Pioneer Scholars and a Hope for the Future

Yesterday was Pioneer Scholars Day at Spartanburg Methodist College, our first ever.  Last year, we had a smaller, precursor event, where students had time to present posters they had created for a class project.  For those of you who go to academic conferences, you're probably familiar with posters as a way to present research.  If the idea of a poster is unfamiliar, think of the posters you might have made for school projects, but more sophisticated in appearance (i.e. not made with markers and glue) with proper citations of research.

The presentation of posters was still a big part of Pioneer Scholars Day.  In addition, in the morning, we had panel presentations, and an art display.  I was judge for the art display.  During the other morning  events, I heard a panel of papers written for History classes and later in the morning, students presenting their musical compositions on a iPad app.

In the afternoon, graduating seniors presented their capstone projects, a wide variety of work.  The day culminated in a late afternoon celebration of graduates, with happy hour type food.

I signed up for the morning shift, so I didn't stay for the afternoon events.  I was very glad to have a chance to be part of the morning shift.   It was so wonderful to see students presenting their work in a variety of ways--and wonderful to see the variety of work.

Although I went to Newberry College, a small, liberal arts college, I have spent most of my teaching life in other types of schools.  I've found kindred spirits there, particularly in schools that had an English major.  It's refreshing to be teaching in a school where the value of having a diverse education, of becoming a well-rounded human, is a value we all support.  

A few weeks ago, as I was walking to my car, I saw this tire cover on a jeep, with a reference to Thoreau:

Not for the first time, I reflected on how lucky I am to be here, at this point in my life.  Teaching these students, most of them no older than 21, makes me feel hopeful for the future--these students will be able to figure it out, no matter what the future holds for them.

 

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The readings for Sunday, April 19, 2026:

First Reading: Acts 2:14a, 36-41

Psalm: Psalm 116:1-3, 10-17 (Psalm 116:1-4, 12-19 NRSV)

Second Reading: 1 Peter 1:17-23

Gospel: Luke 24:13-35

Today we read of the sojourners on their way to Emmaus. This story gives us an important window into the lives we are to have as Christians, particularly when it comes to the sharing of a meal, and our basic obligations when it comes to hospitality.

That hospitality is the often overlooked side of the Emmaus story. The travelers have walked seven miles together.  For those of you who are wondering, that might take the modern walker, walking at a fast clip, a bit over two hours; in Biblical times, with unpaved roads with poorly shod feet, I'm estimating it would take half a day. When they get back to their house, they don't say to Jesus, "Well, good luck on your journey."

No--they invite him inside. What remarkable hospitality. They share what they have. They don't say, "Well, I can't let you see my house in its current state--let's go out to dinner." No, they notice that the day is nearly done, and they invite a stranger in to stay the night.  They don't direct the stranger to the nearest inn.

Those of you who have read your Bible will recognize a motif. God often appears as a stranger, and good things come to those who invite a stranger in. For those of you who protest that modern life is so much more dangerous than in Biblical times, and so it was safer for people like Abraham and the Emmaus couple to invite the stranger to stay, I'd have to disagree.

Without that hospitality, those strangers never would have known their fellow traveler. We are called to model the same behavior.

One thing we can do in our individual lives is to adopt a Eucharistic mindset. Never has this been more vital. Most people have ceased cooking for themselves, and many Americans are eating at least one meal a day while they drive.

Rebel against this trait. Look for ways to make meals special. Cook for yourself. Invite your friends and loved ones to dinner. Occasionally, invite someone to join your group that is outside of your regular friendship circle--the new person at church/book club/work.  Each week, go to a different bakery and buy yourself some wonderful bread. Open a bottle of wine and savor a glass.

If we can't be together in person, we can do this virtually.  One of the good realizations to come out of the pandemic is that hospitality can be shared from a distance.  It's easier for many of us to have a video call than a phone call, and many of us have the technology to do this now, with our computers and smart phones.  Technology can be distancing, but it can also connect us.

Jesus calls us to a Eucharistic life, which requires a major readjustment of our mindset around the issues of food, drink, time, and hospitality. Consider the Capitalist/Consumerist model that our culture offers us, and the invitation from Jesus looks even more attractive.

So, before the day gets later, go and buy some bread. Think about the many ways that bread (and other grains) sustain most of us throughout the world. Drink some wine and think about the miracle of fermentation; ponder the reality that in many parts of the world, people drink fermented beverages because the water supply is tainted, but fermentation provides some protection.

You are the leaven in the loaf, the yeast that turns grape juice into the miracle of wine--how can you make that manifest in the world today?

Week-end Recap and a Look ahead at the Coming Week

It has been a good week-end; I haven't meant not to blog this week-end.  My basal cell skin cancer removal on late Friday afternoon went well.  In fact, it was the easiest skin cancer removal yet.  Is it because it was on my back, so I couldn't see what was happening?

Whatever the reason, I'm always grateful for easy medical operations.  

We had a week-end similar to so many, filled with cooking, baking, running errands, looking at mindless TV and mindful internet wandering, both together and apart.

In some ways, my Sunday was easier than most Sundays.  We had a group of seminarians and college students staying at the church.   They were in town for the race, and they slept and had meals at the church, which they've done every time they're in town. The seminarian preached 2 great sermons, both the youth sermon and the other one, and he and 2 friends assisted with communion. Their enthusiasm for life in all its facets made me feel like maybe civilization has a chance after all.

I didn't have to craft a sermon for yesterday, but I still spent time writing a sermon--I won't be with my congregation this coming Sunday, so I'll need to have a sermon to them.  I had hoped to have it ready to leave at the church yesterday, but it was not to be.  I got a draft done, but it was still in rough shape yesterday.

This morning, I've done some revising, and I'm happy that it's stronger now.  I'll put it aside, do one or two more revisions and call it done.

This week will be one of schedule disruptions.  Tomorrow, all classes are cancelled so that we can all participate in Pioneer Scholars day, where we'll have presentations of all sorts.  Faculty are required to be on hand for a variety of support.  I am judging a fine arts competition.

At the end of the week, I will be up the hill at Lutheridge, for my beloved Create in Me retreat.  I haven't really thought about the retreat too much at this point--I'm not that kind of member of the planning team.  I am somewhat surprised to find myself here, speeding to the end of the semester. 

Prayers and Poems for the Artemis Mission

Like many others, I get the occasional e-mail that tells me that the sender can help me find new readers for my brilliant books, millions and millions of readers.  Yesterday I got a different e-mail, an old-fashioned fan letter of sorts.  

The e-mail writer told me that she had selected my poem for a specific reason:  "This is to let you know that as a member of a Lectio Poetry group that met this morning, I chose your poem 'The Moon Remembers' for our session. Because of the recent NASA mission to send humans farther into space than ever before, and to study the dark side of the moon, I felt fortunate to find your poem to share."

The e-mail concluded this way, "In this world of chaos, 'The Moon Remembers' gave us an hour of peace, of joy, of hope."

Wow--what writer could hope for more than that?  I mean that sincerely.  It is one of the reasons I write, in the hopes of bringing something positive to people.

I don't get many fan letters anymore, and the ones that I get are usually about "Heaven on Earth," perhaps my most famous poem, read on Garrison Keillor's The Writer's Almanac.  Yesterday's e-mail referenced "The Moon Remembers."  It's a poem I barely remember writing, and at first, I wondered if she was writing to the wrong poet.

Happily, my blog answers many a question for me.  I posted it in this blog post, and I'm guessing that's how the group leader found my poem.  Even though it's not one of the poems I remember, I'm still happy with it.

