Sermon for Sunday, June 30, 2024

June 30, 2024
By Kristin Berkey-Abbott


Mark 5:21-43


If you’ve been following the thread that the writer of the Gospel of Mark spools out in the early part of the Gospel, you might realize that we’ve seen the power of Jesus in different contexts. In the first chapter of the book of Mark, we Jesus exercise power over demons; in fact, casting a demon out of a man is the first miracle he performs. Last week we saw Jesus exercise power over the storm and the sea; he tells them to calm down, and they do. This week, Jesus exercises his power over disease and even death. We might be so used to healing stories that we fail to see how miraculous they really are.

First a word about faith and healing. In both of these stories, in most translations, Jesus seems to say that the healing happens because of the faith of the ones who need healing. You’ve heard me say it before, and it bears repeating—we are at risk of dangerous theology here. If we are in need of a miracle—and who isn’t?—and we pray and believe and pray some more, what happens if the miracle doesn’t happen? We might assume it’s because our faith is lacking. Today’s Gospel does tempt us to this theology, especially if we’re the ones that got the miracle we wanted. But I think Jesus has a different theology on display.

Note the differences in the two that come to Jesus in today’s Gospel. On the one hand, we have Jairus. He’s a leader in the synagogue, which means that in Jewish society, he’s one of the most powerful people in the community. We can assume just from that one piece of information that he has money and status; he can make things happen just by saying the word. But what he can’t do is heal his daughter, and so he comes to Jesus.

In the middle of Jairus’ story, we have the story of the bleeding woman, who is in so many ways the exact opposite of Jairus. She’s female and bleeding, and she’s been this way for 12 years—12 years! We’re told that she “had endured much under many physicians”—if we’ve ever had a chronic condition that didn’t clear out of the body, many of us can relate. And after 12 years and spending all of her money, she’s gotten worse. She’s female and broke and bleeding—in some ways, the opposite of Jairus. But in their desperation, they are the same. Jairos, with all his wealth and prestige, is powerless without Jesus. The bleeding woman, with no wealth and prestige, is powerless without Jesus.

But then the story takes another turn. The little girl has died while Jesus has been busy making a connection with the bleeding woman who seized a bit of the miraculous healing power for herself. We might expect the story to end here, if we didn’t know Jesus better. The girl is dead. As the household says, no need to trouble the teacher further.

No matter how much faith Jairus has, he can’t believe that Jesus will raise his daughter from the dead. The yoking of this story with the story of the bleeding woman makes me think that the story is about so much more than the quality of our faith. The bleeding woman has tried everything and run out of options. The man with a dead daughter also has no options. But there’s something about Jesus that makes them want to be open to the possibility that he might offer something different.

Christians have focused on the resurrection of Jesus, and rightly so. But here in the fifth chapter of Mark, we hear the message that we will hear again on Easter, the message that we proclaim every Sunday: God has the ultimate power over the forces of death. Death does not have the final word.

In both of these stories, Jesus doesn’t test the faith of the ones who come to him. They don’t have to pass a test. We don’t see him turn away some people and tell them to come back later when they’ve developed a more robust faith. With the bleeding woman, the miracle happens before Jesus realizes that it’s happened. Both the woman and Jesus feel the healing happen in their bodies first.

In important ways, the miracles in today’s Gospel are not just miracles of healing. They are also miracles of community restored. One Bible scholar points out that in Mark’s Gospel, 9 of 12 people healed throughout the Gospel had conditions that would have led to them being excluded from the larger community--the bleeding woman is one of these people. And the dead daughter has been severed from her community, but Jesus heals her and then asks for some food for her.

We have glommed onto the miraculous when we talk about Jesus, but we tend to focus on the splashier miracles, particularly the ones that vanquish disease and death. But the larger miracle is the way that Jesus restores community wherever he goes. Jesus shows us that restoring community doesn’t have to be hard. In the story of the bleeding woman, Jesus heals effortlessly by his presence, not by a command. As we look for ways to heal our communities, our presence may be just what is needed.

We may not have the ability to raise the dead, but we do have the ability to stop the bleeding. Maybe we do that by visiting the sick or praying for them or sending a card. Maybe we do that by preparing food for those who need food. I could go on and on, but I want to make one last point about faith—or fidelity, as is one way to translate the Greek word.

When we focus on the need for a miracle, whether that miracle be in the form of a cure or some other answer to a prayer, we may need to wait quietly, as the writer of Lamentations observes. But we need to remember the power of the hope that we have, the hope that we have in abundance. The world may seem to be crumbling to pieces, but we are told in so many ways, that God is making all things new. This quality of hope and this firm belief in the assurance of things to come is one of the most important qualities that believers can offer to a world in ruins. We don’t know exactly what the end result will be, but we know that God is not done yet.

We may need to wait, and we may need to exhibit the kind of hope that both Jairus and the bleeding women offer, along with their despair. Without hope, we don’t have a chance of a miracle. We’ll forget to ask for what we need, like Jairus did. We won’t have the courage to move forward on our belief that Jesus has power over all that ails us, the courage shown by the bleeding woman. Without hope, we stay mired in despair.

Let us remember that we are in community with a God who can overcome the powers of death. Let us be faithful to that theology, to a God that loves us so much that we are not left abandoned to the powers of slow bleeding or quick death. As the Psalmist reminds us, joy will come after weeping and wailing will give way to dance.

Saturday Scraps: June Winds Down

 It's been a whirlwind week, in some ways, a slow week in others.  Let me collect some scraps from the past week:

--I've completed some of the chores that come along with modern life.  I'm primarily thinking of the car registration, which requires a safety inspection.  I was able to get both cars inspected on Thursday afternoon, after I got annoyed with myself for wasting so much time during the day.

--I tell myself I've wasted time, but that's not true.  In any given day, there's a certain amount of mindless scrolling through social media and online newspapers.  But I don't waste as much time watching TV as I once did.

--This week, as we've watched TV of the mindless variety and TV of the well-written variety, I've gotten lots of sewing on my quilt done.

--I also went to quilt group on Wednesday.  I helped assemble two quilt tops; the Janome machine is a wonder.

--On Tuesday, I went to both our neighborhood happy hour at Sierra Nevada Brewing Company and my seminary class.  I'm looking forward to Mondays in August, where my neighborhood group will be exploring breweries in Mills River, and for most of the Mondays, I won't have a seminary class to attend.  On Tuesday, my time was tight, so I didn't drink, but it was good to see people and spend time together.

--Today is the two year anniversary of our purchase of this house.  I have no regrets.  It's been good to have a place to live that is paid for, even if it needs a lot of work.  It's a solid house, more solid than we knew when we bought it--a happy turn of events.  It's been a good investment.

--It's been interesting, living in a house in a residential community that's part of a church camp.  During 9 months of the year, it's fairly quiet, downright deserted.  During the summer, we don't hear noise from the camp at our house; the traffic noise from a major road nearby drowns out all other noise.  But my daily walk takes me through the camp, and it's a different experience during the summer, seeing groups of people doing camp things (swimming, walking to the dining hall, playing games in grassy areas).

--Despite the joys of summer, I'm yearning for autumn, even though autumn will be very busy with more teaching and more seminary classes to complete.  Let me continue to work on appreciating the present, even as I'm looking forward to seasons to come. 

