Sermon for Sunday, November 30, 2025

November 30, 2025

By Kristin Berkey-Abbott




Matthew 24: 36-44



When I arrived at church this morning, I felt my shoulders release, going from a usual “hunched to my ears” kind of position to a more relaxed state. I felt my brain relax too, as I looked at the Advent wreath and the Chrismon tree with its beautiful lights. Christmas at last! My favorite time of year!

And then we get to the Gospel, which says, “Not yet.” How does the Gospel say this? The way the Gospel always does for the first Sunday of Advent, by reminding us of the impending doom that is always around the corner. Some of us are probably saying, “Gee, thanks. I live in a constant state of anxiety already.” My shoulders just hunched back up.


At first I thought that we had one of those fluky years where Advent 1 is Apocalypse Sunday. Then I looked through my file of written sermons and realized Advent 1 is ALWAYS Apocalypse Sunday, which means every Gospel includes this kind of apocalyptic teaching from Jesus (two years ago it was from Mark, last year from Luke). And when I read today’s Gospel, I thought, I feel like I’ve been preaching on end times a lot lately. Since I’ve been following the lectionary and not using the news shows as my starting point for the sermon, that must mean that it’s more than just a stray Gospel text that circles back to apocalypse.


Some non-Christian folks have told me that they assume that Christians are always focused on the end times, except for when we’re trying to ruin everyone’s good time in the here and now. Indeed, the ideas in this text have helped shape what many modern people, Christian and non-Christian, assume the end times will be, the left behind story, that somehow those who have managed to stay faithful will be rescued while everyone else perishes.


In today’s text, Jesus invokes the God that rescues Noah, a depiction of God that is my least favorite, God the destroyer. I prefer the God of the first chapters of Genesis, God who creates and creates and creates and delights in every aspect of that creation. The God in the time of Noah is the one who crumples up the rough draft and tosses it all in the trash can.

I imagine Jesus here, listening to this sermon, Jesus who would say, “Not every rough draft. Noah and his family are saved, along with two of every animal.” That’s a lot of rough drafts saved from the garbage, saved from judgment. Or maybe not saved from judgment, but evaluated and found worthy.


Of course, that idea of a God of judgment isn’t one that I warm to. The world is full of judgment, so why do we need to bring judgment to our Sunday, particularly an Advent Sunday?


Some theologians would say, “You’re focusing on the wrong part of the story. It’s not about the judgment. It’s about the confidence that God is at work in the world, the world that looks flooded with bad news and bad decisions, the world that looks like it is going in a disastrous direction.” The story of Noah could remind us of when God acted as judge and destroyer. But it should also remind us of God who is making all things new, taking the wreckage and building a new creation. The resurrection of Jesus is one of the most stunning examples of the power of God to put to right all the ways that humans destroy things. As scholar David J. Bartlett says, “We wait in hope because we wait in memory.” We wait in hope for a new creation.


Today’s Gospel tells us that it’s not enough to wait, however, even though Advent is traditionally a season of waiting, at least in the Church, if not in larger culture. We go about our regular lives, but we must also stay alert. In the time of Advent, it’s easy to stay alert. In some ways, it’s unlike the time that Jesus discusses, where we don’t know the day or the hour. In Advent, we’re surrounded by reminders that Christmas is coming. It’s one of the few times that the larger culture joins us in our waiting for the big day—December 25 is still for most of us the culmination of the Christmas season.


But what if we try a different approach this year? What if we borrow from the season of Lent, or the traditions of the new year? What if we set an intention to be more faithful people in the coming year? What if we adopted an Advent discipline instead of a Lenten discipline—but this year, what if we kept that discipline going for the whole year instead of just a season.


I’m not suggesting anything particularly radical, but I am suggesting that we think about a daily discipline, not a seasonal one. As we move through Advent, I plan to think about what is giving me life. Is it the lighting of the candles on the Advent wreath? As we leave Advent behind, I could continue to light candles, a new candle for each week of the year. Is it the devotional time that can come with the candle lighting? Let me add a 5 minute devotion at a time of day that’s not usual for me. If it’s the special music we like, there’s nothing that says that we can’t use the music of Christmas to enrich other times of the year.


I know that for many of us, it’s the mood of good cheer that we love about this time of year, more than the external aspects like decorations or food. But hear the good news: by taking our Advent disciplines with us throughout the year, we can keep the mood of good cheer going. Sure, everyone else might descend into grumpiness—but maybe if we keep our Christmas calm, with our shoulders not bunched up around our ears, maybe that calm will spread.


Jesus tells us again and again that we can’t know the day or the hour that the day of rescue will come. But Jesus assures us that we don’t need to worry about it (shoulders down), and yet, we don’t get a free pass to sit back and enjoy the destruction of others. David J. Bartlett says, “One day Jesus may appear in the clouds, suddenly, like a thief in the night. But before that—as Matthew reminds us—Jesus will appear just around the corner, suddenly, like a hungry person, or a neighbor ill-clothed, or someone sick or imprisoned.”


Our Advent disciplines will help us to be ready for whatever comes. Maybe it will be that day long foretold when the final judgment happens. But in the mean time, as we wait for whatever comes, we find ourselves uniquely prepared to repair our society and ourselves, to reweave all the shredded fabric of our lives into a new and vibrant cloth.


The Chrismon tree and the Advent wreath declare that Christ is coming. The Gospel texts ask if we are ready. Our Advent disciplines, taken with us through the year, will help us declare that yes, we are ready. Come Lord Jesus!

Thanksgiving History in Fabric Scraps

Here I sit, at the kitchen table of the big, ramshackle house at Lutheridge, the church camp where my family has always had our holiday festivities (well, since 1992 or so), the house where we’ve assembled for at least 20 years.  It was at this table, on the Saturday of Thanksgiving week-end in 2022, where I first assembled the log cabin patch out of scraps, and I’ve been doing it ever since, and may just continue to do it until my fingers won’t let me.

It has been a great Thanksgiving this year, although zooming by too fast, and I know I likely say that every year.  This year, all the members of the next generation are teenagers now, which brings a certain sadness about all the books we’re not reading about giving a mouse a cookie or llamas in pajamas.

 Happily, there are other joys.  We spent much of the week-end helping the oldest teenager in the house with a project she envisioned:  letters made of fabric scraps, sewed on a sweatshirt.  When my cousin wrote me in advance and told me what she had in mind, I brought all my fabric scraps with me.

 

 

The project became a bit bigger than we first thought it would be.  She chose small squares, and we made them into larger squares of four patches; then we made took the template she’d made of paper letters and cut out the fabric.  We used the Steam-a-seam product to make sure the letters didn’t move around.

 

 

And what do you know—it worked!  It looked very much like the picture that had provided the inspiration, and she was very happy with it.  The whole family had a great spirit going in, and they assured my spouse and me (mostly me) that whatever happened would be fine.  I was worried about a ruined sweatshirt and the crushing of creative dreams—I’m so happy that didn’t happen.  The oldest teenager was so happy with her creation that she wore it on the long car trip home.  I wish we had had more time to sew the letters to the sweatshirt, but she knows how to do it, and her mom knows some folks who will help, and in the meantime, they won’t wash the sweatshirt.

In a way, that’s a metaphor for the whole holiday time together—the worry that the experience won’t live up to expectations, the happiness of time together, the realization that it’s all going to be O.K., even if not exactly perfect.

                                                                                                           

Thanksgiving Morning

Thanksgiving morning, in a house with no wi-fi, and a writer determined not to use her hot spot until the last possible minute because she, unlike much of the U.S.A. does not want to pay for unlimited data on her cell phone. But she knows what to do. And so she writes the old-fashioned way, typed in a Word document that will be uploaded later.