Let me post it here again, as I also say a prayer for the Artemis Mission which returns home Friday:

The Moon Remembers

                “I sing and the moon shudders"
                            Li Po, “Drinking Alone by Moonlight”



The moon does not approve of elementary choir
masters who stop the rehearsal, make each quivering
child sing a solo to find the one
who is off key. The helpless moon, marooned
so far away, wishes she could offer sanctuary.

The moon knows what the choir master forgets.

The moon doesn’t understand scales or the division
of voices into the caste systems of chorus:
superior sopranos, dowdy altos, basses as the bubble
of depth holding us up, the star tenor.

The moon remembers what the choir master forgets.

The moon sees our best selves as we sing:
the lonely driver late at night, singing to stay awake,
the melancholy mother, humming Christmas carols
to cheer the babies, the desperate lover
serenading the empty window.

The moon remembers what we all forget.

The moon knows that if we believed in our songs,
strengthened our fragile voices, and sang
as if we meant it, then galaxies would blow
to bits as the universe expands.

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

  The readings for Sunday, April 12, 2026:

First Reading: Acts 4:32-35

Psalm: Psalm 133

Second Reading: 1 John 1:1--2:2

Gospel: John 20:19-31

This week's Gospel returns us to the familiar story of Thomas, who will always be known as Doubting Thomas, no matter what else he did or accomplished.  What I love about the Gospels most is that we get to see humans interacting with the Divine, in all of our human weaknesses. Particularly in the last few weeks, we've seen humans betray and deny and doubt--but God can work with us.

If you were choosing a group of people most unlikely to start and spread a lasting worldwide movement, it might be these disciples. They have very little in the way of prestige, connections, wealth, networking skills, marketing smarts, or anything else you might look for if you were calling modern disciples. And yet, Jesus transformed them.

Perhaps it should not surprise us. The Old Testament, too, is full of stories of lackluster humans unlikely to succeed: mumblers and cheats, bumblers and the unwise. God can use anyone, even murderers.

How does this happen? The story of Thomas gives us a vivid metaphor. When we thrust our hands into the wounds of Jesus, we're transformed. Perhaps that metaphor is too gory for your tastes, and yet, it speaks to the truth of our God. We have a God who wants to know us in all our gooey messiness. We have a God who knows all our strengths and all our weaknesses, and still, this God desires closeness with us. And what's more, this God invites us to a similar intimacy. Jesus doesn't say, "Here I am, look at me and believe." No, Jesus offers his wounds and invites Thomas to touch him.

Jesus will spend the next several weeks eating with the disciples, breathing on them, and being with them physically one last time. Then he sends them out to transform the wounded world.

We, too, are called to lay our holy hands on the wounds of the world and to heal those wounds. It's not enough to just declare the Good News of Easter. We are called to participate in the ongoing redemption of creation. We know creation intimately, and we know which wounds we are most capable of healing. Some of us will work on environmental issues, some of us will make sure that the poor are fed and clothed, some of us will work with criminals and the unjustly accused, and more of us will help children.

In the coming weeks, be alert to the recurring theme of the breath of Jesus and the breath of God.  May we be open to the transforming power of God's breath, breathing on us all, through time and across time.

Easter Sunday Recap and Recording of the Sermon

It was a good Easter Sunday at Faith Lutheran in Bristol, TN.  It's a small, country church, so we don't have what suburban or city churches experience, those folks who show up only for Christmas Eve and Easter.  We are more likely to have brand new visitors on Christmas Eve, not Easter, and even then, it's only one or two.

The church felt full, though, in a similar way yesterday.  It's one of the few days when all members are likely to come, along with some friends and family members tagging along.  In addition, the folks who aren't members but come here and there--they were there too.  It was joyful and a bit noisy.  It was also raining outside, so we don't have as many pictures at the chicken-wire cross covered with flowers; some folks did put flowers on the cross, despite the rain.

My sermon stopped recording part-way through.  I decided to have our tech expert post what she captured, and when I got home, I recorded the rest.  The first part of the sermon is here, and the second part is here.  If you'd like to read along, I put the sermon manuscript in this blog post.

We got home and drifted around the house, collapsing into bed around 6:30.  I woke up a bit later and thought, we are missing a glorious sunset, before falling back to sleep again.  

Sermon for Easter Sunday, April 5, 2026

April 5, 2026, Easter
By Kristin Berkey-Abbott



Matthew 28:1-10



We’ve spent our week together thinking about crowds. Last week, on Palm Sunday, I talked about the different kinds of Palm Sunday crowds, those who were there to see Jesus, those who hoped that the Messiah would arrive (and some of those hoped that the Messiah would turn out to be Jesus), the religious authorities, those who were there for the highest of the Jewish Holy Days, the Roman authorities looking to keep the peace, and others who might be there for darker reasons, looking to take advantage of travelers or making trouble in other ways. Last Sunday, I talked about the Good Friday crowds, and on Maundy Thursday, we focused on a smaller crowd, the disciples gathered with Jesus to celebrate the Passover meal that celebrates liberation from oppressors.


We don’t see those crowds in today’s reading, but we do see a type of crowd who has always been there. In today’s reading, we see the group of women, many of whom have been kept at a distance, and finally, they have a chance to take center stage. But it’s not so much that they arrive—no, the women have always been there. Even at the lowest point, as Jesus hangs on a cross and wonders why God has abandoned him, the women are there, without the disciples, watching from a distance.


The disciples have fled, and the other crowds have dispersed. But the women remain, there to do the tasks that must be done. The women return to the tomb, and unlike other Gospels, we’re not told why. Maybe they come as part of the grieving ritual. Maybe, as in other Gospels, they bring spices.


We know it’s been three days, and they return to the tomb. They come alone, with no male protection, no male companions, no disciples to take charge. They know where to seek for Jesus because they were there when Joseph of Arimathea laid him in the tomb. They are back three days later.


The women are there for the earthquake. In the Gospels of Matthew and Mark, geological events like earthquakes are used to signify the arrival of the Divine. The women, the ones who have been kept in the crowds that are more distant from Jesus, the women are there for the arrival of the angel. The forces of empire, the ones who have put Jesus to death, they shake in fear and become like dead men. The guards faint—the Roman guards, the fiercest fighting force, frozen in time, like a deer in headlights, holding their breath, hearts racing, immobile limbs, paralyzed with fear. The women stay alert.


We have an angel in the Gospel of Matthew, which is unusual. The Gospel of Luke is the Gospel most associated with angel messengers. In the Gospel of Matthew God more often speaks in dreams and premonitions. But at the end of Matthew, the women who have stayed faithful and not fled in the face of the unjust killing by Roman and Jewish leaders of the empire, they are the ones with a Divine message to deliver: Jesus will meet the disciples back home in Galilee, full circle, just as Jesus has already told them he would.


And even better, the women are the first to see the risen Christ. Jesus has a message for them, and for the disciples, and for all the men and women who have been following and presumably fallen away. Leave Jerusalem, the capital city, a seat of earthly power and claims of Divine power, Jerusalem, the place of death and destruction. Walk away from the tombs and all the ways that death hold us.


The guards have fainted, and the disciples are faint-hearted. In our Easter text, it is the smaller crowd, the ones who have been most faithful, who get to experience resurrection up close and become the first evangelists to tell of the risen Lord. It is this smaller crowd who has been most faithful, the women named Mary and all the other women who are the first to understand the mission of Jesus and to get to work. Their stories are there in the Gospels, there in the background, if we go back to read with fresh eyes.