Singing Together, Singing By Ourselves

I am happy to report that the second class meeting of my seminary class in protest music lived up to the promise of the first week.  Our professor does have a PowerPoint, but unlike some other professors, he does not read from the PowerPoint.  We cover the material that's in the book, but so far, it hasn't left me saying, "I could just read the book."  We listen to the music and discuss it, but not in the depth that a music appreciation class would offer.  The book offers a more in-depth dive into the history that prompted the creation of the music.

One thing that's different from other classes:  we sing together.  It's an online class meeting by way of a Zoom session, so it's not what you might imagine, a group of seminarians with a guitar and folk songs in a physical room.  The professor, who is also a professional musician, has a keyboard as part of his set up, so he sings the song and plays it.  We students keep ourselves muted and sing.  Well, some of us do.  I realize that not everyone knows these songs.  

Last night we sang "This Land Is Your Land," "We Shall Overcome," and "If I Had a Hammer."  We also talked about why some of us grew up singing these songs in elementary school, while others didn't.  My professor's theory is that there was once was a core group of songs that many of us knew, from singing them around campfires and such.  I thought about what a wide range of songs I knew and how I came to know them:  church choir, camp, parents who had music playing in the background throughout much of the day, radio stations that played a wide range of music.

I didn't offer my theory:  those of us who went to elementary school in the 70's had teachers who thought those songs were important and taught them to us.  I had music classes in school, taught by people who were once hippies, radicals, and organizers (or people who knew these types).

We talked about what children sing now, perhaps Disney songs, but it was late in the evening, and we didn't spend much time on the topic.  I did spend some time thinking about my childhood and music, thinking about elementary schools that once had music as a class period.

I've also been thinking about my classmates, some of whom are so much younger, who have never heard of this music, and perhaps this history.  I feel lucky to have been educated when I was, with such a wide variety of educational experiences.

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The readings for Sunday, June 30, 2024:

First Reading: Lamentations 3:22-33

First Reading (Semi-cont.): 2 Samuel 1:1, 17-27

First Reading (Alt.): Wisdom of Solomon 1:13-15; 2:23-24

Psalm: Psalm 30

Psalm (Semi-cont.): Psalm 130

Second Reading: 2 Corinthians 8:7-15

Gospel: Mark 5:21-43

Notice how rooted in physicality is our Gospel for Sunday. We've got a bleeding woman and a dying girl. At the end of the Gospel, Jesus orders food for the no longer dead girl. The Gospel practically oozes on the page.

Notice too how we've got a variety of people--all they have in common is their fierce belief and their willingness to do whatever it takes for healing. They will ignore all the years of ill health. They will ignore their rational voices that say that one man can't bring health. Even when they're surrounded by naysayers, they believe. They will ignore death, so powerful is their hope.

Notice that in this passage Jesus focuses his attention on some of the most outcast of his society: a little girl and a bleeding woman. If you've studied the Old Testament, you understand how outcast a woman who never stopped bleeding would be. Ancient purity codes were quite strict about body fluids, particularly when they came from women. And a female child would have also been seen as expendable, at least in the larger society. Yet Jesus doesn't withhold his power from them, even if they're not important to the larger society.

This Gospel echoes the story we heard last week. Here is Jesus again, talking to his disciples about their fears. Here is Jesus, doing what should be impossible for humans to do. Last week he's controlling nature. This week, we seem him controlling the human body. We even see him overcome death.

These stories make me think about my own faith, particularly during these hot, hazy days of summer, when it seems impossible to get off the couch. What would inspire me to go to Jesus in a similar way? I try to imagine Jesus saying to me "Daughter, your faith has made you well." I think of all the ways that my faith can--and does--fall short.

But let me not start down the spiral of self-recrimination. Let me use these ancient people pursuing healing to inspire me to pursue Jesus with similar determination.  Let us all do the same.

The Feast Day of John the Baptist

Some months, I’m in the mood for John the Baptist. I’m ready to go into the wilderness. I’ve got a file of recipes for locusts and wild honey. I’m in a daring mood—I’ll speak truth to the King Herods of the world, even if it means my head on a platter.

But much of the time, when John the Baptist shows up in the lectionary or when we celebrate his feast day on June 24 or when we talk about prophets in general, I’m weary. Most of the time, I'm tired of having prophets like John the Baptist call me part of a brood of vipers or comparing me to shrubbery that refuses to behave.

I know, I know, I have all these faults. Don't threaten me with that ax. I try so hard to bear good fruit, but I'm afraid it isn't enough. I'm surrounded by people who are clearly in a more crabby mood than I am, and I'm trying to be sympathetic, but it's hard. This attempt of mine to transform myself into a compassionate person is taking longer than I thought it would. I see people having meltdowns, and my response is to close my door and turn off all media. I don't say, "What can I do to help people through this painful time?"

But let me return to the mission of the prophets. God does not send prophets because we’re all already damned. God sends prophets to call us back to the path we should be travelling.

On this day in June when we celebrate John the Baptist, it’s good to be reminded that I'm not my final, improved version of myself. I still have work to do. And I need to hear that message that the prophets bring us. I'm lazy and inclined to coast, and it's good to know that God has a vision for me that is vaster than any I could dream myself.

It’s also good to remind ourselves of who we are. I like the passages when John the Baptist is questioned about his identity. He says, “I am not the Messiah” (John 1:20). He could have hoodwinked people who were willing to believe he was the Messiah. He could have made a power grab. He could have gotten great wealth and women and audiences with powerful rulers.

Those temptations have led more than one religious leader astray.

But John knows who he is. He is not the Messiah. He has been sent to point the way to salvation, not to provide it.

Likewise, we are not called to be the Messiah, That doesn't mean we’re off the hook in terms of behavior. We can't say, "I am not the Messiah," and stay home on our sofas. We can’t decide to watch reruns of The Simpsons and do nothing about injustice in the world.

No, John the Baptist reminds us that we are called to emulate Jesus. Some days, though, I’d rather emulate somebody else. I’m so tired of working so hard to be a light to this fallen world.

When I feel that way, I need to listen to the words of John the Baptist again. I need to listen to God, who often calls to us from the wilderness. Most of us need to be reminded to listen to that call that God makes. Let the words fill our hearts 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). Our salvation is at hand: our grieving hearts will be comforted, our anger and irritation will lift, the planet will heal itself as it always does, God will take care of us and everything we need is on its way, even if we’re not ready for deserts and locusts in our dedication.

Morning Rambles and Brambles, Evening Concerts

When I was walking around camp early this morning, I heard a deep voice say, "Good morning."  But I didn't see anyone.  I called out, "Good morning--but I don't see you."

The person who owns the voice waved, and then I could see him walking down a path through the forest, the path that runs from the upper craft lodge to the lower lodging spaces for campers.  I recognized him as a counselor, and he didn't seem alarmed to see me.  I was surprised.  This year, campers leave on Fridays, and I have assumed that the counselors would be sleeping a bit later on Saturdays.

As I continued on towards the lake, I thought about hearing a deep voice booming out of nowhere and how my thoughts went to all those Biblical accounts of God speaking out of an non-embodied space.  I thought of hymns about people answering God's call.  I thought about how few call stories there are that involve women late in midlife.

Elsewhere in my walk, I ate the first black raspberry of the season.  I thought they were blackberries last year, but my plant identifying app tells me otherwise.  I am not hopeful about this berry season here at camp.  The few berries that are ripening are very small.  I keep wondering if that fact tells me something about the upcoming winter, but it probably just reflects erratic rainfall.