You thought the writer might use a pen? She’s not that old-fashioned—she still has electricity! And she’s willing to pay for the version of Microsoft Office that’s always available, regardless of Internet access.

That writer, of course, is me. I’m being cautious with my cell phone usage because one past Thanksgiving of reckless abandon showed me how much data can cost, when I left the hot spot function on overnight. I am educable.

But I’m also delighting in disconnecting. I’ve gotten a sermon written in the past hour since I got up. If I’d had connectivity, I’d have spent that hour looking at stuff on the Internet, and likely feeling dispirited. Now I am feeling virtuous!

Long ago, I did write with a pen and paper, and I do remember that I had to fend off distractions then, too. Back in those days, I might be tempted to read the newspaper before I started—the old-fashioned kind, that arrived on the doorstep, not on my computer screen. The world is always trying to pull us away or lull us into complacency or sedate us—or terrify us or make us feel inadequate.

Let me take a moment before Thanksgiving starts in earnest, a moment to remember some of the wonderful events that have already happened:

--We have managed to gather at the ramshackle house at Lutheridge where we have gathered almost every year since 1992.

--Not everyone could come. But we had new participants—yesterday my mom and uncle’s cousin’s wife came over for a wonderful afternoon of talking and reminiscing.

--The babies that I once read to are now teenagers. They are grown but not gone yet. They have interests (fabric! Cooking! Getting ready for Christmas!) that intersect with mine. What a delight.

--We did not gather at this house last year because of hurricane damage from Helene. I have not looked out of these windows at Thanksgiving until this year, although I was in the house in September. In September, the view was obscured by the trees still in full leaf. Now that the leaves are down, I’m sobered by how few trees are actually there.

--It is also sobering to think about how much older we all are. On the other side of the spectrum from babies grown into teenagers are the rest of the family, with a variety of health challenges.

But for today, we are here, the house is still here, and we will celebrate that fact with food, my favorite meal of the whole year.

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The readings for Sunday, November 30, 2025:

First Reading: Isaiah 2:1-5

Psalm: Psalm 122

Second Reading: Romans 13:11-14

Gospel: Matthew 24:36-44

Some years, the apocalyptic tone of the Advent texts feel more appropriate than other years. This is one of those years when the images of the end of days resonate with me.

The images in the Gospel for the first Sunday of Advent have found their way into popular culture lately--the idea of one being taken up to Heaven while the other is left behind (see the Left Behind book series which was made into other forms of popular culture and the more recent show The Leftovers).  But most scholars agree that those ideas of a Judgment Day are fairly recent in Christian thought and interpretation, fostered in the heat of 19th century Revival meetings. If Christ isn’t talking about the Rapture, then what do those passages mean?

Again and again, our holy scriptures remind us that we need to stay alert and watchful. Again and again, our holy scriptures warn us that God is coming and that God won't always take on the shape we expect. Sometimes, our spiritual ancestors are lucky, as Abraham was, when he invited the strangers into his tent and found out he was having dinner with God. Sometimes our ancestors aren't as lucky. Think of all those contemporaries of Jesus, many of them good, observant Jews, who were on the lookout for a different kind of Messiah. They wanted someone to deliver them from oppressive Roman rule. What did they get? A baby in a manger.

We think that we wouldn't have been so stupid. We would have recognized the Divine, as Christ moved among us.

But think of our own lives. Many of us are so busy that we can't even adopt traditional practices that move us closer to God, practices like fixed-hour prayer or tithing.  We can't find 10 minutes in our busy lives to slow down at all.  If Jesus shows up, will we really notice?

We usually think of Lent as the season of discipline and denial, but Advent cries out for a similar rigor, especially in our culture that goes into hyper-consumer-overdrive this time of year. This year, practice seeing the Divine in difficult people. It's easy to look at a little baby and to see God looking back out of that face. But for a few weeks, practice treating difficult people as if they are the embodiment of God:  your critical relative, your unreasonable boss, your difficult teenager, the homeless guy at the corner who won't take no for an answer when he asks for money, on and on the list could go.  How might things change if we treat these difficult people as the embodiment of God, as Christ incarnate?

Think about the larger world that bombards us with messages that are designed to move us to anger, not compassion.  Let's pray for those national figures who usually move us to anger.  Let's remember that they, too, are chosen children of God whom God loves.

We could do something more radical.  We could try seeing God in them.

If we approach everyone as God moving in the world, our attitudes will likely change. Maybe people will wonder how we achieve our peace and equilibrium.  Maybe they will ask us for our secret.  Maybe they will simply try to emulate us.

In this way, we can sow the seeds of peace into our troubled time.  Maybe they will take root and grow into a sturdy orchard.

Sermon for Sunday, November 23, 2025, Christ the King Sunday

November 23, 2025, Christ the King Sunday

By Kristin Berkey-Abbott




Luke 23:33-43



Last week we had a hint of Advent, and today we’re in full-blown Good Friday mode—and it’s Christ the King Sunday? Where is our story of final victory? Maybe something like Jesus coming back to earth, splitting the sky in splendor and glory, coming to judge us all, and give faithful folks their one-way ticket to eternity. But this festival day reminds us that if we get our expectations too focused on one aspect of Jesus, we’re likely to miss the signs of God at work in the world. If we’re expecting one kind of king, we will miss something essential about the essence of Jesus.


Certainly many first century folks would define a king as having splendor and glory, even going as far as to see the ruler as being divine. Not just godlike—divine. Historian Mary Beard notes that Roman emperors were often deified, with elaborate cults and temples dedicated to worshipping them. This religious aspect of their role further consolidated their authority, as they were seen as intermediaries between the people and the gods. To question their authority was seen as heresy beyond free speech or disrespect.


Throughout his ministry, we see people assessing Jesus as to how big a threat he might be to the Roman ruler and all the people like Pilate and Herod that are ruling on behalf of the emperor. We probably remember the question about taxes and Jesus’ clever answer involving a coin. Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem on a donkey can be seen as threatening or mocking; the emperor or his emissary would often enter cities on a majestic horse. It’s this kind of behavior on the part of Jesus that made many Galileans think he might just be the Messiah.


Of course, Galileans would not expect the Messiah to wind up on a cross, executed by the ruling authorities of Rome. The Jewish people had been looking for a Messiah for generations, always with the hope of deliverance from whatever empire oppressed them at the time: the Egyptian pharoah, the Assyrians, the Babylonians, and in the time of Jesus, the Romans. Centuries of prophecy, like the kind we see in today’s reading from Jeremiah, kept that hope for deliverance alive. Clearly, if Jesus was killed by the oppressing empire of his time, he wasn’t the Messiah the Jews had been yearning for.


In today’s Gospel, we see people still trying to figure out who Jesus is. King of the Jews? Ruler of the world? Messiah? What kind of Messiah? A messiah who will save us all or a messiah who is only sent for some?


Christ the King Sunday shows us that the way of Christ as King is not the way that the world sees a king. The way of Christ the Messiah is not the way we would expect Christ to come as a Messiah. In today’s Gospel, we see how Jesus uses his power, and its not in the earthly ways of leadership. Jesus shapes his leadership as one of service and love, from his earliest days of ministry through his death on the cross and during his time after resurrection. Love and service—that’s the power that Jesus wields.


Jesus spent much of his ministry cautioning against the expectations we have about what a Messiah looks like. Our readings for today, taken in their totality, show us a multi-dimensional savior. Maybe it shouldn’t be a surprise. We confess belief in a triune God, after all, the kind of God that our reading from Colossians tries to describe. And yet, it’s hard to remember that fullness, especially in the busyness of our lives.