Each Spring, we hear this story, one where God intervenes in human history, with an earthquake at the death of Jesus, and an earthquake before the stone is rolled away. For most Christian theologians, this story is the one that marks the passage from the former present age, one of evil, sin, and death, to the New Creation, the one that is ready to welcome the Holy Spirit at Pentecost, the one with believers ready to go out and conquer the forces of Rome and all the empires to come, as we become those who bring the good news of God’s Kingdom on earth. Jesus has been raised from the dead, but something different is happening now. Resurrection is not a return to old life, but something bold and new.


And yet. And yet. Here we are, two thousand years later, far removed from those events, still trying to understand what we have witnessed. We might feel ourselves as part of some crowd, lingering in the background, trying to understand. We are still here, in the in between space, the now and the not yet. The Kingdom of God is here, Jesus proclaims, but not fully complete yet. For some of us, as we hear the stories each year, as we move through lectionary cycles, we may feel the borders blurring. Maybe we’re still in an Ash Wednesday space, feeling more bleakly than ever the truth of the message that we are dust, and to dust we shall return. Maybe we understand the cry of Jesus up there on the cross, as we wonder if God has forsaken us. Maybe we find our thoughts returning to Lazarus, dead for four days and then yanked back only to have his life threatened again, or Jesus in that tomb for three days, only to have the Roman guards paid off to lie about his resurrection, waiting for what comes next. Jesus meets us on the road to tell us that we have waited long enough, waited during these past 40 days of Lent, waited for who knows how many years or decades. Jesus shows up resurrected, saying with his body and maybe with words: It is time. Buckle up. This journey is about to move to a new level.


Maybe it’s hard from where we’re sitting, to believe that God can overcome the forces of death. The forces of empire and death sure look like they are winning, depending on when we can bear to uncover our eyes and ears to take a look and a listen. The Powers that Jesus vanquished sure seem to be in control, in league with chaos. And yes, some self-proclaimed religious authorities also seem to be working with the powers of chaos.


Today’s second reading, the letter to the Colossians, tells us to seek things that are from above. I realize that Paul, the letter writer, meant heavenly things or Christlike things, but as I’ve been thinking about an Easter sermon, I’ve also been keeping an eye on the Artemis mission, the one with a diverse crew of astronauts headed to the moon, a much bigger event than most space events of the last few decades. I found myself thrilled to be alive in such an age. I have a pastor friend who has become enthralled by the live feed from the ship, which is about the size of 2 minivans; I’m not at her level of engagement, but I understand the relief that comes from lifting our eyes to the heavens. Of course, we don’t need to leave earth. If we look around our families and communities, we’ll see evidence of resurrection. We’ll see small, loyal groups continuing to do the work begun by the first group of followers of Jesus, those who were named and those who mostly stayed in the background.


Paul wrote to the Colossians from a Roman prison, so he might have had reason to despair. His letter shows no sign of that. He continues to witness to what God has done, what God continues to do. We, too, can witness like Paul.


The angel rolls back the stone and says, “Do not be afraid.” Jesus, too, says, “Do not be afraid.” The Holy Week stories remind us that the God who made the Heavens and the Earth, the God who can shake the planet to its foundation, this God is still in charge.


The small, loyal group of women was not afraid as the strength of empire fainted away. We may feel that they had some special quality that we do not, but those feelings are wrong. Those who are in the background are up to the task to proclaim the good news that death does not have the final word. If you doubt it, remember the words of the African-American spiritual, drawn from the prophet Jeremiah, “If you cannot preach like Peter, if you cannot pray like Paul, you can still tell the love of Jesus, who came to save us all.”


A balm in Gilead, good news for the ages.


Christ is risen—he is risen indeed—and all God’s people say: Alleluiah!

Last Thoughts (and Recording of Sermon) on Maundy Thursday

Last night was a good worship service.  I felt a bit frazzled at first.  We left a bit early, but afternoon traffic around Asheville still left us almost late.  

That's not true.  We got to the church with 10 minutes to spare, and most people came after us.  Still, I was feeling a bit frazzled.  It's one of the disadvantages of the geography that is part of this SAM experience.

Worship went well, and I was pleased with my sermon, which you can view here on my YouTube channel.  I put the sermon manuscript in this blog post.  If you follow along, you'll see that there are places that I expand on thoughts in the manuscript.  I wasn't thrilled with the ending when I wrote it, but I like the impromptu ending better.  I felt something moving through me, as if the Holy Spirit knew what someone listening needed to hear.  I am always happy to be that vessel.

As my spouse and I reflected on the sermon on the drive across the mountains to get back home, I did wonder if the sermon needed firmer boundaries between the Holy Week holidays.  I still worry/wonder if the sermon has too much of a Good Friday vibe.  But since Faith Lutheran doesn't have a Good Friday worship with a sermon, I am O.K. with that. 

Sermon for Maundy Thursday

April 2, 2026
By Kristin Berkey-Abbott




Maundy Thursday




On Palm Sunday, I talked about the different kinds of crowds on Palm Sunday—and then, the different crowd yet again on Good Friday. In between Palm Sunday and Good Friday, we have Maundy Thursday. Maundy Thursday and Good Friday give us two very different insights into the ideas of sin and redemption—and liberation.


You may have been taught a version of Good Friday that I was taught as a child. We are a sinful people, and because Jesus knew that I was going to be mean to my sister two thousand years later, Jesus had to come and die on a cross so that God wouldn’t send me to Hell. And yes, I was taught this version of Good Friday in a 5th grade Sunday School class at Our Redeemer Lutheran Church in Montgomery, Alabama.


Many adults have a similar belief. Modern Christianity tends to focus on personal salvation and to see the cross as the source of that salvation. In one of my seminary classes, I heard a fellow student say that without Judas and his betrayal, we wouldn't have had salvation because we wouldn't have had the resurrection. I would counter that Jesus was on a collision course with the Roman empire and that he would have been killed anyway. He was crucified, a capital punishment reserved for those who were a threat to the state. He was on Rome's radar.


If we see Jesus as following in the steps of the ancient prophets, we get a much richer view. Much as we might want to believe that we can read the Bible as a prophecy for our current age, Biblical prophets weren’t forecasting the future. They came to remind the people of the ways that they had fallen away from God. They came to the people to tell them that God was disappointed. But much more important, they came to the people to help them remember that God has a much more expansive vision for the people, a vision where everyone is included and everyone has a chance for flourishing. The prophets came to help the people reclaim that vision.


Jesus doesn’t spend much time talking about individual sin, the way that 21st century people might expect. There’s not much pro-family or anti-sexuality language in the speeches of Jesus. The disagreements about moral questions that consume us in the 21st century, that rip churches apart, those aren’t evident in much of what Jesus says. But the dangers of empire that Jesus criticizes aren’t very different today, in the 21st century.


Jesus was calling out the sin of colluding with empire, and many of those sins would be familiar to us today: the people in power taking advantage of those who have fewer resources. Often the people in question had fewer resources because of the way the empire set up life. So widows found themselves not only having to grieve the loss of a spouse, but they also faced the loss of income. Refugees found themselves without safety, often because of decisions made by a distant empire. Orphans faced a much bleaker future, slavery, than children with parents. All of the people faced increasing taxes to fund the projects of the Roman empire, and many of the people would lose everything they owned when they couldn’t pay.


Then, as now, people were desperate for change.



The events of Holy Week take place against a back drop of Passover, the holiest days of the Jewish calendar. Jesus has spent much of his ministry reminding people that they serve a God who brought them out of bondage in Egypt. The festival of Passover celebrates that deliverance. Jesus offers people similar deliverance. But it may not be in the form they were expecting.