To get to this morning's berries, I had to scrabble up a small embankment and then try to hop back down without falling.  I did have the thought that I don't really like berries enough to risk a fall.  But it also made me happy that I could do it.

So far, it has been a lovely week-end.  Last night, we sat on our deck and listened to the radio, by way of streaming the station on a computer.  It was the opening night concert of the Brevard Music Festival.  Sure, we could have driven over to Brevard; it's only 30-40 minutes away. There were still tickets, but the cheapest ones were $35 each. 

But in a way, it was lovely to be on our deck, with wine and some nibbles, and the pot of petunias I bought earlier in the day.  It was wonderful to watch the light shift and to have candles.

Of course, the sound would have been better at the actual festival.  We have a fair amount of traffic noise from the main road beyond the trees, and I usually forget that we do, until I'm trying to hear something.

I suppose I should get to the main work of today, creating a sermon for tomorrow and creating the communion bread for tomorrow.  But there will also be treats, like the watermelon that I bought yesterday.  Here's hoping it's a good one!

When RevGalBlogPals Meet in Person

One of the joys of last week's intensive that I haven't written much about was the chance to meet a blogging friend in real life.  In a time that feels very long ago now, there was a group called RevGalsBlogPals, a group for clergywomen and people who support clergywomen.  We blogged about all sorts of things, some of them church related, some not.  There were all sorts of support groups and there were conferences and fun outings.  I was sad to see it end, and like so many things in my life that end, part of me understood and part of me was baffled.

I've continued to see various RevGals in the online realm, but last week, one of them came to the intensive.  I knew that Diane Roth had started the program, but I lost track of her progress; in retrospect, I should have sent her a message in advance so that it was less awkward on that first day.  I saw her nametag before she got there, but I wasn't sure how to say, "I know you online, but I'm not sure if you know me."  Sure, in retrospect, I should have just said that, but I was worried I might sound like a weird stalker.

Happily, Diane took the first step, and she did it during the pre-dinner meet and greet, which meant that we could spend the rest of the intensive as friends, not as people wondering how they knew each other.  On Friday at lunch, she asked what I was planning to do during our free time.  I talked about going to the library, and she wanted to go to an independent bookstore.  She tries to go to independent bookstores as she travels, and I'm happy to support bookstores too.  I had a car, which she didn't, and I'm familiar with Columbia.  It was a recipe for a successful outing to All Good Books in Five Points.

And we did have a successful outing.  The bookstore had a great selection of books, and we both found one to buy.  I was happy to find Susan Rich's latest book; I love supporting poets and independent books by buying books from bookstores.  

Alas, we didn't have time to buy a coffee or to explore Five Points.  We had to get back for more instructional sessions, which after all, was the reason we had come to the seminary campus.   I was happy to post this picture to Facebook, happy to be part of my favorite subgenre of FB posts, when online friends meet in real life and realize that they are just as delightful in person as online:

One Summer Seminary Class: Protest Music!

This summer, I'm taking one seminary class, a class on protest music.  It only meets for 4 weeks, and Tuesday night was the first meeting.  The class is one quarter over, and I am already wishing we had more time.  I did not feel that way with last summer's class, which was 6 weeks.  The summer before, I decided not to take classes because we'd be moving, and that summer, there were lots of classes I wished that I could take.  This summer, the protest music class was the only one that looked interesting and could be done from a distance and didn't have an intensive section during Music Week.

Each week, we'll do a deep dive into four songs, and we'll have more general discussions about protest music, about the history of the times that birthed the songs, and about music theory (the very light version).  Our class book, 33 Revolutions Per Minute:  A History of Protest Songs from Billie Holiday to Green Day by Dorian Lynskey,  is great!  Last night we looked at "Strange Fruit," "Mississippi Goddamn," "A Change Is Gonna Come," and "Say It Loud -- I'm Black and I'm Proud."

This morning, I'm thinking about how it was such an appropriate choice for the day before Juneteenth.  

In the middle of the night, I woke up thinking about alternative lyrics to "Poor Wayfaring Stranger."  For the class, we have a choice of writing a short paper (750 words) or a protest song of our own.  I am thinking about a protest song about climate change.  I drifted off to sleep thinking about "This Land Is Your Land" as a song base, but woke up with "Poor Wayfaring Stranger" in my head.

My spouse pointed out the number of musicians who will be around Music Week, when the song is due.  We've got all sorts of instrument possibilities beyond my spouse's violin.  I'm glad I have a few weeks to come up with lyrics.  The structure and rhyme scheme aren't similar to ones that usually shape my poetry.

I'm so glad that I decided to take this class.  It's going to be a great 4 weeks!

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The Readings for Sunday, June 23, 2024:

First Reading: Job 38:1-11

First Reading (Semi-cont.): 1 Samuel 17:[1a, 4-11, 19-23] 32-49

First Reading (Alt.): 1 Samuel 17:57--18:5, 10-16 (Semi-continuous)

Psalm: Psalm 107:1-3, 23-32

Psalm (Semi-cont.): Psalm 9:9-20

Psalm (Alt.): Psalm 133 (Semi-continuous)

Second Reading: 2 Corinthians 6:1-13

Gospel: Mark 4:35-41


We live in storm-tossed times. I write this sentence on a regular basis through the years, and frankly, it doesn’t seem like much has changed, except that this year than I have less faith that our politicians can find a solution, and I have less hope that we will collectively find our way to better times. In these early days of hurricane season, I feel haunted by the idea that a big storm will come along and finish us off. I worry about literal storms and the larger storm clouds that seem to be gathering across the globe. In these days, I wish I knew less about the 1930's and the events that brought us World War II, and I wish that I could be as oblivious as so many seem to be to the signs of a planet in distress.

Maybe we can relate to those disciples in this week's Gospel. The boat is taking on water. We're sinking. We'll die out here in the middle of this lake. It was bad back there with the crowds, but we don't want to perish this way.

And so, like the disciples, we call out: "Where are you God? Don't you care about us, Jesus?"

Look at the response of Jesus in this passage. Many theologians have noted that he doesn't mock them for their fears. Their fears are real and valid. But he asks them why they're letting their fears get the best of them. It's as if he's saying, "I'm right here. I'm with you. Have you forgotten what is possible when I'm in your boat?"

And then, he calms the storm.

Just because we're believers, that doesn't mean that we will never experience storms. We will, and we will likely be afraid. But Jesus assures us that even though we might feel alone, we are not alone. The storms will come, and storms will go. But God is always there, with us, in our boats.

Again and again, Jesus reminds us where we should place our loyalties, and it's not the nation-state. Again and again, Jesus tells us how we can save our souls, and it's not by the ways advocated by politicians. We will be judged by how we treat the poor, the oppressed, the outcast. We may not be able to save them all. But we cannot turn away.

In these times when we may be feeling that we're seeing our societal fabric unravel right before our eyes, it's good to remember that God is in the boat with us. We may not have the solution. We may have less power than we wish we had. We may not be able to imagine how a just world will emerge from the wreckage. We may despair over how quickly the world seems to want to return to wreckage.

That despair can be as deadly as any storm. God has a vision of a better world, one where the poor, the oppressed, and the outcast finally find a home. Don't let despair keep us blind to that vision.