I admit to being partial towards the aspect of Jesus that we see in our Gospel reading. Here’s Jesus up on the cross, in the process of dying one of the most agonizing forms of death, and he’s still fulfilling his purpose, forgiving those who don’t know what they’re doing and saving those who repent. Here’s Jesus, showing concern for the very lowest on the rungs of society, the criminal on the cross beside him, while at the same time, continuing to feel pity for those in power who are not living up to God’s vision for creation.


Some days, though, I long for the savior I sense in our reading from Jeremiah, the one who says, “ Woe to the shepherds who destroy and scatter the sheep of my pasture!” We don’t have to look far to see sheep destroying behavior and shepherds who should know better. The prophets who came before Jesus have a warning for those who practice this kind of behavior—the days are surely coming when God will punish those that act this way. Jesus, too, issues this warning periodically, although this part of Jesus’ personality doesn’t surface as often as the Jesus we see on the cross. A King of vengeance Jesus—yes, that’s what we want! We often feel powerless in the face of those who would scatter the flock. Maybe we want Christ the King to be more like a modern superhero, dispatched to save us, with no effort required on our part.


Today’s Gospel reminds us, however, that our vision of vengeance, even if it’s on behalf of the oppressed, isn’t the way God operates. God sends prophets and messengers to remind humanity of our obligations, of what we’ve promised and what God expects. God goes so far as to come to earth to live with us, not to deliver the last blow of vengeance but to teach us by way of example. Jesus comes to us in a spirit of mercy and a yearning for connection.


And it’s not just in today’s Gospel. Throughout our Scripture, we see God acting mercifully, especially in the face of repentance. Think of God’s forgiveness each time people choose a different god, from the Golden Calf in Exodus to more modern examples of people worshipping anyone and everything else instead of God.


But when people repent, God forgives. Think of all the pillars of the faith who have needed forgiveness, like King David, who behaved badly as many times as he executed justice and righteousness. Consider Peter who denied Jesus, and Jesus not only forgave him but gave him a leadership position in the church that was to come. Jesus not only tells the disciples that they must forgive more times than they think possible, but Jesus models this behavior too. Like any good teacher, Jesus doesn’t ask us to do what he’s not willing to do himself.


As we think about Jesus the teacher who through the centuries has been transformed into Christ the King, it’s helpful to think about what we want from Jesus and why. It’s also helpful to think about which aspects of Jesus make us uncomfortable and why. We may think that we would never make a golden calf and worship it, but it’s all too easy to focus on the aspect of Jesus that makes us most comfortable and leaves us feeling championed, not challenged. But we know that Jesus came to earth not only to be a way that God is revealed to us, but also to challenge us and move us out of our complacency. Sometimes shaking us out of our complacency takes righteous indignation on the part of Jesus. Sometimes, it takes mercy and forgiveness. Always it takes love and compassion. Luckily, unlike earthly rulers, Jesus has a bottomless supply of love and compassion.


This festival day has an important reminder to us, as we think about Christ as both human, king, and God. Like any human, Jesus is more than the sum of his parts—and to understand this fully, we need to know all of the parts. Luckily, we have many paths to know Jesus. There’s scripture of course. There’s the larger religious community, whom Luther reminds us we need to help us come to an honest understanding of the scripture. We have the larger creation; many a theologian and mystic would tell us that we can gain an important understanding of our creator by observing creation.


On this Christ the King Sunday, may we find in Christ the ruler that challenges us to be the best version of ourselves, the merciful and loving version. May we follow the model of Jesus, as we find our best ways to be of use to others. Let us always remember that the best way to glorify Jesus is to be of service to the world, this world that Jesus loves so deeply.

Technology and Other Various Orthodoxies

On Saturday I listened to an interview/discussion, between Ross Douthat and Paul Kingsnorth.  It was an interesting take on technology, and I find my brain coming back to it periodically.

Even though Kingsnorth seemed to say that he's making a living writing books and with his Substack, which is reliant on the Internet, he painted the Internet as a portal and asked us to think what we're inviting in.  He thinks that most people are inviting evil into their lives, by way of the Internet.

Here are his exact words:  "Sometimes I think the internet is a giant Ouija board and we use it to summon things. And things appear through it. So if you want to be supernaturalist about it, if you want to be Christian about it, the world is inhabited by powers and principalities and demonic forces, which have it in for us, and which want to turn us away from God. That’s their purpose. I think if C.S. Lewis was writing 'The Screwtape Letters' today, there would be a good few letters about how the demons can use the internet, how they can use the phones, how they can use this to completely delude us and distract us and take us away from our true purpose."

Kingsnorth converted to Orthodox Christianity 12 years ago, so he's got a very different perspective than many writers who talk about AI.  This morning, I read an article in The New York Times about how young men are increasingly attracted to the Orthodox branch of faith.  I'm remembering when I, too, wanted something more rigorous, but I was attracted to monasticism, but a bit too late, being already married, with a host of other commitments.

I don't have an elegant way to close this post other than to say that my writing time has run out.  Off I go to move away from my screen and go for a walk.

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The Readings for Sunday, November 23, 2025:

First Reading: Jeremiah 23:1-6

First Reading (Semi-cont.): Jeremiah 23:1-6

Psalm: Psalm 46

Psalm (Semi-cont.): Luke 1:68-79

Second Reading: Colossians 1:11-20

Gospel: Luke 23:33-43

This Sunday we celebrate Christ the King Sunday, which is the last day of our liturgical calendar. The readings are familiar: we're back in the land of Good Friday, with our king crucified on a cross. Perhaps not the image we'd expect for Christ the King Sunday, but those of us who have been reading through this cycle, either for the first time or for the umpteenth time, will be familiar with these strange twists of imagery, with the upheaval of all our expectations.

I have always loved the cyclical nature of the lectionary, with its readings that loop around and remind us that all of life is cyclical. When I'm having a bad day (or week or month), it's important to remember that everything can change. When I'm having a good day (or week or month), it's important to express profound gratitude and to try not to dread the next downturn too much. With every downturn comes an upturn. The life of Christ shows us this.

Christ's life shows us that being king requires something different for a believer. It's not the worldly experience of kings, who are venerated and obeyed. Being a Christian king requires humbling ourselves and thinking of others before we think of ourselves. But our rewards are great. If we could emulate Christ's behavior, we'd have a wonderful community here on earth, and whatever we might experience in the afterlife would just be icing on the cake. We'd have already had a taste of heaven right here on earth.

I do realize that living the way that Christ taught us is often easier in theory than in practice. Maybe we feel grumpy as the holiday season approaches. Maybe we've had a season of sorrow, and we can't quite manage to feel festive. Maybe we're tired of humbling ourselves and we'd like someone to humble themselves for us.

Well, here's some good news. Someone already has. Maybe in this season of thankfulness, we can concentrate on our good fortune, even if we don't feel it. We're alive to see the sunrise and the sunset, some of the best shows on earth, and they're free! Even if we don't have as much money as we wish we had, we probably have enough to share. If we give some of our money away, we won't feel as constricted about money. If we are having trouble keeping everything in perspective, maybe it's time to volunteer at a food bank or an animal shelter--or if we're not into organizational activities, we could do our part to pick up litter. We could smile at the janitorial staff. We could thank them for cleaning the communal bathrooms in the places where we work and shop.

If we start working on our spirit of gratitude, the gift of generosity often follows. If we pray for those who need our prayers, our hearts start to open. If we work on forgiveness, our spirit soars. And soon we realize what it means to celebrate Christ the King Sunday.

Recording of Sunday Sermon

It was a fairly good Sunday at Faith Lutheran in Bristol, TN.  The congregation had good energy, which may have been more about the toddlers present than anything else.  But I'm always happy for good energy, regardless of the reason.

The recording of my sermon is here on my YouTube channel.  You can read along in yesterday's posting of the sermon manuscript.

Sermon for Sunday, November 16, 2025

November 16, 2025

By Kristin Berkey-Abbott




Luke 21: 5-19


In today’s Gospel, we hear an echo of Advent and Christmas. Did you hear it?