Many people in the time of Jesus yearned for a homeland free of Roman occupiers. Jesus Jesus showed them a way, but it wasn’t a military way. Jesus showed them what could reweave the ripped and torn social fabric. Jesus showed them the way of love.


Jesus spends much of his ministry feeding people. Often, after a miracle healing, there’s a feeding. It might be another miracle, like multiplying loaves and fishes. It might be a regular meal, which for many households, then and now, might seem like a small miracle. We gather here tonight to celebrate Maundy Thursday, which some call The Last Supper. But it wasn’t the last supper. If we look at the post-Resurrection stories of Jesus, he’s still there, sharing meals, providing sustenance.


In addition to his preaching and teaching, Jesus spent his ministry doing the tasks that were often relegated to the lower rungs of society, tasks like washing feet and preparing meals. Jesus spent his ministry looking for ways to include those who were on the margins—and he had plenty of people to invite to join them. In the time of strong empires, many people find themselves in precarious positions.


Then, as now, the people wondered if they had found the true Messiah. Then, as now, they doubted whether the way of Jesus would be enough to defeat the forces of empire. Good Friday can make us doubt everything we’ve been taught as we watch that distant empire show how deadly it can be to show up armed with nothing but love. Easter shows us how empty that deadly force is. It’s Maundy Thursday that shows us how we are to love: by service and by sharing a meal together. Through these actions rooted in love and care, we defeat the powers of death.

Sermon Revising for a Contest

Yesterday I found out about a Frederick Buechner Writing Competition, which closes today.  I was particularly intrigued by the wide range of types of writing the judges will consider, but this passage made me decide to enter:  

"The editorial board will give special consideration to pieces that discuss Buechner’s work and themes, to literary and theological essays, and to sermons — the written sermon being an undervalued art form that was particularly close to Frederick Buechner’s heart."

I decided to take that last part as a sign and to enter a sermon--but which one?

I didn't need to think too long.  The sermon on Mary and Martha that I delivered in July got more positive feedback than any other sermon I've done; you can read or view it in this blog post.

My spouse helped me yesterday; he viewed the recording, and he made changes to the sermon manuscript.  I've been doing some tinkering, and I'm about ready to submit it.

I have no idea what my chances are, but there's no entry fee, so it seems worth trying.  If the editors hate my poem, it's not likely to hurt me as I move through ordination and beyond.  So let's see what happens.

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel (Easter!)

  The readings for Sunday, April 5, 2026:

First Reading: Acts 10:34-43

First Reading (Alt.): Jeremiah 31:1-6

Psalm: Psalm 118:1-2, 14-24

Second Reading: Colossians 3:1-4

Second Reading (Alt.): Acts 10:34-43

Gospel: Matthew 28:1-10

Gospel (Alt.): John 20:1-18


Finally we move through Holy Week to Easter Sunday. At last, our Lenten pilgrimage draws to a close.

The stories we hear during Holy Week remind us of how to move from lives that have been reduced to ash back to lives full of resurrection.  What is often lost in the Holy Week stories is the larger story of resurrection.

As you move through the rest of the liturgical year, and as you move among Christian circles, pay attention to which stories of this week we circle back to.  Is it the crucifixion or the empty tomb?  Is it the meal shared together?  Is it the victorious entry into Jerusalem on a colt?  What are the stories that Christianity tells most often?  And more important, why?

My guess is that you'll hear more about the crucifixion than the other elements.  Modern Christianity tends to focus on personal salvation and to see the cross as the source of that salvation.  In one of my seminary classes, I heard a fellow student say that without Judas and his betrayal, we wouldn't have had salvation because we wouldn't have had the resurrection.  I would counter that Jesus was on a collision course with the Roman empire and that he would have been killed anyway.  He was crucified, a capital punishment reserved for those who were a threat to the state.  He was on Rome's radar.

I would argue that somewhere through history, Christianity lost the thread of the good news declared by angels.  Jesus is about more than our individual salvation.  Jesus came to save the world, and I think he meant to save our societies more than our souls.

Imagine how our world would be different if we focused on Maundy Thursday, not Good Friday.  This idea isn't mine--I've been reading many theologians saying something similar.  In this essay "The Holy Thursday Revolution,"  Diana Butler Bass asks, "What if the table was the point?"

In fact, we see Jesus move back to tables again and again, throughout his ministry and after his resurrection.  There's something powerful about a meal shared together, something transformative, something vital.  Jesus shows us a ministry of inclusion, and he gives us a way to model it, a way that has proven timeless.

The world cries out for resurrection.  Maundy Thursday shows us how to begin.  Good Friday shows us the risk of continuing the work of Jesus.  Easter promises us that the forces of empire, the systems of domination and death, will not have the last word.  The stories after Easter return us to meals together. The work of transformation awaits. 

Recording of Sunday Sermon

I felt good about my sermon yesterday, good about the writing and good about the delivery.  We had more people in church than we've had in the past month:  members who had been recuperating from surgery and sickness returned and some non-member family members tagging along with other members, and we're a small enough church that it can make a big difference.  In short, the overall energy of the day was good.

I've posted a recording of the sermon here on my YouTube channel.  I posted the sermon manuscript in this post on my theology blog.

Later yesterday, I made this Facebook post:  "After Palm Sunday worship and a beautiful drive back through the mountains, I'm doing a bit of hand stitching while watching season 5 of "The Chosen," which brings Jesus and the gang to Holy Week, which seems a fitting ending to the day and a fitting beginning to Holy Week."

Sermon for Sunday, March 29, 2026, Palm Sunday

March 29, 2026

By Kristin Berkey-Abbott




The Palm and Passion Narrative in Matthew

Matthew 26:14—27:66



Many of us may remember when we only did Palm Sunday on Palm Sunday and the other days of Holy Week on their given day, unlike today, when we get the whole Passion narrative on Sunday. One traditional approach to this whole story is to talk about how the crowd that is with you on a Sunday can have turned on you by Friday. However, today’s Gospel can be seen more accurately as the story of two different kinds of crowds, a Palm Sunday mob scene and the ones that gather on Good Friday.


Jesus is no stranger to crowds, of course. Anyone who can perform the kind of miracles that he does will attract a following. Have they followed him to Jerusalem? Some of them probably have. After all, many of them didn’t have much of a life before Jesus healed them. The healing miracles often come to those who have been abandoned by everyone in the larger community; it makes sense that they would follow Jesus.


There’s another crowd of people who are likely to be following Jesus all the way to Jerusalem. These are people who have been hoping for a different kind of miracle, the restoration of the Holy City, the deliverance of the Temple from the Roman occupiers. These are people who have been trained by earlier generations, steeped in the words of the ancient prophets, trained to be on the lookout for the Messiah, knowledgeable in the ways that deliverance will come. Jesus has spoken to them specifically in words that seem like a mysterious code to us but would have been blatantly obvious to those who have been waiting for a savior. Those people would be tagging along to Jerusalem, wanting to be at the site of what they assumed would be a final triumph.


The disciples come along too, of course. We think of those 12 men, and we know that at least one of them, Judas, has become disenchanted. But we also know that there were more than 12 disciples. For example, we know that a core group of women followed Jesus, and we read the New Testament differently if we’re on the lookout for them. If we read carefully, we can discern a much larger group of people dedicated to the mission of Jesus.