Bears at Camp

I saw a bear on my morning walk around camp at Lutheridge.  In fact, I was about 3 feet away from the bear.  Did I have my camera or cell phone?  No.  But that's O.K.  Even when I've had a camera or cell phone, I haven't been able to get a good picture.

I was standing at the entrance to Pioneer A, the sleepaway part of camp where the youngest campers stay with their counselors.  I looked at the lake, and then turned my face towards the path ahead and realized there was a bear on my left, between me and Pioneer A, travelling parallel to the main road.  He was on the small side, his back about the height of my hip, like a very big dog, and somewhat thin. 

 He was not far enough away for my liking, but he was not interested in me at all.  Maybe it was the chanting of the campers that made him intent on heading away from Pioneer A.

Based on their chanting, the campers were deep at the back of Pioneer A, gathering together for the morning hike to the lake and on up to the dining hall.  The bear was ambling away, so they were in no danger; I didn't see any reason to alert them.  I did look around to make sure that there were no other bears, particularly no cubs.  I figured that the bear would stay away from any campers.

I was tempted to try to follow the bear, but I didn't want to alarm the bear either.  Plus, I had already had good bear luck this morning, so I didn't want to tempt the fates.

I listened to the campers chanting their marching to the lake song.  I stared across the lake and said a prayer of gratitude for so, so much.

Sermon for Sunday, June 16, 2024

June 16, 2024

By Kristin Berkey-Abbott


Mark 4:26-34


Most of us are so familiar with the imagery of seeds that we may lose the sense of strangeness that the original parable held, or we may get one seed parable confused with another. I spent part of the week thinking about faith like a mustard seed before I went back to the text and realized that Jesus is comparing God’s kingdom first to the growth of a seed and then to a specific seed, the mustard seed.

Let’s remind ourselves of what Jesus talks about when he talks about the kingdom of God. We might hear this and think that Jesus is talking about Heaven. It’s obvious, right? Various empires rule the earth and God’s kingdom is elsewhere. Why would God hang out here, with floods and fires and fire ants, when God has a better place, a place where we’ll all meet up when we die?

If we look at the word kingdom in the original languages, we get a sense that Jesus talks about something else. A better translation for the word “kingdom” would be reign. Let’s put that word in our Gospel text for today and explore.

Many of us have spent our lives thinking about seeds as a metaphor: a metaphor for faith, a metaphor for potential, a metaphor for growth. So the idea of God’s reign as seed wouldn’t be strange. Jesus presents an appealing picture in some ways. We don’t have to do anything. Unlike other texts, the reign of God is underway, hidden but ready to burst forth. The idea of God in charge, even if we can’t see or understand, is a comforting one when we live in times that baffle us. If we’re tired from trying to make the world a better place, it’s refreshing to hear this message that lets us trust that God’s reign is sprouting, all evidence to the contrary.

The people who first heard Jesus’ message might be a bit more puzzled. Think about the imagery that Ezekial uses, which seems to say that the reign of God will be like the mighty cedars of Lebanon, not a sprouting seed, and certainly not a mustard seed.

Scholar Amy-Jill Levine reminds us that the mustard plant might be a metaphor for the bounteous life we have under the reign of God—she says that mustard would be used as a curative in the ancient world, and it would be available to anyone who needed it. Here we see a different side to the idea that God is at work in the world, that much like the birds who find shelter in the trees that grow out of tiny seeds, we too have resources on earth, resources given to us by a generous creator who has made a vast and diverse creation to give us everything we need.

A resource that we don’t often talk about, a resource that God has given us, is our own hopes and dreams and desires. I was down at Southern seminary this past week for an onground intensive, and one of our presenters talked about God planting dreams in us. It’s another aspect of the garden metaphor that I found powerful this week, and I wanted to share it with us all, as I know that we’re in a period of discernment at Faith Lutheran. In some ways, it mirrors what is happening with the seminary, and with many of our religious institutions.

In my small group this week, I met a pastor who serves at the church in Pomaria, SC where the plan for the seminary was created. The pastor talked about how absurd that plan must have sounded when a bunch of country folks came up with the idea of creating a seminary down the road, but that’s exactly what they did. They had dreams and yearnings and the courage to follow those dreams, even if they didn’t have all of the resources assembled.

Even if we don’t have the courage to follow our own dreams, Jesus assures us that the reign of God is underway and that it’s not too late. Today’s Gospel seems to tell us that we need to leave the seeds alone and get out of the way. Amy-Jill Levine points out that germinating seeds die if exposed to light and air too early. Seeds need time in the dark soil of uncertainty before they can sprout.

The poet in me wants to remind us of what has composed that soil. We might think that it’s too late for our dreams to take root. We might feel the weight of previous dreams that have crumbled to ashes. But farmers and gardeners know that soil is not only something that you buy at the Home Depot. If you have time, you can create good soil by composting. My grandmother had the blackest soil I’ve ever seen, a strip of earth along the building in the back yard, and she built that soil by digging all her kitchen scraps into the ground and letting nature run its course. She didn’t think about the proportion of leaves to vegetable scraps to ash that some recipes online will give you. She didn’t need fancy equipment. Just a strip of ground and the remainders of daily living, and she had soil that was better than anything you could buy.

As I finished my week away, I stopped by the house of a friend for lunch. She showed me her beautiful garden that she’s creating from the backyard that used to be a heap of brambles and broken bricks. As we walked by a weedy patch, she said, “Didn’t I just pull these weeds a minute ago?” I laughed and said, “You’re going to have a long summer.”

All the way home I thought about Jesus and his metaphors. If he was creating a parable for today’s audience, he might say, “The reign of God is like that patch of weeds.” And we would say, “Surely not. Surely the reign of God is more like this beautiful garden I saw in an Instagram post or a magazine article.” We might expect Jesus to tell us how to be the fertilizer in the God’s garden, and instead he’d tell us about the reign of God as a weedy patch that sprouts up regardless of what we are doing.

All we need to do is notice. Or not. The reign of God is right here, right now, Jesus proclaims, about to sprout like a weedy patch of ground. Even if something happens, if the weedy patch of God’s reign gets yanked out by the roots, God’s reign sprouts again, the most persistent of weeds, growing into shrubby growth that will sustain all of creation.

Father's Day and God as Father

I have fathers on the brain, since it's Father's Day in the U.S. I know how lucky I am to have emerged from an intact family, to have a mom and a dad who continue to love each other, and continue to love my sister and me. I grew up in the 1970's and saw plenty of wrecked families. I've always wondered how people who come out of those wrecked families, especially those with absent or abusive fathers, react to the idea of God as a Father.

Even though I have a good relationship with both of my parents, I'm not crazy about the idea of God as Parent (of either gender). I think that God as Parent is an infantilizing metaphor. If God is a Dad (or so much more rarely, a Mom), then it follows that we're children, and too often, we see that as a reason for inactivity. But God needs us to be active in the world. I'd go further and say that God is counting on us. I much prefer the idea of God as partner. God can be the Senior partner; I'm cool with that.

Of course, I see the value of viewing God as a loving parent, but I'd love for us to expand our metaphors for God. I'd also love us to take our view of God, and see if it could have impact on our own lives. How might our parenting change, if we used God as the parenting model? What if we viewed God as someone who packed our lunch for us? What if we saw God as soccer coach or the one who taught us to sail or program computers?