It’s hard to hear it, because it’s surrounded by so many sentences that tell us that hard times are coming: wars and insurrections, natural disasters of all sorts, false accusations and persecutions and death. Where, exactly, is the Advent and Christmas?

We get all of these details straight out of a dystopian story, and Jesus says in verse 9, “Do not be terrified.” The writer of the Gospel of Luke uses this idea like a refrain that winds through the book. In the first chapter of the book, an angel appears to Zecheriah and says, “Do not be afraid.” Later in the chapter, Mary gets the same message: “Do not be afraid.” In chapter 2, angels appear to the shepherds with good news of the coming of the savior, and they, too, begin with the same words: “Do not be afraid.”

I’ve always assumed that angels say this because they terrify the humans who see them. Are angels that scary looking or is it just that humans don’t expect them and so they inspire terror?

Maybe it’s something even more existential. I think of hearing news of a savior, and my first response is “Finally!” But maybe the angels instruct us not to be afraid because of what comes when deliverance is at hand.

We know from the first time Jesus came to earth that redemption is not a peaceful process. People don’t say, “Yes, we’ve been running the world all wrong—here, you do it.” And even if people did say that, we know from the history of how God deals with humans that God doesn’t want us to do that. God did not create us to be puppets, with God’s hands pulling the strings, making us move in ways that God wants. God wants to persuade us that a different way is possible—and Jesus is one of the ways God does this.

“Be not afraid” is a phrase not only spoken by angels in the Gospel of Luke. Jesus, too, says it over and over again. So it shouldn’t be a surprise that he says it here.

But still, it’s terrifying stuff that Jesus presents, a sort of end times greatest hits. If we read the whole chapter, Jesus goes on and on, telling his terrifying tale. But at the end of the chapter, we find out that people are still coming to hear him at the Temple. And in Luke 22, the Holy Week narratives begin: the people in charge plotting against Jesus, Jesus arrested and charged with exciting the people, and the story of Jesus’ crucifixion and resurrection.

Jesus teaches at the Temple, and the Gospel begins by everyone admiring the Temple. Jesus knows that humans are easily distracted by bright, shiny object, the big buildings, the decorations. There’s so much that pulls our attention away from the work of saving our souls. Even in the non-dystopian times, even when there’s not war and plague stalking the human race, we can be seduced by the beauty of our buildings. Jesus reminds us that it’s all temporary, even these buildings which seem so solid and worthy of admiration.

The first generation of readers of the Gospel of Luke would hear Jesus’ words about the destruction of the Temple in a very different way. Many of them might have a memory of the literal destruction of the Temple. They would hear these words in this Gospel and say, “Yup. Jesus predicted this very thing that came true.”

And the rest of it has come true, too, hasn’t it? We’ve had wars and kingdoms rising against kingdom. We’ve had natural disasters, like the earthquakes and plagues Jesus mentions, and other natural disasters too, like fires, floods, and ever more destructive hurricanes. We’ve had every variety of human-made disasters along the way. Every generation gives us a false prophet or two or three—people who want us to believe that they alone can fix what is wrong with or without God’s assistance.


I would guess that even the last part of the picture Jesus paints is true for those of us in this congregation, although perhaps a softer version. If we’re sincere in our faith, it’s likely that we’ve lost some friends and family members along the way. It’s likely that we’ve had to defend ourselves against false accusations of what all Christians are like. In today’s Gospel, Jesus assures us that he will give us the words and wisdom when we face this particular test, and I hope we’ve felt that presence.


We will hear these words of coming dystopia again in two weeks, when we begin our Advent texts, and those texts can leave us puzzled. Why this apocalyptic tone in our Advent?

But Advent should be apocalyptic, in the dystopian sense of the word. The coming of a savior is something that generations of people long for—ancient people and people in our own times. But we often forget how that coming will change everything we thought we knew. The making of something new so often requires the destruction of the old.

Let’s remind ourselves that along with the scene of destruction that Jesus paints for us are the seeds for a new life, a new way of being. We have seen this evidence with our own eyes. Imagine if we could go back to a particular year during the cold war. Let’s say 1984, with all of its dystopian echoes from books we might not have read since high school.

If we could travel back to 1984, you might meet college students who were convinced that we might be called upon to invade Central America. You might meet cold war shaped adults who worried about the intentions of the USSR. You might meet people who worried about possible Civil War in South Africa and how that might spread across the vast continent.


Those people that we would meet would be amazed to learn that Archbishop Oscar Romero has now been made a saint for his efforts to stop the killing in El Salvador. People in 1984 would not believe us when we told them that the wall between East and West Germany would come down before the end of the decade. And people who had their eye on South Africa would be expecting Nelson Mandela to die in prison, not to become the first president elected after the fall of apartheid.


I do realize that you could reverse this story and mourn all of the opportunities to have a better society that we’ve lost since 1984. But hear again the refrain of the book of Luke: “Do not be afraid.” Let’s make that refrain our own. Every time we feel the tingle of fear, let us remind ourselves that new life begins with birth pangs. Let us remember the words of the angels, the words of Jesus, the words of Easter morning: “Do not be terrified.” Let us offer our songs of praise to the God who is making all things new, to our redeemer who knows that earthly power might dazzle or terrify, but it is God’s power who can defeat death to bring new life to us all.

Quilt Camp Homily: the Prophetess Anna and Our Quilting/Spiritual Life

I gave the homily for our Saturday night Quilt Camp closing worship.  I wanted to take a minute and make a record of the experience before it slips away.

Our Bible verse was Psalm 91: 4, and we focused on the first part, about God covering us with God's feathers and sheltering us beneath wings.  We talked about wings and feathers and angels.  We had a prayer board in the shape of wings, and we had feathers where we wrote prayers.

I wanted my homily to go in a slightly different direction--what happens when we don't feel that sheltering space?  What happens when it looks like everyone else's prayers get answered and not ours?  How many of us feel too old for whatever might have once seemed to make us special?

We had begun the retreat by talking about where we had sensed the presence of angels, and I started my sermon by talking about the angel Gabriel appearing to Mary, but that's really a young person's story.  Can you imagine if Gabriel came to any of us with that possibility?  We'd say, "Hmm, mother of the Messiah--not really my calling thanks."  

So I thought about other people who make an appearance in our Advent and Christmas texts.  I thought about Elizabeth, who gets to be the mother of John the Baptist.  But she doesn't even get the angel message herself; it comes through her husband, who laughs at the idea that his very old wife might have a baby.  He's struck mute through the whole pregnancy for his disbelief.  But it's still pregnancy, still not everyone's idea of fulfillment.

I continued:  I call your attention to a bit later in the story, when Joseph and Mary bring the baby Jesus to the Temple.  Simeon has been promised that he will not die without seeing the Messiah, and he holds the baby Jesus, holding the light of the world in his arms.  But I call your attention to Anna in Luke 2:  36-38 (I read the text).  We may think of Mary Magdalen as the first evangelist, the first to tell of the empty tomb, but I've come to think of Anna as the first, as she goes out to tell everyone about the Messiah.

Of course, it's sobering to realize that by the time the Gospel of Luke was written, that very Temple has been destroyed, and it will be thousands of years before there will be another one.

Then I took the turn to quilting:  it's a bit like quilting.  Some of us have everything we need, the right material, the sewing machine that is up to the job.  Other times, we discover we didn't buy enough cloth, and it's no longer available, and we have to figure out what to do.  There are times we are given a quilt started generations before, and it comes with no instructions, and we have to figure out a way.  And we, too, will die.  Maybe someone else will complete our projects, maybe not.  But we continue to do what we can do.