There were plenty of people in that Palm Sunday crowd, and many of them had no interest in Jesus at all. Many people would come to Jerusalem for the highest of Jewish Holy days, most obviously Jews of all sorts, who would want to celebrate at the most beautiful of worship spaces. There would also be Romans who wanted to make sure that nothing bad happened. Then, as now, a holiday is a time that terrorists would see as a ripe target.


In short, there were several groups gathered on Palm Sunday, all with very different and conflicting interests converging on a very small piece of real estate, much like Jerusalem, or many a capital city, today.


But by Friday, most of them are no longer with him. But it’s not necessarily because they lost faith in Jesus.


To be sure, some of the Palm Sunday crowd have fallen away. But it’s unlikely that they’ve all turned against Jesus so much as it is likely that they were not there for Jesus in the first place or that Jesus has to go where others cannot follow. Even had they wanted to journey with Jesus into the inner sanctums of the ruling parts of society, they would not be allowed. Then, as now, verdicts that can impact so many of us are often made in secret.


The Palm Sunday crowd has dispersed by Good Friday. Some have slipped away in fear. Others have gone to be with their families to celebrate the Passover with a meal, just as we saw Jesus do. Others may have assumed that the final deliverance of Jerusalem has been postponed—yet again. Others may have settled in for the night and missed the arrest and trial. Then, as now, verdicts that can impact so many of us are often made on days and times when the public won’t be watching or when another distraction has been fabricated to pull away our attention.


The Palm to Passion story reminds us of the danger of crowds, but it reminds us that not all crowds are the same. In this case, it was a variety of crowds, each convinced of the righteousness of their purpose. Some thought they had the righteousness of Jewish law on their side. Some thought they had the righteousness of Jesus on their side and others thought they had the righteousness of Caesar on their side. All thought they had God on their side.


This time in history is not the only time people have thought they had God on their side. In fact, people have made that mistake so often that there’s a branch of Philosophy dedicated to making sure that conflicts are handled in a way that won’t put our very souls in danger. Just War Theory has as one of its key components that even when conflict seems inevitable, we should approach it with a spirit of duty to God rather than a self-righteous crusaderism that delights in harm to our opponents and enemies.


Prophets throughout the ages have tried to show us how to live just lives worthy of God, and the first followers of Jesus turned back to their prophets to try to understand what they had experienced, prophets like Isaiah or Zecariah. The Gospel of Matthew contains more references back to the ancient prophets than the other Gospels, as we see in today’s texts. Judas was likely not thinking of the duty to fulfill the prophecy of Zechariah 13: 7 “Awake oh sword against my shepherd, against the man who is my associate, says the Lord of Hosts. Strike the shepherd, that the sheep may be scattered . . ." No, Judas was more likely betraying Jesus out of his own disappointment at the different way Jesus understood his mission.


Judas betrays Jesus with a kiss. Then, as now, we remember that it’s possible to profess a love of Jesus that proves to be empty and hollow. Peter betrays Jesus with his words. He betrays Jesus despite the fact that Jesus has warned him of his tendency to deny the one who gives him life. There are so many ways to betray Jesus, and the Palm to Passion story reminds us that human nature hasn’t really changed.


Some people still gather around Jesus to celebrate his teachings. Some come in anticipation of what will follow, what we hope he will do for us. Some come to learn how to pervert the Gospel, to claim Christ’s power for themselves or to thwart Christ’s authority. Should we find ourselves among one of those crowds, with the clear and present awareness that tensions are increasing and conflicts may be inevitable, let us not enter into that conflict with delight about doing harm to our adversaries, but out of the same sense of duty to God that we have seen modeled by Jesus. Let us pray, as Jesus did, that if it is possible let this cup pass from us. Let us trust that God can make new life out of the darkest days of violence. Even when our saints and shepherds are struck down, let the flock scatter, and once again return even larger, in the hopeful words of Zechariah. Let us trust in the vindication of the Lord, as Isaiah promises. The Psalmist knows that though we may feel as useless as a broken pot, that God has a plan and a purpose—for us and for all of creation. We see sprouts of new life across our Holy Week texts and on Easter, just a week away, we will see the shoots of new life that God has planned—for Jesus, for us, and for all of creation.

Sewing on the Machine at Quilt Camp

Yesterday at Quilt Camp, I got out my sewing machine, which might surprise those who know me.  For much of my life, I've sewed by hand.  I'm still deeply committed to sewing by hand, particularly as a self-calming practice.  Stitching a seam by hand not only calms my brain but also settles my attention.

I am the only person at Quilt Camp who does most of her sewing by hand.  I don't have a sewing room, so if I'm sewing, it's likely at the kitchen table which is problematic for many reasons.  But honestly, for many reasons, I actually prefer to sew by hand.

So last night, after posting the below picture, I made this Facebook post:  "Those of you who know me, are you more surprised to find out that I'm still awake at 10 p.m. or that I've been sewing on a sewing machine all day at Quilt Camp?"

All of the piles of blocks behind me were stitched by hand.  But yesterday, I wanted one of the sewing machine experts to see if she could get the bobbin winder to work.  She could not.  So why did I keep sewing on the machine?

One of my Quilt Camp friends had won a batch of quilt blocks as a prize, which we both agreed was a strange prize for a quilt contest, and she was trying to figure out how to assemble them into charity quilts, her task assigned to her as she claimed her prize.  I offered to help.  Here we are, me showing her the long strips I decided to assemble:

I knew that getting the quilt top done during the retreat was my best hope of getting it done, so I just kept sewing and sewing.  And finally, at 9:20, as Duke was winning the basketball game that some of my Quilt Camp compatriots were watching, I did.  However, I forgot to take a picture of the finished quilt top. 

Soon I'll head back to Quilt Camp for the last morning.  I'll get my cloth organized so that I can keep sewing small scraps into log cabin squares, the sewing that I do in the evening as we watch T.V. together.  It's been a good Quilt Camp, but it's time to come back down from the mountain (and I'll be rejoicing that my trip home is very short).

Quilt Camp Midway Report

 Much of yesterday, I would have looked like this:

I've had one of those Quilt Camp weeks where I've had to balance the retreat and the other duties of my life.  Yesterday I had planned to go to the class I'm taking, Lutheran Confessions, by way of Zoom and come to Quilt Camp in the afternoon.  But my professor was having travel related disruptions, so we didn't have class.  I got several additional quilting hours in the morning--hurrah!

I made progress both on my own projects and on one of our group projects:

We were asked to take one of the paper doll forms and add fabric scraps to it to represent ourselves.  We've been putting them on the poster, and as we've been looking at our work, we've been praying for each other.

I loved making my self portrait in threads and fabric scraps:

I am tired, tired, tired.  Ordinarily I might say that I'm tired in a good way.  But last night, as my energy level crashed, I spiraled into a strange thought pattern, feeling like all of my fabric art is ugly, ugly, ugly.  What was that all about?

Part of it is being surrounded by other quilting artists who are all doing very different work from the work I'm doing:

My workspace is full of scraps, and the process of putting them into larger squares usually delights me.  The process still delights me, but I'm less sure how well it all works together.  I put some of my more varied squares together and felt despair.  I've got autumnal squares (think browns, coppers, oranges, yellows) and jewel tone squares.  Last night I thought, I've really got two quilts here--which might not be a bad thing.  But will I ever actually finish?

I'm also noticing a pattern in my larger life.  It's easy for me to do the individual parts, but harder to finish the larger project.  I thought about my writing life and all the poems I've written--but so few larger books.  

On the one hand, I take delight in the process, the creativity itself, the commitment to doing creative stuff every day.  On the other hand, I wonder how it might all be different if I focused on seeing a project through to the end.

