige with God is to serve.

We see stories that show that Andrew is the kind of disciple who is working for the glory of Christ, not for other reasons. In John’s Gospel, Andrew is the one who tells Jesus about the boy with five barley loaves and two fish, and thus helps make possible the miraculous feeding.

Andrew was the kind of disciple we could use more of in this world. Andrew so believes in the Good News that he brings his family members to Christ, and he continued in this path, bringing the Gospel to people far and wide. We see him beginning this mission in John’s Gospel, where he tells Christ of the Greeks that want to see him.

Andrew gets credit for bringing Christianity into parts of eastern Europe and western Asia: Kiev, Ukraine, Romania, Russia. He’s the first bishop of the Church of Byzantium and patron saint of all sorts of places, from Scotland to Cyprus to Russia.

On this day when we celebrate the life of the first disciple, let us consider our own discipleship. Are we focused on the right tasks or are we hoping that our Christian faith brings us non-Christian glory? How can we help usher in the miracles that come with the presence of Christ? Who needs to hear the Good News as only we can tell it?

A Prayer/Blessing for the Day after Thanksgiving

We gather with grateful hearts in the hopes that we can remember to maintain this gratitude.

We pray for those who do not have much that inspires gratitude this year.

We pray for those who went to bed hungry last night.

We pray for those who have been shattered and broken.

We pray to a God who knows how to transform brokenness into beauty.

We prepare our hearts for Advent, watching and waiting, even when we are tired of watching and waiting.

A Prayer/Blessing for Thanksgiving Morning

May all of our cooking result in deliciousness.

May we remember those who have no food to cook.

As we celebrate with others, may we feel joy.

Let us remember those who are no longer with us, and let the sadness wash through us, leaving us unharmed.

May we remember to conserve our energy for what's important.

May we remember those who do not have that luxury.

Let us remember that gratitude is always appropriate.

The Wednesday before Thanksgiving

 The Wednesday before Thanksgiving has often been my favorite day of the year.  I love the years when we've done the travel on Tuesday, and on Wednesday, we can have mixes of relaxing and getting ready for the Thanksgiving feast.  I have such great memories of Thanksgiving Wednesdays of past years, when I was surrounded by children who are so happy to with the larger family (more people to read the favorite books or play games).

Our Thanksgiving break this year will be different:  different travel plans, different destinations, time with my spouse's family, not my family.  I feel fortunate that I have almost as many years being part of my spouse's family as with my family of origin, so I'm happy to spend time with them.  There's always the melancholy tinge that comes with knowing that we're all getting older.  We don't have unlimited time in the future to be together.

It was always an illusion, though, the idea that we would have countless holidays together.  So in many ways, I welcome the bittersweet insight, the chance to cherish the chance to be together in a way that I haven't always.

This blog post has been interrupted by packing, and now it's time to bring it to a close.  I should go get a walk in before the various activities start.  The weather in the coming days is unsettled, and I'm not sure what our vacation rhythms will be.  But I never regret going for a walk.

Meditation on This Week's Gospel

The readings for Sunday, December 1, 2024:

Jeremiah 33:14-16

Psalm 25:1-10 (Ps. 25:1)

1 Thessalonians 3:9-13

Luke 21:25-36

Across the nation, many people have already begun to decorate for Christmas. The stores are full of winter holiday stuff, some of it already deeply discounted. The TV ads swirl with Christmas cheer. Many of us are trying to fight off the apocalyptic feelings both in our souls and in the larger world.

If you're in a truly festive mood, the readings for Advent must often seem jarring. They tend to be apocalyptic in nature. Take this week's reading from Luke, for example, with its mention of men fainting with fear and the heavens shaking and the return of Jesus (at least, that's a common interpretation of what this text means). Many of the Old Testament readings for Advent will focus on the prophets who foretell doom and offer comfort to the oppressed. If you're oppressed, perhaps you feel fine. Otherwise, you might sit there, wondering why we can't sing Christmas carols like the rest of the world.

It's important to remember that Advent is seen as a time of watching and waiting. We remember the stories of others who watched and waited: famously, Mary and all the legions of people who have felt the yoke of oppression and yearned for a savior.