The life of faith is like this.  Some times, everything goes well.  Other times, the sewing machine explodes.  But we are in a group that can keep us going, keep us encouraged, help us solve the problems.

I concluded with what I think is the most important thing to remember:  when we feel abandoned by God or abandoned by our quilt group, we're not.  God is still there, although we may not be able to hear God.  Even someone like Mother Theresa has felt this way, as we discovered, when her letters were published after her death.  Some people thought her doubt diminished her, but I felt just the opposite, this relief that if even someone like Mother Theresa feels doubt, then I shouldn't feel alarm when I feel abandoned.

The trick is to keep going, keep working on our quilts, keep believing until the time when it isn't so hard to keep going.

As I delivered the homily, I noticed a few people wiping their eyes.  I noticed people smiling and nodding--happily, I didn't see any angry expressions.

I felt good about my homily, and I got good feedback, from people who appreciated the brevity to those who appreciated the message which gave them hope.  But most importantly, I feel that my homily spoke to those who were feeling loss and grief, emotions that are never very far away, especially for those of us who are on the older side of life.

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The readings for Sunday, November 16, 2025:

First Reading: Malachi 4:1-2a

First Reading (Semi-cont.): Isaiah 65:17-25

Psalm: Psalm 98

Psalm (Semi-cont.): Isaiah 12 (Isaiah 12:2-6 NRSV)

Second Reading: 2 Thessalonians 3:6-13

Gospel: Luke 21:5-19


This week's Gospel finds us back in the landscape of apocalypse, a landscape where we find ourselves periodically in our Bible readings.

In a way, these readings offer a kind of comfort. To be sure, it's a hard consolation, since these readings promise us that hard times are ahead. But surely we knew that.  If we've lived any amount of time at all, and we're the least bit observant, we see that hard times will always come on the heels of good times. We're currently in one of the longest economic expansions in our living memory, and yet a recession will surely come at some point.  And a long economic expansion isn't good news for the majority of citizens.  We see people engaged in all sorts of social justice struggles, some of which we're fighting all over again.  The cycle of history can feel like a torture wheel--but that's not a new feeling.

We read the words of Jesus, the words that warn we'll be hauled in front of harsh governments, and this indignity we'll suffer once we've lived through famine and pestilence and any other portent of doom. Our families will abandon us, and our friends will desert us. Many of us reading these words this Sunday may not perceive the threat. We're convinced we're safe, that we live under a Constitution that will protect us. But those of us who study the cycles of history know that we're very lucky and that we can't necessarily count on that. Millions of humans thought they were safe, only to find out that in short order, the hooligans were at the gate.

But Jesus offers us encouragement: "This will be a time for you to bear testimony. Settle it therefore in your minds, not to meditate beforehand how to answer; for I will give you a mouth and wisdom, which none of your adversaries will be able to withstand or contradict" (verses 13-15). Yes, we might lose our lives. But we will gain so much more.

In this time of gloomy news, it's important to take some deep breaths and remind ourselves of what's important. Our friends and families won't always be with us. We can appreciate them while they are. We may be facing trouble at work, but at least we're employed. Even if we're not employed, if we live in the U.S., we have a lot of advantages that we wouldn't have if we lived in, say North Korea or Russia.

A few years ago, my friend John told me about talking to an older black man who came into the state park where John was working. John asked how his Christmas had been. The man said, "Well, we had enough food and no one took sick. So, it was good." Now there's some life wisdom, especially as we turn our thoughts towards the upcoming holidays.

I've always loved Thanksgiving, for many reasons. There's not the pressure of gift giving. The holiday meal is hard to mess up, unless you forget to thaw the turkey. The holiday is rooted, at least in popular imagination, in the idea of colonists saved from the brink of destruction by natives who show them how to live in a new community. The cynical amongst us can deliver powerful counterarguments to my optimism, but for the rest of the month, we can tune them out.

As we get ready for this season, let us remember to be grateful. Let us remember to say thank you, especially to people who might not hear it very often. Let the prophecy of apocalypse from the gospel remind us of our ease of life now and remind us of those who are not so fortunate. Let us keep perspective and remember that we're called to a higher purpose.

Armistice Day with Monastic Poem

It has been many years since I was teaching the second half of British Literature in a Fall semester when Armistice Day/Veterans Day happens.  This year, I am.  We've already covered the material, although now we're discussing Mrs. Dalloway, a book which may be the first depiction of World War I caused PTSD in a novel.

I think it's hard for most of us to conceive of how many people died in World War I.  Even when I have my students imagine all of their male classmates going off to fight and no one coming back, I think it's hard to get our heads around the total.  I wish we could all go to the WWI cemeteries in France.  It's a visual that's tough to capture in a picture; it does make a very different impact.

Years ago, I was at Mepkin Abbey on Armistice Day.  It also happened to be near All Saints Sunday, the first All Saints Day after Abbot Francis Kline had been cruelly taken early by leukemia, and the Sunday we were there was the day of the memorial service for him. Part of one of the services was out in the monks' cemetery, and all the retreatants were invited out with the monks. I was struck by the way that the simple crosses reminded me of the French World War I cemeteries:

I took the above picture later from the visitor side of the grounds, but it gives you a sense of the burial area. I turned all these images in my head and wrote a poem, "Armistice Day at the Abbey."



 Armistice Day at the Abbey



The monks bury their dead on this slight
rise that overlooks the river
that flows to the Atlantic, that site
where Africans first set foot on slavery’s soil.

These monks are bound
to a different master, enslaved
in a different system.
They chant the same Psalms, the same tones
used for centuries. Modern minds scoff,
but the monks, yoked together
into a process both mystical and practical,
do as they’ve been commanded.

Their graves, as unadorned as their robes,
stretch out in rows of white crosses, reminiscent
of a distant French field. We might ponder
the futility of belief in a new covenant,
when all around us old enemies clash,
or we might show up for prayer, light
a candle, and simply submit.

Recording of Sermon for Sunday, November 9, 2025

Yesterday was a high-energy day at church.  We welcomed new members; actually, they were members here years ago and transferred to another Lutheran church across the state line, and now they've come back.  We went ahead and did the liturgy that my spouse created to welcome new members.  I think it's a good idea to have this recognition, which I'm hoping will keep people from drifting in and out and away.

We had donuts after worship.  We stopped at a Dunkin Donuts on the way to church, which is a very different experience than the donut stores of my youth:  no place to sit down, no display of donuts.  We ordered from a touch pad, and the very friendly teen worker brought them to us.

I'm not sure my sermon connected all the dots that I hoped to connect, but I do feel I made good points.  I posted the manuscript in this blog post, if you'd like to read it.  The recording of the sermon is on my YouTube page.

We came home, did some grocery shopping, and settled in for a cozy end to our Sunday, watching TV and me getting some additional stitching done, a lovely way to end a lovely Sunday.

Sermon for Sunday, November 9, 2025

November 9, 2025

By Kristin Berkey-Abbott



Luke 20:27-38



Finally, a Gospel that mentions the afterlife! Of course, it’s a bit late—All Saints Sunday was last week. But some of you might be saying, “Oh, good, at last we’ve got a chance to see what Jesus has to tell us about Heaven.”


Others of us might be back at that first sentence of the Gospel. Sadducees don’t believe in the Resurrection? No life after death? Are these the religious leaders who are in charge? And they don’t believe in a fundamental of the faith?


A brief historical note: Yes, they were in charge of much Temple practice, including the taking of the money and the paying of the taxes that Rome required. Yes, most members of priestly ruling class were Sadducees.


Do we know for sure what they believed? Is there a Book of the Sadducees? No.


But leaving that aside, the set up is even stranger than it seems at first. There’s the obvious question: if they don’t believe in the Resurrection, then why pose this question to Jesus, this question about who will be married to who in Heaven?