Do I let myself off the hook too easily?  Should I be more rigorous?  If I decide I should be more rigorous, is it too late?

Let me remind myself of this article I read in The New York Times, an article that talks about Matisse in his later years, his last years, and an exhibition of his work from this time:  "The show includes more than 300 works on loan from around the world (with some exhibited for the first time) that demonstrate how wide the French master’s oeuvre stretched beyond his best-known paintings — to innovative drawings, gouache cutouts, illustrated books, textiles and stained-glass windows. It also challenges the conventional understanding of any artist’s 'late' years as an inevitable tapering off. Here, we see a blossoming, a relentless drive to experiment in new mediums and a radical simplicity that only a lifetime of making could achieve."

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The readings for Palm Sunday, March 29, 2026:

Liturgy of the Palms

 
Psalm:  Psalm 118:1-2, 19-29
Second reading:  Matthew 21:1-11

Liturgy of the Passion

 
First reading:  Isaiah 50:4-9a
Psalm:  Psalm 31:9-16
Second reading:  Philippians 2:5-11
Gospel:  Matthew 26:14-27:66 or Matthew 27:11-54

Those of you who have been going to church for awhile may have noticed that Palm Sunday sometimes stretches for a longer time than Easter Sunday. There's so much we cover these days. We start with the Palm Sunday story--some churches actually have their congregants start out seated, then they rise and march around the church, either inside or outside, and then they sit down again. 

And then, when they get to the readings, they hear the whole story of the Passion. We get Palm Sunday, Maundy Thursday, and Good Friday all in one Sunday. It's almost a relief to show up on Easter and only have to deal with one part of the story.

Easter is the part of the story upon which our Christian faith is rooted. It's the place where most of us like to fix our focus. But Holy Week reminds us of essential truths too.

Palm Sunday, which is now called Passion Sunday, reminds us of life's journey. No one gets to live the triumphal entry into Jerusalem day in and day out. If we're lucky, there will be those high water mark periods; we'll be hailed as heroes and people will appreciate our work. All the transportation and dinner details will work out like we want them to. Our friends will be by our side.

Yet the Passion story reminds us that those same appreciative people can turn on us just as quickly. The cheering crowd today can be the one calling for our blood next week. If we're lucky, we'll have friends who stand by us, but we're also likely to suffer all kinds of betrayals: from our friends, from our governments, from any number of societal institutions, and ultimately from our bodies, our all too fragile flesh.

What do we do with this knowledge?

The corridor between Palm Sunday and Easter instructs us in what to do. We can watch out for each other. We can find like-minded humans and stay together in solidarity. We can make meals and take time to eat together.

We can go even deeper into our care for each other, and on Maundy Thursday, we get a glimpse of that kind of care. Some churches will read the Maundy Thursday text of the woman anointing Christ's feet with oil. Some churches will read the Maundy Thursday text that shows Jesus washing the feet of the disciples.

Good Friday reminds us that we can do all these things, and still we may have to stand by helplessly as those whom we love are ravaged. Or we may find that we are ravaged.

The Palm Sunday/Passion Week trajectory reminds us that we worship a God who has experienced this truth of the human condition first hand.

But we also worship a God who has been working through time and outside of time to transform this human condition. We don't always see it, but Easter assures us that the process is in place and that resurrection will break through, even in the most unlikely circumstances.

The Feast Day of the Annunciation

Today is the Feast of the Annunciation, the feast day which celebrates the appearance of the angel Gabriel, who tells Mary of her opportunity to be part of God's mission of redemption. The angel Gabriel appears to Mary and says, in the older wording that I still like best, "Hail, oh blessed one! The Lord is with you!" Mary asks some questions, and Gabriel says, "For nothing will be impossible with God" (Luke 1: 37). And Mary says, ". . . let it be with me according to your word" (Luke 1: 38).

That means only 9 months until Christmas. If I wrote a different kind of blog, I'd fill the rest of this post with witty ways to make your shopping easier. But instead of spending the next nine months strategically getting our gifts bought, maybe we should think about the next nine months in terms of waiting for God, watching for God, incubating the Divine.

I find Mary an interesting model for modern spirituality. Notice what is required of Mary. She must wait.

Mary is not required to enter into a spiritual boot camp to get herself ready for this great honor. No, she must be present to God and be willing to have a daily relationship, an intimacy that most of us would never make time for. She doesn't have to travel or make a pilgrimage to a different land. She doesn't have to go to school to work on a Ph.D. She isn't even required to go to the Temple any extra amount. She must simply slow down and be present. And of course, she must be willing to be pregnant, which requires more of her than most of us will offer up to God. And there's the later part of the story, where she must watch her son die an agonizing death.

We might think about how we can listen for God's call. Most of us live noisy lives: we're always on our cell phones, we've often got several televisions blaring in the house at once, we're surrounded by traffic (and their loud stereos), we've got people who want to talk, talk, talk. Maybe today would be a good day to take a vow of silence, inasmuch as we can, to listen for God.

If we can't take a vow of silence, we could look for ways to have some silence in our days. We could start with five minutes and build up from there.

Maybe we can't be silent, but there are other ways to tune in to God. Maybe we want to keep a dream journal to see if God tries to break through to us in that way. Maybe we want to keep a prayer journal, so that we have a record of our prayer life--and maybe we want to revisit that journal periodically to see how God answers our prayers.

Let us celebrate the Feast of the Annunciation by thinking about our own lives. What does God call us to do? How will we answer that call?

The Feast Day of Oscar Romero

Oscar Romero is now officially a saint, and today is his feast day.  On this day in 1980, he was killed, a martyr for the faith.  When I made this collage card years ago, I couldn't believe that he'd ever be canonized:

Many scholars believe that he was chosen to be Archbishop precisely because he was expected not to make trouble. All that changed when one of his good friends, an activist Jesuit priest, was assassinated by one of the death squads roaming the country. Romero became increasingly political, increasingly concerned about the poor who were being oppressed by the tiny minority of rich people in the country. He called for reform. He called on the police and the soldiers to stop killing their brethren. And for his vision, he was killed as he consecrated the bread for Mass.

I was alive when he was martyred, but I didn't hear or read about it.  I remember reading about some of the more famous murders, particularly of the nuns, and wondering why people would murder nuns or missionaries who were there to help--I had yet to learn of the horrors of colonialism throughout history.

In my first year of college, I was asked to be part of a service that honored the martyrdom of Romero, and this event was likely how I heard of him first.  Or maybe it was earlier that semester when our campus pastor took a group of us to Jubilee Partners.

Jubilee Partners was a group formed by the same people that created Koinonia, the farm in Americus Georgia that most people know because they also created Habitat for Humanity--but they were so much more, in their witness of how Christian love could play out in real practice in one of the most segregated and poor parts of the U.S. south.  In the early years of Jubilee Partners, when I went there, the group helped people from Central America get to Canada, where they could get asylum in the 1980's, when they couldn't get asylum in the U.S.

My consciousness was formed by these encounters and by other encounters I had throughout the 80's.  I met many people in the country illegally, and I heard about the horrors that brought them here.  Then, as now, I couldn't imagine why we wouldn't let these people stay.

Many of us may think that those civil wars are over, but many countries in Central America are still being torn apart by violence.  The words of Romero decades ago are sadly still relevant today:  "Brothers, you came from our own people. You are killing your own brothers. Any human order to kill must be subordinate to the law of God, which says, 'Thou shalt not kill'. No soldier is obliged to obey an order contrary to the law of God. No one has to obey an immoral law. It is high time you obeyed your consciences rather than sinful orders. The church cannot remain silent before such an abomination. ...In the name of God, in the name of this suffering people whose cry rises to heaven more loudly each day, I implore you, I beg you, I order you: stop the repression."