It's also important to remember that one of the main messages of the New Testament, as well as those from the earlier Hebrew Bible, are tales of the Kingdom of God breaking into our current reality. Many modern theologians talk about the Kingdom of God, and about the mission of Jesus, as both “now” and “not yet.” Again and again, we are told that the Kingdom of God, the Kingdom of Heaven, will not look like what we expect.

One of the messages of Advent is that God breaks into our dreary world in all sorts of ways, some scary, some comforting, some magnificent, and some hardly noticed. The story of Jesus is one of the more spectacular stories, but God tries to get our attention all the time. We are called to watch and wait and always be on the alert.

The message of Advent is truly exciting. God wants us to participate in Kingdom living now, not just in some distant future when we go to Heaven. What good news for those of us who have been fainting from fear or fighting off feelings of foeboding. The kingdom of God is near.

Can God Change? A Theologian Changes His Mind

Yesterday, I came across this interview between Richard Hays and Peter Wehner in The New York Times.  Richard Hays is a theologian who published a book arguing against gay marriage and arguing even against gay and lesbian marriage.  That was back in 1996, and now, he has changed his mind; now he has published a new book, The Widening of God’s Mercy (what a great title and a great concept).

In the interview, Hays resists saying that God can change.  He's not saying that it's not possible, but he always circles back to the necessity of realizing that we can't possibly know.  Peter Wehner points out that if God can change, if the way we interpret scripture can change, that there's a great risk of only picking out passages that support whatever line of thought we're having at a particular time; Wehner asks Hays about his earlier beliefs and what Hays would say to his earlier self.  Hays says, "Yeah, but the shape of the whole biblical story gives us a pattern, a pattern of grace that is played out again and again, where we see God’s mercy broadening in ways that were unforeseen in earlier experience of the people of God."

Hays points out that there are plenty of scriptural ideas that we are willing to say are of their time and not relevant to ours, like Paul's ideas about slavery.  Why shouldn't sexual behaviors be seen similarly?

He also points out that there are practices described, like Jews and Gentiles eating together, that would have been incredibly shocking at the time, but now we don't even register them as an issue at all.

The interview circles back to whether or not God can change.  The idea of a God who changes is a dealbreaker for some Christians, but Hays is open to the idea, and can show places in the Bible text as evidence of God changing.  There's actually a whole theology that explores this, process theology, but Hays doesn't really mention it.

Hays is facing a reoccurrence of cancer which led him to write this book.  He also talks about the practice that he and his wife have, one they adopted with the first diagnosis, of reading a Psalm every night after dinner.

It's a long interview, but well worth a read.  I'm happy that a major newspaper gave the space to it.

Sermon for Christ the King Sunday

 November 24, 2024, Christ the King Sunday

By Kristin Berkey-Abbott

John 18:33-37

In today’s Gospel, we have a flash forward to Holy Week, where Pilate asks Jesus questions.  In some ways, it’s a court room scene, with Pilate trying to figure out what to do with this person accused of crimes.  Some have depicted Pilate as looking for a way to free Jesus, perhaps even feeling guilt or foreboding, but if you look into the historical Pilate, it’s hard to believe him as a sympathetic character.  He was brutal and ruthless, as a Roman ruler would have to be to hang onto power.

In some essential way, this interchange is about the very nature of that power—what does it mean to be ruler, to be king, to be the one in charge?

We have just been through a turbulent election season which asked those very same questions.  Of course, every election season during my lifetime has seemed turbulent, seemed to ask the question of what it means to be in charge, what is means to have power, and how power should be used.  What does it mean to have a mandate?  If one really does have political capital, what projects are worth spending that political capital?

In most political cycles, we see at least two groups with very different answers to those questions.  In our Gospel today, we also have two very different groups with very different answers.  There’s Pilate, most obviously.  But there’s also Jewish religious leadership, which the writer of the Gospel of John, calls “The Jews.”  The Gospel writer doesn’t mean every Jew, even though Pilate seems to think that they all speak with one voice.  Even though Pilate and Jewish religious leadership might not have seen it at the time, both have a similar vision of what power is and how it should be used.  Both of them see themselves as serving God (whether God was the Roman emperor Caesar or the Jewish God Yahweh) and that the best way of doing that was to follow the Law. Pilate has one set of Laws in mind, and Jewish leadership has a different set, but the idea is the same.  Adherence to the Law is what God (Caesar or Yahweh) wants, and strict observation can lead to salvation.  Pilate and the Jewish leadership see themselves as representatives of God, the best ones to interpret the Law and to keep people safe and out of trouble.