Here, too, we don’t really know. What we do know is that the Sadducees are working with others to test or trick Jesus. We’ve had story after story of people testing Jesus. More commonly, it’s Pharisees who offer Jesus a question that will damn him, no matter which way he answers. Now the Sadducees get their turn.


We could also criticize the Sadducees for asking a question that’s no longer important. Let’s make no mistake: the set up of the question, the childless widow who loses her husband and then has to marry brother after brother after brother in hopes of a child, this practice is Jewish law in the time of Moses. In the time of Jesus, people had rejected this ancient practice designed to protect inheritance and blood lines. Many of us think of Jesus as moving in cities that weren’t cosmopolitan. But even in the small fishing towns and outposts where Jesus traveled occasionally, the practice of widows marrying their brothers-in-law was not practiced, and frankly, would have been seen as a bit barbaric. Centuries of law and practice by conquering empires gave people a much more modern view of marriage, something closer to what we practice in the 21st century than in the time of Moses.


So why ask this question?


I take a kinder approach to the motives of the questioner, whether it be Roman, or Pharisee, or Sadducee. I think that Jesus truly baffles people, then and now. People pose questions hoping that they can figure out who Jesus is by the response that he gives. The questions might tell us more about the questioner than the answers tell us about Jesus.


As is so often the case, Jesus gives a response that could leave the questioner even more confused. In Jesus’ answer to the Sadducees, we see a familiar dynamic. Jesus knows that the Sadducees don’t really care about the answer to the question that they’ve asked. The Sadducees don’t believe that there is life after death. For the Sadducees, the answer to their riddle wouldn’t be a mystery: the woman and all the brothers would be dead, and there would be no reunion in the Resurrection. Why do they bother Jesus with this question?


Perhaps Jesus wonders the same thing, but as all good teachers do, he uses this moment as a wider teaching opportunity. As he so often does, Jesus answers the question that he wishes people might ask. He reminds the audience—and us—that so many of us ask the wrong question.




There’s another nuance to today’s Gospel that may be lost to us across the centuries. The Sadducees are no longer in power by the time the Gospel of Luke was written. No one is in power in terms of the Temple because there is no Temple. The Romans have crushed Jewish uprisings in the decade of the 70’s and destroyed the Temple, which they saw as the place that nurtured anti-Roman radicals. Here, as in other parts of Luke, we can almost hear the Gospel writer saying, “You’re arguing about trivial matters while the forces of the Roman empire are about to crush you. WAKE UP!”




It's tempting to feel we’re better than those ancient cultures, the ones who didn’t recognize the Messiah, even when he lived among them. But here, too, we find out that we have more in common with the Sadducees than we first suspected. We, too, are much more interested in questions that are rooted in a culture of death than in the new kingdom of life that Jesus calls us to live.


We, too, live in a culture of death. A quick look at the television, even when it’s not campaign season, reminds us that we are so often asking the wrong questions, thinking about riddles that don’t matter. We see it in our politics, we see it in our schools, we see it in our grocery stores. We even see it in churches where we might expect a community to be wrestling with the essential questions of life. Instead so many congregations spend time wrangling over issues of morality that will seem incomprehensible to future generations. We could spend some time thinking about which riddles of our day will seem like the question of widows marrying their brothers-in-law in centuries to come.


Jesus spends much of his ministry declaring that God has created humanity to be so much more than our culture expects us to be. Jesus sees us, names us, claims us-- as God has done for the earliest patriarchs, through the time of the Sadducees, right on through to our time. We are children of the resurrection. Resurrection culture is the one that matters.


It's a question worth asking then, and it’s a question worth asking now. What dead issues consume us? What cultures of death keep us distracted from the work Jesus calls us to do?


God invites us to move away from the culture of death in which we find ourselves, whether that’s the culture of death that is legalistic posturings and entrapment or the culture of death that is shaming and casting out those who are different or the culture of death that comes from endless worry, worry rooted our scarcity consciousness that tells us we can never have enough or do enough.


In today’s Gospel, Jesus asks this question: what gives us life and what keeps us connected to death? He asks it in a round about way, but that’s the question at the heart of today’s Gospel. In this time of creation getting ready for the season of hibernation, let us reflect on it again. What do we need to let go of, to let die? What is giving us life? What lies dormant, waiting for the Spring season of our time and attention? Let us resolve to ignore the forces that want to keep us buried in the grave. Let us commit ourselves to our Triune God, who has the power to transform life out of all the powers of death.

Quilt Camp Begins

 I am glad I was able to be here yesterday to help with set up for Quilt Camp.  We don't have to do the heavy lifting work, the getting the 90 tables in place in the Faith Center at Lutheridge.  But we did need to do the other work:  deciding where the cutting tables and ironing boards will be, putting plastic tablecloths on the tables in the worst condition, going out to get more plastic tablecloths, running extension cords from plugs to tables, and those kinds of things.

We also had to do the work that seems trivial but takes time:  putting nametags into plastic holders, putting those plastic holders on the table so that retreat members could find them easily, lots and lots of organizing of supplies.

By the time that everyone arrived and settled in, I was tired.  But it was a pleasant tired, a far cry from the tired that I feel after driving in from a distance for a retreat.  I got some sewing done, and today I hope to make serious progress on my big project:  a new quilt top for the quilt that we sleep under.  The quilt top is created.  I'll attach it to the old quilt and put on a new binding.  The quilt back is still in good shape.

It may seem like a strange approach, adding a new quilt top to an old quilt.  But in fact, it's a very old approach:  quilters in past centuries didn't have access to supplies that we do, so they used old quilts as the layer of batting in new quilts.

I also plan to make progress on my other big project, the log cabin quilt, the one I thought I might be able to finish back in March.  But when I stretched it on the bed, I realized I needed a few more rows.  I've been making log cabin patches, so we shall see.

We're having glorious weather, which is a gift.  I am leading a walk each day at 3, and if the weather this week was the rainy, cold weather of last week, we'd ditch those plans.  At Quilt Camp, we spend much of the day and night in a chair, and I spend it hunched over, which is my posture any time I'm in a chair. 

I am surprised to realize I took no pictures yesterday.   Happily there is still time.

Gratitude Before the Start of Quilt Camp

Quilt Camp starts today.  This time, unlike last Quilt Camps, I'm part of the leadership team.  I will help with set up today, I will deliver the very short sermon for Saturday closing worship, and beyond that, I'm not sure what being on the Quilt Camp leadership team means.

In the early days of summer, when I thought about Fall Quilt Camp, I thought I would head to Spartanburg today, do my teacher duties, and then arrive for Quilt Camp.  But as the semester has gone on, I've changed my mind.  My students can use today to get caught up, and I'd like to be a bit less tired when Quilt Camp starts.

I am so grateful to be working at a place where I have this kind of flexibility.  I am so grateful to be at a place where when I say, "I'll be leading a quilt retreat this week," and no one says, "What does that have to do with you as a teacher?  No, you can't be off campus this week."  I'm thinking of past bosses who made their disapproval known, even as I was using my personal vacation time to be away.

Make no mistake:  I do get teaching inspiration from retreats.  It may be a different kind of inspiration than I would get at a literary conference, but I am a different teacher, a better teacher, because I go on these retreats.

I am also grateful that I live closer to camp.  When I first heard about Quilt Camp at Lutheridge, back in 2018 or 2019, I lived in South Florida, a twelve hour drive if all the traffic went smoothly.   I was torn--on the one hand, it was a longer retreat, so the drive would be worth it; in those days, I never would have made the drive for a retreat that started Friday night and ended Sunday morning, as so many retreats did then.  But on the other hand, it was such a long drive.