On this Father's Day, I plan to call my own Dad, to say thanks. I plan to write my father-in-law, to say thanks. I plan to pray for a world where fathers are there to shape their children in positive ways. I plan to pray for fathers everywhere. And in effect, I'll be praying for us all--we are most of us shepherding people from a variety of generations in a variety of ways.

Guiding Meditation

This morning's writing time is shorter, since I need to write a rough draft of tomorrow's sermon--I'm not too worried about it, since I've been composing it in my head.  But I do want to get a draft down before breakfast.  Let me collect some fragments from the last few days that I don't want to lose.

--We've been doing lots of guided meditations.  At the beginning of yesterday's guided meditation at the end of our mysticism module, we put a hand over our hearts.  I was able to slip my hand inside my shirt and put my fingers on my skin.  I wrapped my other hand around my wrist and felt my pulse.  I adjusted my fingers and hand to actually feel my heart beat.  We focused on our breath:  one phrase for the inhale and one for the exhale.  Eventually the goal was to have the words drop away, and we could be one with God.  I found it very grounding to feel my heart beating.

--At the beginning of our Howard Thurman module yesterday afternoon and again for closing worship yesterday evening, we did lectio divina with Thurman's work.  It was a great way to enter a difficult text:  take a smaller chunk of it and read it several times (we did 4) noting the word or phrase that spoke to us.  I wondered if first year college students could benefit from this practice.  I plan to find out!

--Our small group discussions have been powerful.  I don't always have that feeling about small groups, but this time, I've enjoyed them.  Better, I've felt nourished by them.

--This whole time at seminary has felt nourishing.  I'm glad I had this time to slip away, before my summer commitments start, before the seminary closes.

Ghost Seminary

 One reason I wanted to come to this intensive is that it's the last time we'll be on this campus.  Earlier this year, the announcement came that the seminary would be moved to the Lenoir-Rhyne campus in Hickory, NC.  Frankly, as I move around campus, it feels like everybody has already moved there.

I will spend time in the library today, the library that has more books by itself than the whole of the library holdings at the Lenoir-Rhyne campus.  I fear for these books.  I know what often happens:  people will look at the last time a book was checked out and decide that no one is interested and toss the book.  The idea of that makes me sorrowful in so many ways, even as I admit that I rarely check out physical books from my own seminary campus (admittedly harder from a distance).

The dining facility has group pictures of all graduating classes, and I've had fun looking for people I know.  But along the line, I thought about the size of the classes.  We've been told that the seminary must move because there are fewer students.  But based on these pictures, the seminary has never had many students.  The largest graduating class was roughly 30 students.  Far more typical is the class of 1990:

Now, there are other good reasons for moving the seminary.  It's clear that it's been awhile since the buildings were maintained.  My small group is meeting in a building that reeks of mildew, even though the AC is running.  As I walk back to my seminary apartment that's on the far end of the complex, I can see the stucco about to break apart on the walls, and every AC unit looks like it's about to rust through completely.

Still, I hate to think of losing this campus, particularly as I take guesses at what might happen to it.  In yesterday's small group session, I talked about feeling grief about this part of the future.  I talked about how it's a shame to have all this infrastructure disappear into more urban development when so much could be done.  My friend said, "Like create an arts retreat?"

My friend and I have shared this dream, a retreat center that focuses on liturgical arts, for a long time.  I like the idea of communal living as part of it, but only if the communal living means that each person gets their own living space.  I know how quickly communal situations deteriorate when one person's cleanliness/neatness preferences don't mesh with that of others.

The small group was intrigued by the idea of changing the campus to that kind of vision, and I spent the rest of the day thinking about that possibility.  It might be easier to do such a thing at a place that already offers retreats, like Lutheridge.  It might be easier to do such a thing at a place that is also a small seminary--sigh.

I do realize that I don't have the resources of Lenoir-Rhyne, and so why should I think that I could have different outcomes.  But my mind goes back to part of our large group session yesterday, when our learning leader talked about God planting dreams in us like a farmer plants seeds.  I will continue thinking and writing and dreaming.

We Begin with Native American Spirituality

When I read about the June 2024 onground intensive for the spiritual director's certificate program, I wanted to attend for many reasons; alumni are invited back once a year, and I've been in the past as an alum.  It's great to be reminded of best practices and to discover new techniques.

In terms of the teaching, the focus on Native American spirituality was one of the main reasons I wanted to say yes to the invitation to return.  We covered that material last night, and it did not disappoint. 

Long time readers may remember that I wrote a blog post about a similar experience in January of 2022, and in some ways, last night was similar.  We began with a smudging ceremony.  

This year, no words were spoken during the smudging, but in other ways it was similar.  The smudge stick burned and the tribal elder used the feather to wave the smoke towards us, down one side and then down on the other side, and we lifted the heel of each foot to allow smudging there, too.  When we did the ceremony in January, it was dark and cold outside; it felt a bit strange to do the ceremony in the blinding sunlight of an evening in June (we started at 6:50 p.m.).

Then we moved indoors, where a drum circle had been set up.  There was a big drum in the middle of the circle with 6 Native American women seated around it.  They drummed, and we each had a shaker.  Each shaker was different--here's the one that I chose (I asked permission to photograph it):

Much of the music was the same as the session in 2022, but it was good to revisit it.  The workshop leader told us that the music to "Poor Wayfarin' Stranger" is a Cherokee tune.  We sang the words of "Amazing Grace" to a Creek tune.  Our leader talked about Native American theology and compared it to Christian theology to show that we are worshipping the same God.

She also mentioned the new version of the Bible, the First Nations Version: An Indigenous Translation of the New Testament.  I had seen this version while at seminary, and we have a Kindle copy.  I was glad to know that it was done by Native Americans, that it's not an appropriation.  

After the workshop and the drumming, a woman passed out prayer squares; here's the one I got:

It comes with this card attached:

I love this idea, the idea of a patch of cloth, with strings that can be knotted as one prays.  It's a variation of prayer beads which appeals to my fiber loving self.

Yesterday wasn't even a full day of the intensive, and I already feel like I've gotten more than a full return on my intensive investment.  My cup overflows.

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The readings for Sunday, June 16, 2024:

First Reading: Ezekiel 17:22-24

First Reading (Semi-cont.): 1 Samuel 15:34--16:13

Psalm: Psalm 92:1-4, 11-14 (Psalm 92:1-4, 12-15 NRSV)

Psalm (Semi-cont.): Psalm 20

Second Reading: 2 Corinthians 5:6-10 [11-13] 14-17

Gospel: Mark 4:26-34

Today we return to those parables of potential held in tiny packages. We return to parables that remind us of what can happen when a speck of a seed is buried in the dirt and left alone. We return to parables that remind us that much happens beneath the surfaces and behind the scenes while we sleep peacefully.

We live in a culture that demands instant gratification. Many of us find it hard to read a book. I'm hearing more and more people confess that they can't even read a magazine article--their attention spans are just that fractured. We live in a culture where, if it doesn't happen immediately, people don't stick around to see what happens.

When I look at the parables of Jesus, I suspect that he was fighting a similar battle. People probably came up to him and said, "How can God be good if there's so much injustice in the world? Why does God allow the Romans to do that awful thing they did?"


And every so often, the Kingdom of God breaks through to remind us that the Kingdom of God is not about what happens when we die. The Kingdom of God is breaking through into our present lives, in ways we might not expect. One day there's a seed, and then seemingly overnight, we see sprouts and shoots.