Here we might say, “Doesn’t Jesus see himself that way too?”  It’s an important point.  Jesus says at various points that he’s come not to abolish the Law but to fulfill it.   But Jesus also emphasizes that there is more to the Law than a set of rules to follow to keep God happy and society out of trouble.  Jesus points to the intent, to God’s intent, behind the Law.  And always, Jesus asks who is being left behind, left out, when we follow the Law too strictly, and he asks the same question, regardless of whether or not it’s religious law or laws handed down by the state.

Let’s go back to the exchange between Jesus and Pilate.  Jesus seems unconcerned with these earthly issues of power:   who is king, who is in charge, who controls who.  Jesus is concerned with the Truth. Of course, both Pilate and Jewish leadership would say that they are concerned with the Truth too. 

Jesus tries to redirect the conversation.  In some ways, his conversation with Pilate feels similar to those he has had with the disciples:  who do others say that I am?  Who do you say that I am?  What are we actually doing here?  Pilate has some additional layers to navigate:  he’s ruling a turbulent land, far away from the power center of Rome, and he never can figure out these strange people he’s been sent to govern.

In short, he’s a stranger in a strange land.  You may be familiar with this feeling, particularly during various political or life cycles:  unable to sort out why people feel the way they do, struggling to interpret events as they unfold, trying to figure out the best path forward.  We may want to believe that Pilate is trying to be fair and even handed, but it’s much more likely that he’s trying to make sure that revolutionary forces don’t have a chance to take root and disrupt his rule.  The Jewish religious leadership has similar goals:  both are trying to keep their earthly leaders and Divine rulers happy.

When I think of the narrative of God that we see across the scripture, I often see God in a similar position:  trying to figure out why humans feel the way they do, why humans behave the way they do, trying to keep creation on a path towards full flourishing.  A God who gives humans free will certainly has not made it easy to rule—at least not in the way that earthly leaders like Pilate or like Jewish leadership would prefer to rule. 

The readings for this week, and the Advent/Christmas texts that are coming next remind us that we don't worship a God who has a belief in power the way that the Romans used it, the ways that Jewish leadership wielded it, the way that all empires have used power, the ways that we are tempted to wield power today. 

Instead, we worship a God who is willing to become one of the most vulnerable kinds of creatures in our world: a newborn baby, born to underclass parents who must leave their homes to go register in a distant land, born to an underclass minority, living in an occupied land. We worship a God so radical that he is crucified as a political criminal, a God who is killed for declaring that a different way of living is possible. 

Again and again, Jesus reminds us that God who wants nothing to do with our human visions of power.  Throughout his ministry, Jesus shows us that power comes from service.   Jesus offers us a different vision of wealth, a wealth that doesn’t come from having one’s picture on a coin, but from giving those coins away. Our God calls us to a radical generosity and invites us to share all that we have. Jesus shows us the power that comes from serving and sharing, and it’s antithetical to the political power prized by Pilate or the power of controlling people’s religious yearnings that the Jewish leadership sought. Our experience of God, in Jesus, reminds us that if we behave in the way that God wants us to behave, we will come into direct conflict with the dominant power structures of our day.  Again and again, Jesus reminds us of the cost of discipleship, but always he promises that in losing the power that our culture tells us we should want, we will find lives that are worth living.

Unlike earthly rulers, who will make any number of promises and compromises to maintain power, Jesus shows us all the ways that God keeps that covenant made with a few people so long ago, a covenant enlarged to include us all.  

In the fulfillment of this covenant, God shows up in the oddest places, like in a manger or in criminal court.   Festival Sundays like today remind us God is not a ruler like the ones we know on earth.  Our liturgical year tells us that we need to always be alert to the possibilities of God at work in the world, but that it likely won't happen in the way that we've prepared for or expected.  All of Jesus’ life and ministry points to this God who will meet us where we are and take us to the promised land.  