Because I live here now, I have the best of several worlds.  I don't have a long drive.  I get to sleep in my own bed.  I don't feel like I'm abandoning my spouse or my other duties at home.  Of course, that benefit has a shadow side--it's also hard for me to completely disconnect on retreat.  But that was true of past retreats too.  My brain is always working at various levels, and it's hard for me to focus on just one.

This morning I realized another value to coming to Quilt Camp from my house that's less than a mile away.  I feel less pull to do the other area attractions:  apple orchards, fabric stores, and Appalachian arts and crafts.  At least my active brain will calm down around the other wonderful outings that I would want to be taking, if I didn't already live here.

On this morning of the day when Quilt Camp begins, I am most grateful to be feeling like my life is in better alignment than it was back in 2018/2019 when I thought about the possibility of coming to Quilt Camp and decided I couldn't make it work.

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

 The readings for Sunday, November 9, 2025:

First Reading: Job 19:23-27a

First Reading (Semi-cont.): Haggai 1:15b--2:9

Psalm: Psalm 17:1-9

Psalm (Semi-cont.): Psalm 145:1-5, 18-22

Psalm (Alt.): Psalm 98 (semi-continuous) (Psalm 98 (Semi-continuous) NRSV)

Second Reading: 2 Thessalonians 2:1-5, 13-17

Gospel: Luke 20:27-38


This week's Gospel reading finds Jesus in a familiar situation: a group of religious leaders approach Jesus with a tricky legal question about a woman who marries seven times with no children. When she dies, who will be her husband in heaven?

It's amazing to look back over our lives and realize how many times we engage in these kind of useless legalistic arguments. Sure, they're fun at first, especially when we're children (if you had to be blind or deaf, which would you choose?) or when we're in college ("Would you rather be a free man in Sparta or a slave in Athens? Discuss"). But as we get older, I suspect that most of us find these lines of discussion increasingly tiring and tiresome.

For one thing, we already know what most people would say. Why continue to argue? I’ve noticed lately that political discussions usually turn into arguments, even when all the people in the room feel the same way. We’re actually arguing with people who aren’t really there. We already know what we think. We’re just arguing for the adrenaline surge, the joy of the jolt of self-righteous anger that arguing gives us. Yawn.

Likewise, those religious leaders don’t really care what Jesus thinks. They aren’t confused themselves. They know what the right answer should be. They want to see if Jesus will give it.

Jesus gives his questioners a giant yawn too, and he reminds us that we are chosen for better things than this. Perhaps his remarks seem anti-marriage to you, and it's important to remember that you have to edit Jesus fiercely before you get the Family Values Jesus that some people promote. Many of Jesus’ teachings warn about the pull of the worldly life, and families are a big pull.

Jesus comes to move our conversations into realms that are truly important. Who cares about marriage and all its social niceties, when our very souls are at stake? Again and again, Jesus reminds us that important work remains left to do, and we are called upon to do it. Along the way, we should avoid those activities that sap our energies and move us away from our true purpose. Those activities may involve our families.

Does that mean we shouldn't get married? Not necessarily. But even our family duties don’t excuse us from keeping our focus on more important issues. We’re not to worry about who our families will be when we’re in Heaven. We’re to worry about families that are alive right now.

Again and again, Jesus tries to show us what is most important. We are called to love each other. Most of us aren't very loving when we're arguing. Move your energies to something more productive. It was true when Jesus walked the earth, and it’s just as true today.

A Wonderful All Saints Sunday

 We had a great All Saints Sunday.  Much as people complain about the time change, every autumn when we turn the clocks back, I have a night of wonderful sleep.  This year was no exception.  Because of the time change, we were both up early, and we headed over the mountains to Bristol early.

It was wonderful to travel in the daylight, to see the trees in their full and fading autumnal glory.  This year, various trees are on their own schedule.  Some are still green.  Some have lost all their leaves.  There's every variety of in between.  It's not as full and blazingly beautiful as two or three years ago, but it's been a treat, especially considering last year.

I was glad for the extra time, because we had a lot to unload.  I knew that the confirmation class, and perhaps all the youth who arrived for Sunday school, would set up the space I envisioned for people to put photos and other mementos of loved ones who had died.  I brought all the supplies:  fabrics, fairy lights, candles (both traditional and electronic), candle holders, 2 yellow mums, and a small table.  I gathered 2 additional small tables from the sacristy.

The youth did a great job of working together to create the space.  They are two pairs of siblings, and the siblings are cousins, so we had a head start in working together.  They seem like the kind of cousins who are more like siblings, siblings who like each other and have fun together.  I was so impressed with what they created:

The congregation came through too--we had plenty of pictures, so many that we added two additional flat spaces (flipped boxes with white tablecloths to hide their identity).  

After church, we spent some time in the front, hearing stories of the loved ones whose pictures had graced our worship space.  I had made extra bread, and people ate bread or took some home.  It was delightful, a way of having a picnic with the ancestors.

My sermon went well, which is always a treat for me.  What I mean by well is not that everyone loved it, but that I felt good about my delivery (not too much reading, not getting tongue twisted).  If you want to view the recording, it's here on my YouTube channel.  If you want to read a version, head to this post on my theology blog.

We came home and relaxed, as we always do.  Sunday afternoons come after very full mornings, so we're not going to be doing much of substance.  We watched a great PBS show about a man who was taking a last trip on a buckboard wagon pulled by his 36 year old mule on their last trip in Hyde county, NC.  It was oddly compelling.  I did a bit of sewing on my quilt top and headed to bed.

Today I have two days of work, and the rest of the week is spent at Quilt Camp, just up the hill at Lutheridge.  I'll sleep in my house and spend the rest of my time at Quilt Camp.  I'm hoping to make progress on a variety of projects.

It sounds heavenly, and it will be, but first I have to do the prep work so that I can be gone from my full-time teaching job.  I am probably further along on that project than I think, but I feel a bit of anxiety.  At the same time, I'm sure it will all be fine.  It's nice to be at a school where I can rest easy in the knowledge that it will all be fine, even as I'm feeling a bit of anxiety.

Sermon for All Saints Sunday, November 2, 2025

November 2, 2025, All Saints Sunday

By Kristin Berkey-Abbott




Luke 6:20-31



What a strange Gospel reading to have chosen for All Saints Sunday. There’s no mention of the afterlife at all. There’s no mention of the saints that have come before us, at least not in the Gospel reading. We might wish we had a different Gospel reading.


It’s a strange time to be preaching a sermon for All Saints Sunday. In the weeks leading up to this day, politicians have declared their willingness to let SNAP benefits expire on their watch. Let’s be clear—the SNAP program gives food to poor people, and after the various welfare reforms of the past decades, it’s only the poorest of the poor who get this free food. In Bristol, you’re eligible for these benefits if you earn less than $21,150 dollars a year for a two person household; roughly 14% of the population of Bristol is eligible. Nationwide, 1 out of every 8 Americans gets SNAP benefits—that’s 42 million people, many of them children, the elderly, and the disabled. A government report “in 2020 found that about 70 percent of adult wage earners in the program worked full-time hours, most commonly in education and health services, hospitality and retail” (from this article in The New York Times: https://www.nytimes.com/2025/10/31/upshot/snap-food-shutdown-trump.html) . They worked full-time hours, but still didn’t earn enough money to make them ineligible for SNAP benefits.


Once upon a time, politicians wouldn’t want to be seen as denying food to the poor. Those times are not these times.

And suddenly, just like that, the Gospel speaks to us across two thousand years:

“But woe to you who are rich,
  for you have received your consolation.
 25 “Woe to you who are full now,
  for you will be hungry.”



In the time of Jesus, religious authorities studied their texts and came up with the arithmetically correct way of making sure that widows and children got enough to eat. The politicians in charge, the Romans, studied the situation and figured out ways to squeeze even more money out of the people they conquered, which led to more hungry people who had been robbed of their land and resources.