But his teachings go beyond just a call for an end to killing.  His messages to the wider church are still powerful:  "A church that doesn't provoke any crises, a gospel that doesn't unsettle, a word of God that doesn't get under anyone’s skin, a word of God that doesn't touch the real sin of the society in which it is being proclaimed — ​what gospel is that?"

And even those of us who are not part of a faith tradition can find wisdom in his teachings:  "Each time we look upon the poor, on the farmworkers who harvest the coffee, the sugarcane, or the cotton... remember, there is the face of Christ."

If we treated everyone we met as if that person was God incarnate, what a different world we would have!

But for those of us who are tired from the work of this weary world, here's a message of hope and a reminder of the long view.  This prayer, while not written by him (it was written by late Bishop Ken Untener of Saginaw, drafted for a homily by Cardinal John Dearden, and misattributed to Romero), is often called the Romero prayer:  "We are workers, not master builders, ministers, not messiahs. We are prophets of a future not our own." 

On this day that honors a man who was not always honored, let us take heart from his words and from his example.  Let us also remember that he was not always this force for good in the world; indeed, he was chosen to be Archbishop because the upper management of the church thought he would keep his nose stuck in a book and out of politics. 

In these days that feel increasingly more perilous, let us recommit ourselves to the type of love that Romero called us to show:  "Let us not tire of preaching love; it is the force that will overcome the world."

Sermon for March 22, 2026

March 22, 2026

By Kristin Berkey-Abbott




John 11: 1-45





In the book of John, Jesus performs a series of signs and wonders, all of them miracles to show that he is the Messiah. He controlled the weather. He healed a blind man. He multiplied loaves and fishes to feed thousands. In today’s Gospel, we see the last miracle that Jesus performs before his journey to the cross and resurrection. In today’s Gospel, we see the many ways that humans respond to the real presence of God—and the ways that God responds to humans, particularly humans in distress.


The overwhelming way that humans respond to God in today’s Gospel, and throughout history too, is an attempt to control God and to force God to conform to the view of the world that humans have. All along the way, Jesus has reminded his followers, the way he reminded Nicodemus, that the movement of God is more like the wind than something that can be controlled by human forces.


Throughout today’s Gospel we see people interacting with Jesus that shows that they still don’t fully understand who he is: from suggesting that he change his travel plans early on to criticizing him for not arriving in time to trying to control the unprecedented miracle that is at hand, as we see Martha doing when she reminds Jesus that Lazarus’ body will have started to decay and stink.


Again and again, Jesus shows that he has his own timeline and his own agenda, his own world view and understanding of true power. Again and again, Jesus reminds everyone that humans might not be able to fully comprehend or understand God’s view. Again and again, he stresses that God will be glorified. But he also shows a Divine compassion. He shows that God is not immune to human grief.


Jesus also shows that God can handle our wide range of human emotions. Like the book of Psalms, we see Mary and Martha act in anger and sorrow. They believe in Jesus’ divinity, and they believe that if Jesus had come just a few days earlier, their brother wouldn’t have died. Jesus could have prevented his death, but no one can help them now. It’s good to have today’s Gospel to remind us that God can handle our anger and our grief. We can question and wish for different outcomes from God. Like Mary and Martha, we will not be punished for our doubt that God knows what is best and God is not restrained by our understanding of what is possible and how it must be achieved.


It’s easy to see today’s Gospel as telling us that Mary and Martha are vindicated for their faith, to say that because they declare Jesus to be the Messiah, that Jesus rewards them by returning their brother to them. That’s a misreading of the text that sets us up for a wobbly faith or a descent into self-loathing and believing that our faith is not strong enough when we don’t get the miracles we pray for.


We don’t have easy answers to the age old question of why God allows misfortune and sorrow. Maybe there’s a Divine plan that we’re not privy to. Maybe it’s the less comfortable part of the advantage of having free will. There’s a whole branch of theology called theodicy dedicated to exploring this problem of a loving God who does not stop pain and suffering, and there have been no end of attempts to explain. Most of these explanations leave us unsatisfied.


Jesus raises Lazarus from the dead, a miracle that can’t be explained any other way. Unlike the past miracles when Jesus raised people who had only been dead for a few hours, here he waits 4 days. There's no doubt about what he's done once he's raised Lazarus from the dead. We can't easily imagine that Lazarus has been faking his death for 4 days. Even if Lazarus wanted to help Jesus fake a miracle and put on a good show, it's hard to imagine that he'd willingly submit to being sealed in a tomb for 4 days.


This miracle sets off a chain of consequences. Mary and Martha have their brother returned to them, and this miracle leads many more to believe in Jesus. This miracle makes the religious leaders feel even more threatened, and in the next chapter of the Gospel of John, they’re not only plotting to kill Jesus, but also Lazarus. It’s a potent reminder of how powerful earthly forces almost always react when their authority is threatened. Earthly forces have a variety of ways to punish those who don’t behave the way that empires need people to conform to their vision.


Today’s Gospel has parallels to the resurrection story we’ll celebrate in two weeks. The liturgical calendar gives us this story of Lazarus to return us to one of the main themes of our religion--we believe in resurrection. If we go back to read the Gospel—any of the four Gospels—we see that Jesus has been calling us to resurrection long before he raises Lazarus or himself from the dead. We not only believe in resurrection, but we are called to practice it.


Jesus shows again and again that earthly empires don’t have our best interests at heart. Today’s Gospel tells us that communities of believers are imperfect, too, at wanting what is best for their individual members. Long before we’re in a literal tomb, earthly forces bind us in grave cloths that keep us from living lives that God intended. We warp ourselves into shapes that better fit the forces of our society, as we move through school and make decisions about what we want our lives to be. Every so often we hear the voice of the Savior who commands us to leave the graves constructed for us, but all the bindings of our culture can make it so very hard to respond.


Today’s Gospel shows us that having Jesus with us on our journey won’t save us from the grief that comes from living a human life. If we live long enough, we’ll lose a lot of what we have loved. But we won’t be alone in our grief. God weeps with us while bearing the weight of our disappointment, our grief, and our anger at the losses.


Again and again, Jesus shows us that we don’t have to accept a world that insists that we are doomed, that the situation has progressed so far that miracles are impossible. Jesus shows us that we don’t have to accept the views pressed on us by worldly leaders. Jesus also reminds us that we cannot control God, who has a timeline and an agenda and a say. Jesus tells us that the grief and grave clothes won’t have the final word. Jesus is there to command that we be unbound, free from all the forces of death that weigh us down. Jesus is there, waiting to liberate us from all the earthly graves that hold us prisoner. We might have doubts and confusions and concerns, and we might shed some tears along the way, but Jesus is there to promise, to encourage us, to unbind us from all the places and processes of death that want to hold us captive. Jesus is there, as he has always been, there to set us free.

Atlanta and Me

Atlanta is famous for its horrible traffic, and yesterday's traffic was horrible, just as we expected.  The worst part was some side streets which had cars parked on either side of the street, a 2 way street, which barely left room for one car to drive through.  Yikes!

Happily, we made it through and got to the hotel in Midtown Atlanta.  The car is parked in a garage, and we will not be moving it until we leave.  Last night, we walked down to South City Kitchen for dinner--what amazingly good food, drinks, and service!