More Essential Questions, Inspired by Theologian David Bosch

In my seminary class on Mission, we covered the work of David Bosch, one of the theologians who furthered the idea that mission work didn't need to involve an airplane ticket, that there's mission work to be done at home.  I was taken with his idea of how we can recognize the work of God.

I am not sure I can explain it well, but I want to capture an idea that has intrigued me for a few days now, the idea that the work of God, the mission of God, can be recognized in the overlap between a saved universe and a just universe.  And it's God's vision for creation--not for a future time, but right here, right now.  

In fact, that may not be what Bosch wrote, but it also intrigues me in a different way.

Maybe we recognize the work we should be doing by looking at this overlap or by asking these questions:  "Does this work usher in a more just universe?"  "Does this work offer some form of salvation, a saving kind of power?"

Are we moving the world towards justice and salvation?   And I think of salvation in a very different way than many Christians have.  I am less interested in saving souls so that they can go to Heaven than I am in saving creation for future Christians.

Worth Fighting For

One of my friends was reflecting on the past year, and she made a statement that church camps are worth fighting for.  I immediately thought about her words as a framing device, as a question, "Is ______ worth fighting for?"

I thought of how often I don't frame my thoughts this way:  my thoughts about decisions, about paths forward, about relationships, about creative pursuits, about the future.  I am more often asking different questions.  Am I any good at this?  Does this nourish me?  Am I wasting time here?  How impossible is this outcome?  Am I doing the right thing?

If it's a decision about a group, change the I to we.  I'm thinking of larger communities too, like higher ed, like the ELCA (the more inclusive Lutheran expression of church that I have committed to), like the U.S.  I'm thinking of decisions about ideas and ideals too:  democracy, being a poet/artist in the world, education, and yes, summer camp.

If I think about what makes monetary sense, I may make different decisions.  Those may be the right decisions, and I'm not advocating that we throw all of those practical considerations away.  But those questions don't always get at a deeper importance.  

If I come away having kept my bank account intact, but I've lost my soul, what/where is the profit?  

It's a question as old as time, and not one unfamiliar to many of us.  But I like my friend's formulation.  It's worth fighting for--so it's worth continuing, worth the struggle, and worth the joy.

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel: Christ the King Sunday

The readings for Sunday, November 24, 2024:

First Reading: Daniel 7:9-10, 13-14

First Reading (Semi-cont.): 2 Samuel 23:1-7

Psalm: Psalm 93

Psalm (Semi-cont.): Psalm 132:1-13 [14-19] (Psalm 132:1-12 [13-18] NRSV)

Second Reading: Revelation 1:4b-8

Gospel: John 18:33-37


Some of us may be thinking, what a strange text to lead us into Advent. Some of us may be thinking, what a non-kingly Gospel for Christ the King Sunday. The weeks to come will be full of strange juxtapositions.  This lectionary cycle of Advent is the one where we get more apocalypse and John the Baptist than we get angel messengers with good news.

This whipsawed feeling should help us feel sympathy for the Jews of Jesus' time. We know that the Jews had been on the lookout for the Messiah for many years, but they certainly weren't looking for someone like Jesus. They wanted a more traditional vision of a King. They wanted someone who would sweep in and clean up current life. Specifically, they wanted someone to kick the Romans and all the other outsiders out of their homeland. They wanted someone to restore their vision of life as it should be.

We're probably familiar with that feeling. We, too, probably want a God we can control, who will do what we want so that we feel like we're in control. Or maybe we want a God who makes us feel superior.

The Gospel readings for this week, and the Advent/Christmas texts remind us that we don't worship that kind of God. We worship a God who is willing to become one of the most vulnerable kinds of creatures in our world: a newborn baby, born to underclass parents, in an underclass minority, in an occupied land. We worship a God so radical that he is crucified as a political criminal. Yes, a political criminal--crucifixions were reserved for crimes against the state in the Roman system. It's interesting to reread the Gospels with that fact in mind and to ponder what Jesus said that made him seem so radical and subversive to the Romans.