Jesus comes along and reminds us of God’s arithmetic. But he does more than scold us. Jesus shows us the way that God wants us to behave. Jesus feeds people. He calls on us to do the same. As we know, Jesus also calls on us to do more. It’s not enough to feed the hungry. We need to change the systems that keep people hungry. Sadly, many systems are now colliding in ways that make people worse off, not better.


In terms of this current SNAP issue, make no mistake—the money is there. There have been several federal judges who have ordered the funds released, and some states are looking for ways to fill the gap, so hopefully, this crisis might have a temporary fix this week, although the fix won’t be uniform. The governor of Tennessee has said that he will not take steps to address the SNAP issue, for example. Sadly, I have no doubt that this crisis won’t be the last one. We have seen this story play out over and over again, across the decades, across the millenia, regardless of who is in charge.

Throughout the Bible, we see the same dynamic at work across the centuries: people who are in charge, people who have resources to distribute, and people who do not do the task. Today’s Gospel tells us what God thinks about it all. Jesus says, “Woe to those who behave badly” . . . and leaves us to decide whose side we are on.


Today’s Gospel gives us a clear choice. As he always does, Jesus calls us to be our better selves. He tells us—and spends his whole life showing us—how to behave to help bring the Kingdom of God into being. It’s all there, summed up in those 2 last verses: “Give to everyone who asks of you, and if anyone takes away what is yours, do not ask for it back again. 31 Do to others as you would have them do to you.”


It’s not unfamiliar to us, is it? And let’s be honest—it’s not unique to Christianity. All major religions and many branches of Philosophy give us this type of golden rule. And the good news is that I have seen our community in action. We have given to all sorts of people in need in our community and beyond. We cook for our community and give the proceeds to the ministries that feed the poor. We create shoeboxes full of resources that will be shipped across the planet. We pray for those who are suffering. We visit the sick and send cards.


And we are surrounded by reminders of our ancestors who have done the same. Some of you know that my grandfather’s first call was to this very area in East Tennessee. He served five parishes, and two of them eventually merged to become Faith Evangelical Lutheran church. And the name Crumley is familiar outside of this area—Steven Crumley and I have a great uncle named Jim Crumley, who lived down the road from here. He was nourished in this faith community, and went on to be one of the nationwide bishops who would create the ELCA out of the earlier incarnations of the Lutheran faith in the U.S.


There are physical reminders of those ancestors all around us, from the plaque on the wall by the door, to the engraving around the offering plate. And of course, this very building and the land around the building—these are the biggest physical reminders of those past saints who invested in this congregation.


The writer of the letter of Ephesians reminds us that we have a physical inheritance, like this building, and a spiritual inheritance. The writer of Ephesians encourages us always to be looking for ways to nurture that inheritance, so that the ones coming along after us will be nourished. My hope, of course, is that future generations will give thanks to us the way that I am giving thanks for our spiritual ancestors today.


But here is the challenge of All Saints Sunday, and every day. It’s not enough to celebrate and give thanks. We must build on what we have been given. We must look for ways to use our inheritance for those who have not been born into circumstances as fortunate. We need to be bold in proclaiming that taking food from almost 4,000 people in Bristol alone is not acceptable.


Sadly, the challenge goes far beyond food insecurity or lack of affordable housing or the mess that is our healthcare system or any other area we might wish our leaders would solve. We need to be bold in our vision of a world committed to justice, not just for those who can afford it, but justice for ALL. And by now, hopefully you know that when I talk about justice, I’m not talking about our justice system that decides who broke the law and how they should be punished. I’m talking about a vision of justice that demands that people should not have to decide whether they can afford food or medicine or decent housing. People shouldn’t have to decide that they’ll cut back on food to be able to afford their medication—and it happens far too often.


We live in a time of a loss of belief in the greater good. Even if we believe in the greater good, many of us feel powerless to move in that direction. In so many ways, this situation is the existential crisis of our time. Our nation is beset by many perils, but this loss of care about those beyond ourselves may be the one most likely to destroy us, both individually and collectively.

Our world needs more than a charitable handout, although a week like this past one reminds us that so many still need that basic protection. However, charity is not enough, because the events of the past week remind us that we can’t count on charity to be there for us. We need a world built on the justice that prophets like Daniel demanded, that the Psalmist sang the hope of, that the arrival of Jesus ushered in.

Our spiritual inheritance has equipped us for such a time as this. We can join forces with others in the community, as our ancestors did before us, to create the world we want to live in. Let us join with all the saints to do unto others as we would have them do to us. Let us go beyond the borders of our families, the borders of this church wall. Let us transform the world in the way that Jesus and the prophets before him implored the people to do.

As we do the work of transforming the world, we must continue to dream of a day where we will sing for joy in our beds, as the Psalmist says, remembering the steps we took to build a world where people do not go hungry, where people do not have to make painful choices. That’s a spiritual inheritance that will make those who come after us sing for joy. When they put our names on plaques that will hang on the church wall of the future, let it be for the work that we did to make sure that oppressive systems have been bound so that they can no longer inflict suffering on the people. When they put our pictures on tables of the dear and departed, let them say a prayer of thanks for the work we did to make the world a place of justice for all.

The Feast of All Saints

Many (most?) of us celebrate Halloween and move on.  Maybe we celebrate the whole day of October 31.  Maybe we only do something special in the evening.  Maybe we turn off the porch light because we already ate all the candy and watch old Halloween episodes of old shows on TV.

Those of us who are more liturgical might recognize that All Saints Sunday comes around every year. Maybe we look forward to it. Maybe we shrug and say, "Well, great, a day to miss and appreciate our loved ones."

Many of us don't realize how the days of Halloween (Oct. 31), All Saints (Nov. 1), and All Souls (Nov. 2) have been linked traditionally.  Perhaps it's my training as an English major, but I hate that modern traditions minimize the medieval aspects.

Medieval people would have seen this three days as one of those "thin places," the time when the separation between worlds was much thinner. It's a belief rooted in pagan times, about parts of the seasonal year when souls from the other world might slip back. In a world lit only by fires, one can see where it would be easy to be spooked this way.

In our fear of any beliefs that don't mirror our own, many churches have banned the Halloween aspect of this three days. And we've sanitized the other two days.

In this blog post, the Rev. Laurie Brock reminds us of the roots of the All Saints feast day: "Lest we think All Saints is only a lovely, elegant holy day where we pray the litany of saints and sing the song of the saints of God, we are remembering people who were martyred (church lingo for dying an often painful and unpleasant death). Early commemorations of this day involved venerating relics of the dead. So imagine going to church and praying with a mummified foot or remnants of a skull of a saint on the altar. Or going to church and praying the names of ones who had been martyred who were members of your family or close friends. So while it is a day of prayerful hope, sadness and tears weave the hope together."

And in more ancient times, the Feast of All Souls is the day after the Feast of All Saints. All Souls is the feast where we remember the ones who have died in the past year. Even our most liturgical churches have lost the idea that we're observing two very different kinds of celebrations.

Don't get me wrong, I'm happy to live in modern times, not medieval ones. But I do envy other cultures who have much more vibrant grieving customs. Our culture seems to expect us to grieve for 3-5 days, if we get bereavement leave at all, and then it's back to work.

Let us spend some time today thinking about those who have gone before, whether we knew them personally or knew them from a larger cultural sense.  Let us think about the ones who have modeled good (saintly) behavior.  Let us think about the world we are creating for those who will come after us and remember us on these feast days.

Here's a prayer I wrote for today:

Comforter God, we give thanks for all the saints who have gone before us. Give us the wisdom, courage, and faith to follow in their footsteps. And when the time comes that our earthly light will be extinguished, allow us to rest easy in the sure knowledge that we will be welcomed into the company of all the saints.