I often use a parable of my own; in my own short life, I've seen the Kingdom of God break through in glorious and unexpected ways. I remember a time that I was looking through photo albums. I didn't find the pictures of my Confirmation day that I was looking for, but I did find a picture of an old college friend, back in 1986, who was wearing a shirt that demanded "Free Nelson Mandela."

Of course, we didn't expect that would happen. We expected that Nelson Mandela would die in jail and that the country would erupt in flames and bloodshed at any moment. We attended rallies and prayer vigils, but we didn't really expect peaceful social change.

Nonetheless, a few short years after I took that snapshot of my friend, Nelson Mandela walked out of jail. And a few years after that, he was elected president of South Africa. I continue to shake my head and wonder at my lack of faith. I continue to pray for God's kingdom to break through here on earth, and I'm still often surprised when it does.

Parables remind us that God's way is not the way of the world. But God's way can lead to a world transformed: floured leavened into bread, seeds grown into orchards, a community where everyone has enough and not a single person goes to bed hungry or lonely.

On the Road Again, Towards the Spiritual Direction Certificate Program Reunion

 Today I head down the mountain to Columbia, SC, where later this week I'll go to the Lutheran seminary for the onground intensive for the Spiritual Director's Certificate program.  You might say, "Wait, didn't you already do that certificate?"  Yes, I did, but alumni are invited to return once a year.  I didn't go last year for a variety of reasons.

This year I wanted to go for a variety of reasons, but the biggest one is that the seminary is moving, and this will be the last intensive at the Columbia campus.  I don't know what will happen to that property, but I'm fairly sure it will all be bulldozed and turned into something more commercial.  I have all sorts of feelings about that, but I wanted to take this last opportunity to gather on that campus.

I also wanted to go because the curriculum looks great.  Some of it I did before, like the module on Native American spirituality--it was great, and I'm looking forward to returning to the topic.  Some of the material seems new.  And the topic overall, that of how we discern the presence of God in our lives and how we help others to do so--it's a topic that remains interesting to me.

I'm also looking forward to seeing people along the way, grad school friends from long ago, retreat friends, and seminary friends from the certificate days (who are different from seminary friends from Wesley days).  

As I've been thinking about our current situation, I'm so happy to realize how wealthy we are in friends and families who are within a 3 hour radius of our house.  We had friends in South Florida, of course, but so many of them had moved away by the time we moved.  And during a week like this, when tropical flooding is expected all week long in South Florida, I'm so grateful that we figured out a way to move to a safer spot, even as I miss the people we left behind.

A House Divided: A Visual for the Children's Sermon

For yesterday's children's sermon, I thought about a variety of approaches, but went with one of the more obvious options offered by Mark 3: 20-35.  I decided to go with verse 25:  "And if a house is divided against itself, that house will not be able to stand."

I thought about Lincoln Logs, creating a house that way.  But I don't have Lincoln Logs.  I know that there are probably people in the neighborhood who could hook me up, but I didn't want to spend time searching.  My spouse suggested that we do something with a chainsaw.

We experimented with the chainsaw, which led me to decide that we wouldn't actually use the chainsaw.  But it provides a great visual:

I had the children use their imaginations.  I stood the log up on the flat end, and I had us imagine it as a house.  We talked about how solid the log is.  I brought the unplugged chain saw over and said, "Now, what would happen if I cut right through this log?  Would it stay together?"  We agreed that it would not.

We talked about what the house represents when Jesus talked about it, about what happens when we work together as a group and when we don't.  We talked about how to know if someone is trying to get you to act in good faith or not.  I reminded them, as I try to do every week, that God loves them and wants them to flourish.

I think that it went well.  As with most Sundays, I think that the children's sermon went better than the adult's sermon, where I preached about Mary in the middle of her spiritual journey.  But overall, I was pleased with both sermons.  I like that between the two, everyone might hear the message that God needs them to hear.  Often my children's sermon has a visual or a hands-on element.  It's a different approach which I know can appeal to adults as well as children.

Sermon for June 9, 2024

June 9, 2014

By Kristin Berkey-Abbott



Mark 3:20-35


I do some of my best writing when I’m away from my writing desk. So I made sure to read this week’s Gospel lesson before we left on our trip to go to Arkansas for the wedding of Carl’s sister. Often ideas come to me while driving, and we went 700 miles each way.

As we drove past Civil War battle sites, my thoughts circled around that phrase that Abraham Lincoln quoted in one of his speeches, in verse 25, a house divided that cannot stand. But frankly, this house we call our own, this nation has in fact been divided throughout its history more than it’s been singing a song in unison or pleasant harmony. It was not lost on me that we followed the Trail of Tears as we headed to Arkansas, and I thought about those Cherokee tribes who left a home so beautiful to head towards Oklahoma, a desolate land in comparison (I am biased, I know). I thought about them taking their trip without adequate supplies, with very few people willing to help, in part because the travelers were Native Americans, in part because it was a time of contagion when you didn’t open the door to just anyone.

If this was not a sermon, I might talk about that time and compare it to our current time, where we seem so deeply divided both as a nation and a world. But then I hear my Preaching professor saying, “Where is the Good News in this?”

And so, I went back to the end of the text, back to that little part about Mary and the brothers of Jesus coming to him and asking to see him. Rather than seeing them, he sends them away. Does it seem as harsh to them as it does to us? He rejects his family of origin and turns towards the new family he has adopted. I suspect many of us know people who for good reasons or bad have made this choice.

I think about Mary in this story. The Gospel of Mark gives us an incomplete picture—of Mary, and of most of the people we’ll come to know better in other Gospels. Mark is not the Gospel where we see Mary agree to be part of God’s cosmic plan, that story we hear so often in Advent. Mark is not the Gospel where we meet Elizabeth. Mark’s Gospel doesn’t have Mary the mother of Jesus at the crucifixion or the resurrection. Why is this Gospel so different?

There are many possibilities. Some Biblical scholars tell us that Mark is the first Gospel and that other Gospel writers both used Mark’s Gospel as a basis for their own and felt free to go in different directions. Keep in mind that we are reading a Gospel. It’s meant to bring us the Good News of God at work in the world. It’s not meant to be a biography of Jesus.

My New Testament professor would want me to remind you that the differences between Gospels are intentional. When the early Church fathers had to decide what would be included in the Bible, they wanted us to have these different pictures.

As we return to Mark, let’s consider the beginning of the text, where the family comes to restrain him. What is that about? Do they not understand the mission of Jesus? Do they, too, think he’s delusional? Are they worried about his safety in terms of the crowds or in terms of the authorities? Are they embarrassed?

Any one of these answers could be true. Clearly they are upset and concerned for him. As I reflected on this text in the context of a family reunion, I thought about all the ways our family members know us best. They’ve known us longest, so in some ways, they understand both the individual and the family dynamics in a way that no one else can. In an ideal world, family members want what’s best for us. And frankly, no one else can irritate us in quite the same way.

And despite this deep knowledge, in many ways family members don’t understand us at all, as members have their own life paths to travel, paths that can be very different, even if everyone stays in the same home town to witness the same behavior and see the same stories.

That’s part of being a family too. We may understand psychology, we may see family members taking their own path, but we still want to save them. Ask anyone who’s ever loved someone with an addiction problem, and you’ll hear stories. Or just listen to people at a family reunion or during a car trip. Families can break our hearts a million ways and one of the hardest is that we wish we could save our loved ones from worlds of pain, but we often can’t.