We worship a God who wants nothing to do with our human visions of power. Our God turned away from wealth. Our God calls us to a radical generosity and invites us to share all that we have. Our God turned away from political power. Our experience of God, in Jesus, reminds us that if we behave in the way that God wants us to behave, we will come into direct conflict with the dominant power structures of our day.

Our God is one whom we will encounter in the oddest places, like in a manger or in criminal court. Advent will remind us that we need to always be alert to the possibilities of this encounter, but that it likely won't happen in the way that we've prepared for or expected.

We come to the end of a liturgical year, the end of that long, green season, as my 5th grade Sunday School teacher called it. We begin a new year trembling with fear and hope. It is a good time, as all new years are, to make resolutions. In the next liturgical year, how will we prepare to meet God? To what strange places are we willing to go so that we may encounter God?

Good News, Bad News Hurricane Recovery

 Yesterday was the first day in over 45 days where we didn't get multiple phone calls from the City of Asheville telling us to boil the water that was coming out of our taps.  Yesterday we got the word that the boil water notice is lifted.  I emptied the last of the boiled water into the pitcher, my daily ritual.  Yesterday, I didn't boil more water.  It's been interesting to find out how much water we use for cooking and drinking--about a gallon or two a day, depending on whether or not we're home, whether or not we're cooking.

Some people went online to proclaim their jubilation.  I am tired, and part of me is always waiting for the other shoe to drop.  I try to do the things that help me maintain mental equilibrium.  On Sunday, I went for a walk, up to the chapel, to the outdoor altar where I planned to sit and breathe for a bit.

I saw smoke as I walked up the hill, and I expected to gaze out to see smoke drifting from a distant mountain.  Instead, I saw flames on the other side of the hill where the Quiet Way path would take hikers up to the chapel, flames not too far away from where I stood.  

I called the camp director before I called 911--in retrospect, that was stupid, but I wanted to make sure they weren't doing a controlled burn.  Nope, and he had called for help.  I walked quickly back down the hill, and then went down to a fork in the camp road to make sure to flag the trucks to the fire, should they come in the back entrance.

Happily, the response was quick.  I walked back up to make sure there was nothing more I needed to do.  The very kind fire fighter I chatted with briefly told me that I should never hesitate to call 911, that they often arrived to find fires under control, and those were happy days.

I have been worried about fire since the early days of hurricane recovery--so many trees down, and such a dry October and November.  I am glad the fire was contained, but worried about what would have happened if no one had been around/awake to see the smoke and flames, as several of us did.

I am also worried about the health of my spouse.  A few weeks ago, he did something to his back while helping with the chainsaw to get trees cleared.  It comes and goes, and just when I think we've turned a corner, he has a flare, a sciatica kind of pain.  Yesterday was a very bad flare.  Luckily, he has a doctor's appointment for his annual physical on Friday, so maybe we will discover that there's something that can be done.  

My spouse's experience makes me worry about the future. We do not live in a country that has lots of options for people who need more care than I can give--and with Trump in charge, I don't foresee our nation ever evolving that direction.  The long term outlook might terrify me, if I really let myself think about it.

But I don't have time to think about that now.  I have grading to do and then there will be more grading to do, and I have seminary work that must be done, and then final papers and projects for seminary.  Let me get that work underway before driving down the mountain to teach in person at Spartanburg Methodist College.

Feast Day of Saint Hilda of Whitby

Today is the feast day of Saint Hilda of Whitby (614-680). We know of her primarily through the writings of the Venerable Bede, who said, "her wisdom was so great that even kings and princes sought her counsel," and "all who knew her called her Mother, because of her distinctive piety and grace."

Whitby is on the east coast of England in North Yorkshire. Whitby is famous for many things, but in church history, perhaps most famous for the Synod of Whitby in 664, which ironed out some differences between Celtic and Roman practices in Christianity, including how to figure out the date for Easter. Hilda was a Celtic Christian, and yet, when ordered to do so, she began to adopt Roman ways. She is remembered as a reconciler of the two traditions.

She founded several monasteries and was trained five men who later went on to become bishops. The monasteries that she founded were centers of education and the arts, and through the work done there, the monasteries also preserved knowledge.

For those of us who are English majors, we might be most grateful to Saint Hilda for her encouragement of Caedmon, one of the earliest English poets who makes it into anthologies; some call him the first British poet. Many give her credit for encouraging the stories from the Bible put into song and spoken stories in ordinary language of the people who would hear it.

Hilda is one of the patron saints of learning and culture, including poetry. We remember her as being of key importance in the shift from paganism to Christianity in England.

As with many of these ancient Christians, I am in awe of what they both created and preserved in times that must have been more difficult than ours, in harsh landscapes. With Saint Hilda, there's the added aspect of her gender--she accomplished so much in a time when women weren't given much in the way of opportunity.

And these days, when the U.S. seems so bitterly divided, I find my brain returning to her ability to reconcile and also lead. Modern people might not realize the depth of these church divisions, like the one between Roman Christians and Celtic Christians; indeed, one group left the Synod of Whitby and went to Iona and later Ireland, which at the time would have been even more savage landscapes.

These days, I think about Saint Hilda and remember that it is possible to reconcile huge differences. I remember Saint Hilda and hope that more of us can channel her.

For a more developed essay that has wonderful photos, I recommend this blog post.

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

 The readings for Sunday, November 17, 2024:

First Reading: Daniel 12:1-3

First Reading (Semi-cont.): 1 Samuel 1:4-20

Psalm: Psalm 16

Psalm (Semi-cont.): 1 Samuel 2:1-10

Second Reading: Hebrews 10:11-14 [15-18] 19-25

Gospel: Mark 13:1-8

Here we are, back to apocalyptic texts, a rather strange turn just before we launch into the holiday season (both the secular one and the sacred). This week's Gospel is the type of text that many Christians use to support their assertion that we're living in the end times, that the rapture is near.

Keep in mind that the idea of rapture is fairly new; most scholars date it to the middle of the 19th century. But Christians have felt besieged since the beginning, and indeed, at certain times throughout the centuries, they have been severely threatened.

Most scholars believe that the book of Mark was written just after a particularly brutal suppression of a Jewish uprising and just before the destruction of the Temple, a time when the empire of Rome made it increasingly difficult to be an alien part of the empire. The Gospel of Mark is the most apocalyptic Gospel, perhaps because it was written when people really expected the end was near. Indeed, in many ways, the end was near. The whole of chapter 13 of Mark is grim indeed. Perhaps the Gospel writer uses such a chapter to launch into the Passion story, to set the mood.

Or maybe the Gospel writer wants to remind us of the cost of following Jesus. Maybe it's the larger cost of existing in the world. Even if we're lucky enough to be born into a stable time period, to be part of a country with a stable government, if we're conscious, it's hard to escape the conclusion that it could all vanish at any moment. And even if we don't suffer on the grand (genocidal) scale, most of us will endure more loss than our younger selves would have believed could be survived.

Before we sink too deeply into depression, we need to remember that Jesus came to give us Good News. And that Good News is that we have each other, and we have a God who loves us, no matter what. If we devote our lives to that love, then we can survive all sorts of betrayal, loss, and persecution.  

And there's more good news.  God is making all things new, and the forces of betrayal, loss, persecution, and death will not have the final say.

It's also important to look at the last part of the last sentence of this week's Gospel: "this is but the beginning of the birth-pangs." Birth-pangs. What is being born exactly?

The most positive spin on this bit is to say that the Kingdom of God is being born. We tend to think of the Kingdom of God as referring to Heaven, but if you read all the references to the Kingdom of God, it appears that Jesus isn't talking about Heaven as we know it. In some places, Jesus seems to talk about the Kingdom as already existing, perhaps as Jesus walking amongst us. In other places, the Kingdom of God will come to earth later, in a kind of purifying, redeeming vision. Yet again, we see references to this process already beginning, both with Christ's efforts and with the efforts of his believers.

Those of us who have had children, or who have had relatives and friends who have had children, know that parents have to go through a fierce process to hold that little baby in their arms. Jesus reminds us that the process towards the Kingdom of God can be equally fierce. Jesus reminds us that we must stay alert and aware, but that we need not feel alarmed.