I picture Mary hearing news of her firstborn, the one for whom she had such high hopes, the one who was to fulfill a prophecy, according to some people she met early on. And here he is, healing people on the Sabbath and casting out demons, and acting like he wasn’t raised properly. I imagine her thinking, perhaps even praying, “Please, God, it’s been 30 some odd years, and my child is still acting like he hasn’t got any sense. Please, God, help me figure out how to keep him safe.”

In today’s Gospel, we see Jesus at the beginning of his ministry, but we see Mary in the middle of her spiritual journey. As I traveled back and forth across the country this past week, I thought about the middle of stories of all kinds, where we have guesses and hopes but where we’re not sure how it will all turn out. In our churches, we often hear about the beginning of great stories of faith: we hear about the angel Gabriel appearing to Mary, for example, and we have baptisms of all kinds, and the appearance of the Holy Spirit at Pentecost and the early years of Paul’s ministry. The church year goes from beginning to end, and some years we go from Christmas to Easter at a dizzying pace. As a church, we spend a whole season preparing for the beginning of the story of Jesus, and we spend a whole season celebrating the victory at the end of his ministry, which starts and ends so quickly that he barely has time to have any stories from the middle years.

This glimpse of Mary is a real gift to those of us in the middle of our stories, where we don’t quite know how it will all turn out and we’re deeply concerned—and that’s all of us, after all. I take comfort from this picture of Mary, which may seem like rejection (a mother rejecting her son, a son rejecting his mother), but it is not, not ultimately as the story continues. When we look at all the Gospels, we see a woman who says yes to God, but that yes does not spare her from doubt or confusion or pain. Still, by the end of the assembling of all the Gospels, she is there, at the cross, and there at the resurrection.

That is good news for those of us feeling like we’ve gone astray somehow or gotten stuck along the way. Jesus promises that God’s vision for our flourishing is much bigger than our own, much better than any our families or societies can offer or even fully understand. Jesus invites us to join him on the path, on the trail that may contain tears but will not end in tears.

My Year with Jurgen Moltmann, Who Just Died

While I was away on our long car trip to Arkansas for a family wedding, Jurgen Moltmann died.  A year ago, I did not know about him at all.  But I've spent the last year reading his work for Systematic Theology class, across nine months, so it seemed important to note his passing.  I am intrigued that the major newspapers have yet to report on his life and death, but maybe I'm just not entering the correct search words.

My Systematic Theology professor called Moltmann the greatest theologian of the twentieth century, as are many others who commented on his death.  I've now read several of his books, along with chunks of other books.  The material that I read didn't seem that profound, but that might be because much of it was 50 years old, and maybe it's impacted theology so deeply that what was once revolutionary is now taken as a normal approach to theology.

I think of all the great theologians of the twentieth century, people like Dietrich Bonhoeffer and Walter Wink and Walter Brueggemann and more feminist theologians than I can name.  Was Moltmann greater than those?  He may have been more wide ranging because he was a systematic theologian.  But nothing that I read over 9 months unsettled me to my core (or even to a lesser extent) or made me think about God differently.  I do realize that may be my fault, not Moltmann's.

Or maybe it's foolish to think in these terms at all.  Moltmann spent much of his life crafting a systematic theology that addressed essential questions, a task that most of us will never do.  For that reason alone, I stand in awe.  I think about my papers for Systematic Theology class, and I think about revising them into book length works, and I realize the scope of what Moltmann was able to do and the sadness of losing such a mind.

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The readings for Sunday, June 9, 2024:

First Reading: Genesis 3:8-15


First Reading (Semi-cont.): 1 Samuel 8:4-11 [12-15] 16-20; [11:14-15]

Psalm: Psalm 130

Psalm (Semi-cont.): Psalm 138

Second Reading: 2 Corinthians 4:13--5:1

Gospel: Mark 3:20-35


We are used to the picture of the family of Jesus that we see at Christmas time: the brave, young Mary, ready for whatever God has in mind for her. Kind Joseph, who plans to leave pregnant Mary, but is convinced to stay beside her. The couple fleeing the murderous Herod.

And then, perhaps, a few weeks later, we might see the young Jesus who stays behind to learn a bit more in the Temple in Jerusalem. In some lectionary years, we see Mary imploring Jesus to save a wedding where the wine has run out; Jesus says he's not ready, Mary persists, and Jesus puts aside his own plans and transforms water into wine.

Or maybe we're used to the Mary that we see around Easter, particularly the weeping mother at the foot of the cross.

We're likely not familiar with the Mary that we see in today's Gospel, the Mary who hears the rumors of her son's madness and comes to try to get him to change course.

What's going on here? Is she embarrassed? Did she not know that being the mother of the Messiah might mean some embarrassment when the neighbors started talking?

Those of us who have ever loved someone who took a different path that the world doesn't understand may feel some sympathy for Mary. Those of us who have watched children grow up and go their own way may feel sympathy too.

When Gabriel appeared to Mary and gave her an outline of the plan that God had for her, she probably didn't envision the Jesus that appeared some thirty years later. Her whole culture trained her to look for a different Messiah, perhaps a Messiah who cleansed the Jewish homeland. She probably thought of that cleansing in military terms, the ejection of the Romans, perhaps.

She likely wasn't thinking of a spiritual revolution.

After all, there were plenty of people running around Palestine leading spiritual revolutions, all sorts of people, some legitimate, some deranged, who were happy to tell first century people how to cleanse themselves and purify their religions and make God happy. I've read one scholar who posits that the family of Jesus was upset because he could be using his powers to make money and instead he was giving away his miracles for free. In these early chapters of Mark, Jesus does a lot of healing which attracts much attention.

Or perhaps Mary was upset because she saw her son was on a collision course with any number of authorities. Maybe she wanted him to fly under the radar more.

We might argue that she has no right to feel that way, because, after all, Jesus came precisely to be on that collision course--that's what he had to do to create the salvation that he came to bring.

Even if Mary understood God's plan thoroughly, she still might want to protect her child. That's what good parents want, to save their children from harm and destruction. She still might protest the fact that the salvation of the world required the precious life of her beloved child.

For those of us struggling to chart our own course, we might take comfort from today's Gospel. If even the family of Jesus didn't fully embrace his path, we, too, can expect a bit of resistance.

For those of us struggling to live an integrated life, where our weekday selves don't contradict our Christian values, we can take courage from today's Gospel. It's not an easy task, this living an authentic life.

Of course, the Gospels don't promise us a happy ending. Even if we live honestly, we may find ourselves on a collision course with the larger world, with the forces of empire, with the culture that shoots other messages at us and infuses our surroundings with poisonous values. Even authentic people can end up martyred.

In fact, authentic people are more likely to end up martyred. But throughout the Gospels, Jesus promises that the life we achieve through our integrity will be worth the price.

Blessed Brides and Other Blessings

Once again, I am up early for this time zone in Arkansas, writing in the CCC room, sipping coffee shared with me by the front desk park ranger who has been here all night, keeping watch while the rest of us slept.  I am happy to have slept through the night because at 3 a.m. I banished the thought that said, "Screw it.  Might as well get up and get the day started."  I managed to get back to sleep and slept until just before 5, which is always a rare event for me.

I am up and thinking of yesterday's dramatic weather as I hear the rumbles of thunder:

Yesterday morning's view from the patio overlook was the most clear that the skies were going to be for the rest of the day:

I don't have a picture of today's view; it's early and most of the exterior doors are locked.  I'm set up here at this table, with thunder rumbling, and I don't feel like tromping around outside.  Yesterday when I first heard thunder rumbling, we were an hour away from the rains and storms that lasted all day.

The afternoon wedding had already been moved so that we could be near a shelter, and all day, we kept  an eye both to the skies and social media, in case plans changed.  We had been told the shelter was 13 miles up a road that was described as both muddy and gravel with limited parking when we got there.  I had already decided to wear my running shoes, and frankly, I wish I had a pair of sturdy hiking boots because I would have worn those too.  I am envisioning my elder years as shod in boots of various sorts. But I digress.

I wore a pair of shorts on under my skirt.  If the vehicle got stuck in the mud, I could take off my skirt and not ruin it.  I'm not sure what I thought I would do after that, but it made me feel better to be prepared that way.  In my sneakers with shorts on under my skirt, it also made me feel like my 5th grade self.  That grade, we all wore shorts under our dresses and skirts because the boys delighted in trying to expose our nether regions.  Even once they got tired of the game, it felt good to have that protection.  But I digress.

We made our way up the road in the most rugged vehicle we had, and it wasn't as bad as we had been told.  Although cloudy, the weather was perfect.  That weather did not hold.

Just before the ceremony, I looked up the severe weather alert, and then I looked up which county we were in.  The weather alert told us to take shelter immediately.  I don't think the weather folks had our shelter in mind.

The view was dramatic, as I watched various weather systems moving across the land below.  And when the ceremony started, the clouds descended and mist moved through the shelter.  The guests were able to avoid most of the rain, but I can't say the same for the wedding party.

Happily, we avoided the kind of headline I envisioned when I saw the weather alert that warned of dangerous lightning and 60 mph winds.  We took post ceremony pictures in the rain, and then we moved down the mountain to an enclosed picnic shelter for the reception.

We talked about the old folk wisdom that a bride who has rain on her wedding day will have a blessed marriage.  If that's true, the bride in our family is blessed beyond measure.

As I sat at a picnic table watching adults and children dance, I thought about how we are all blessed beyond measure, with food in our stomachs and weather the only threat from above.  We have come through many storms already, and I know that more will come.  But it's good to remember that we have more people rooting for us than we may know, the ones who are there in person, the ones who pray from far places.

Don't Be a Zombie: Celebrate Love

I am writing in a state park in Arkansas, Petit Jean State Park, in the CCC room.  A very kind park ranger who tends the front desk overnight offered me a cup of her strong coffee, and I said yes.

As I understand it, this lodge where I am writing was constructed by the CCC, and the furniture in this room was constructed to match the original furniture.  It's not exactly comfortable--a straight back chair with a woven seat--but I've used worse.  There's a charm in being the only one in this room, while the sky slowly lightens.  Here's a view of the lodge from the table where I'm writing:

As we drove across the state of Tennessee yesterday, I thought about how much of the state I've seen in the past week:  from Bristol in the northeast corner all the way to the Mississippi River.  As an English major, it's impossible not to drive by places and reflect on the literature that these places have inspired.  

And of course, there are darker thoughts, about the Civil War and the Civil Rights movement and the fierce battles for the soul of America.  My younger self would have thought that these battles were settled and that we were on a trajectory towards a better future, a more egalitarian future where everyone (except for the very richest of us) has similar opportunities.

As we drove and drove and drove across Tennessee, I thought about the current battles over land, especially Ukraine.  I understand the value of that land, the literal land and the historic ideas of it, from reading Timothy Snyder's Black Earth.  It wasn't the book I was expecting, but I haven't forgotten it--an excellent book.  

As we drove and drove, I thought back to history, people who lived in the lands that the car drove by, people in the 1850's who tilled their fields and tended their farms, people who lived far away from decisions made in Washington, D.C., people who had no idea how history was about to rip apart their lives.  Most of the people who lived in most of the country in pre-Civil War years didn't own slaves.  Their lives were about to be upended over policies that would never have impacted them otherwise.

Happier reasons bring me to Arkansas, a wedding and the family reunion that these kinds of events can create.  Last night I watched small children lurching around the picnic area pretending to be zombies.  The smallest one came over to me, looked directly into my eyes, and said, "Be a zombie."

I am of an age where I don't get these kinds of invitations/directives often.  And so I rose from my camp chair and played at being a zombie.  By the end of the evening, most of us, all ages, had taken a turn at this game.  I talked to the child's mom about how kids these days are learning about zombies, and now I have a Disney creation to look up.  I didn't realize that Disney had travelled to the land of the undead.

I am traveling through the land, rejoicing that we are not yet dead, that there are still kind front desk managers who share their coffee with early morning writers, that there are still children who will spend hours playing make believe, that the land offers up so much beauty, as does life itself, if we look away from our screens and 24 hour news feeds and the other ways we allow our joy to be killed.

Today we celebrate love.  Today I am remembering that we should celebrate love, in all of its forms, in every way we can, each and every day.

Quilting through Summer Break So Far

So, here we are, the beginning of June.  For some, it's Pride month; for others, it's the beginning of hurricane season.  Maybe it's wedding season or vacation season.  Maybe it doesn't feel different at all.  

Yesterday I took one of the cars to the car wash.  Our cars live outdoors, under trees, and this past season has seen heavy, heavy pollen.  I bought the cheapest car wash option; I didn't want to have the machine do the waxing and have the pollen trapped to the car forever in the wax.  So I bought it home, and we spent an hour trying to remove the pollen that was hard for the machine to reach.  We still need to do something about the roof of the car, but that can wait.  I didn't want to tackle the roof, then have to redo all the windows we had just gotten clean.

I took the old quilt inside.  We've had it in the car since January, just in case we had car trouble in cold weather.  Happily our Nissan Rogue is still fairly new in terms of miles, so we haven't had car trouble, and the past two winters have been fairly mild.  Still, we will likely put the quilt back in the car when the weather gets colder.

It's been a week of taking building supplies back, and taking the ones that aren't returnable to the Habitat Re-Store.  We still have a lot of tile in odd shapes and sizes.  I'm not sure what we'll do with all of it.

It's been a week of more sewing than writing.  I still sew by hand at home, often when we're watching fairly mindless TV, and I'm feeling restless.  But I've also been using the fancy Janome machine when I've gone to the quilt group that makes quilts for Lutheran World Relief at Lutheran Church of the Nativity on Wednesdays.  It's amazing how easy it is to use those fancy machines; we have one that's an even more recent model that I used a few months ago, and it didn't even require me to have a foot pedal.  We've got a less fancy one that only one of us can figure out how to thread.  Here's my favorite quilt top that I've made for LWR:

It's a delight to pull fabric out of the bins and spend time sorting through other bins looking for material that goes together.  Some times, I put similar colors together and don't worry about it.  Some quilts start with a big panel, and I add some material to each side, and it's done.  This quilt started with a medium size panel in the middle, and the blue material that was the same size:

We have so much material in the modular building where we meet, and much of it is high quality cotton.  I'm always amazed at what I find.

It's been a good week of summer break.  The next week may see slower blogging.  I'm not sure of my internet access, but I will report back.