As we walked back, I looked at the huge skyscrapers and thought about my connection to this city.  My earliest memories are of Atlanta and theatre.  In 1972 or so, we came to Atlanta to see Godspell, a life changing event even when I was 7--that play shaped my theology and that trip to Atlanta made me see big cities as thrilling, not scary.  In 1978, when I was 13, we came to Atlanta to see A Chorus Line and to shop for some Scandinavian furniture to go with what my mom and dad had bought when they were stationed overseas in France in the 60's.

We lived in Montgomery, Alabama, and when we would drive to see my grandparents in South Carolina, Atlanta was an unmissable landmark with buildings bigger than any in any other Southern city, a statement no longer true.  Later, in my undergraduate years, I would go to Atlanta or drive through Atlanta periodically.  I loved Atlanta and my Georgia Tech friends so much that I thought about going to grad school in Atlanta.  But instead, I went to the University of South Carolina, a choice I don't regret.

I remember coming to Atlanta in 1997 to see an exhibit at the High Museum, the first time I ever saw Pre-Raphaelite paintings, the real ones, not pictures of them in books--amazing.  I left and bought my first set of paints and brushes from Pearl, a local-ish art supply place (only later did I realize it was a chain when I moved to South Florida).

My fondest memories are of Charis Books, a feminist bookstore that is still in business, a happy surprise.  But I will not be going there today--the wedding week-end logistics don't allow for many other activities, but that's O.K.  It's good to see relatives we don't get to see often, and good to have a happy occasion to bring us together.  I am aware that in future years, it will be more likely to be a funeral that draws us near.

But let me not think about that today.  Let me marvel in this city, which 1980's Kristin would not recognize.  That girl could make her way through the city in her 1974 Monte Carlo without breaking a sweat.  I remind myself that she was younger and more foolhardy, and the city wasn't as crowded then as it is now.  Let me enjoy this time out of time, an experience that has always been quintessential Atlanta for me.

The Feast Day of Saint Joseph

 Today is the feast day of St. Joseph, Mary's husband, the earthly father of Jesus. Here are the readings for today:

2 Samuel 7:4, 8-16
Psalm 89:1-29 (2)
Romans 4:13-18
Matthew 1:16, 18-21, 24a

I have done some thinking of Joseph, as many of us do, in the Advent season, when occasionally, we get to hear about Joseph. He thinks of quietly unweaving himself from Mary, who is pregnant. This behavior is our first indication of his character. Under ancient law, he could have had Mary stoned to death, but he takes a gentler path.

And then, he follows the instructions of the angel who tells him of God's plan. He could have turned away. He could have said, "I did not sign up for this!" He could have said, "No thanks. I want a normal wife and a regular life."

Instead, he turned towards Mary and accepted God's vision. He's there when the family needs to flee to Egypt. He's there when the older Jesus is lost and found in the temple. We assume that he has died by the time Christ is crucified, since he's not at the cross.

Some of us today will spend the day celebrating fathers, which is a great way to celebrate the feast day of St. Joseph. Lately, I've been thinking of his feast day and what it means for administrators and others who are not the stars, but who make it possible for stars to step into the spotlight.

Let us today praise the support teams, the people in the background, the people who step back to allow others to shine. Let us praise the people who do the drudgery work which makes it possible for others to succeed.

For example, I am not the kind of person who immediately decides what to do with each piece of e-mail. Consequently, once every few weeks, or more often, I need to go hunting for a particular e-mail. I am amazed at how many e-mails I send and receive in any given day. And yes, much of it is not that important.

But occasionally, an e-mail exchange can quickly settle a problem. Some times, it's good to have an e-mail chain for reference.

Many of us grow up internalizing the message that if we're not changing the world in some sort of spectacular way, we're failures. Those of us who are Christians may have those early disciples as our role models, those hard-core believers who brought the Good News to the ancient world by going out in pairs.

But Joseph shows us a different reality. It's quite enough to be a good parent. It's quite enough to have an ordinary job. It's quite enough to show up, day after day, dealing with both the crises and the opportunities.

Joseph reminds us that even the ones born into the spotlight need people in the background who are tending to the details. When we think about those early disciples and apostles, we often forget that they stayed in people's houses, people who fed them and arranged speaking opportunities for them, people who gave them encouragement when their task seemed too huge.

I imagine Joseph doing much the same thing, as he helped Jesus become a man. I imagine the life lessons that Joseph administered as he gave Jesus carpentry lessons. I imagine that he helped Jesus understand human nature, in all the ways that parents have helped their offspring understand human nature throughout history.

Let us not be so quick to discount this kind of work. Let us praise the support teams that make the way possible for the people who will change the world.


Here is a prayer that I wrote for today:

Creator God, thank you for your servant Joseph. Help us to remember his lessons for us. Help us look for ways to shepherd your Good News into the world in ways that only we can.

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The readings for Sunday, March 22, 2026:

First Reading: Ezekiel 37:1-14

Psalm: Psalm 130

Second Reading: Romans 8:6-11

Gospel: John 11:1-45


What a strange picture of Jesus in this Gospel. Remember the Jesus of several miracles ago? The one who instructed people to go and tell no one?

Here we see a Jesus who seems overly aware of the impact of his actions. It's as if we're seeing a man who is aware of his legacy and how he'll be seen--a man who is trying to control the story. And of course, we see foreshadowing in this story, foreshadowing of the death and resurrection of Christ, which we'll be celebrating in two weeks.

Notice that Jesus waits until Lazarus is good and dead before he appears to comfort the sisters and perform a miracle. It's as if he wants no dispute about the miracle. Unlike the past few miracles when Jesus raised people who had only been dead for a few hours, here he waits 4 days. There's no doubt about what he's done once he's raised Lazarus from the dead. We can't easily imagine that Lazarus has been faking his death for 4 days. Even if Lazarus wanted to help Jesus fake a miracle and put on a good show, it's hard to imagine that he'd willingly submit to being sealed in a tomb for 4 days.

As we watch the world around us gear up for Easter, we'll see a certain number of Jesus detractors. We'll see people who want to explain away the resurrection. The liturgical calendar gives us this story of Lazarus to return us to one of the main themes of our religion--we believe in (and are called to practice) resurrection.

And why is the idea of resurrection so hard in our fallen world? Do we not know enough people who have turned their lives around? Think of all the people who have risen again out of the ashes of drug addiction, mental illness, disease, or domestic turmoil. Why are we so hesitant to believe in miracles?

Although writing about a different miracle, Wendell Berry has said expressed my idea more eloquently than I can today. In his essay, "Christianity and the Survival of Creation," he says, "Whoever really has considered the lilies of the field or the birds of the air and pondered the improbability of their existence in this warm world within the cold and empty stellar distances will hardly balk at the turning of water into wine--which was, after all, a very small miracle. We forget the greater and still continuing miracle by which water (with soil and sunlight) is turned into grapes" (this wonderful essay appears in his wonderful book Sex, Economy, Freedom and Community).

The world has far too many cynics. Christians are called to be different. Choose your favorite metaphor: we're to be leaven in the loaf, the light of the world, the city on a hill, the salt (or other seasoning) that provides flavor, the seed that pushes against the dirt. 

Each day, practice hope. Each day, practice resurrection.

The Feast Day of Saint Patrick

Here we are at the Feast Day of Saint Patrick, perhaps even more popular with non-Christians than the Feast Day of St. Valentine.  I think of people eating corned beef and cabbage, or perhaps some sort of potato dish, served with soda bread and green beer to wash it all down.  Do those people think about Saint Patrick's years of slavery in Ireland before he became a missionary to Ireland before he became a patron saint of Ireland?

It's strange to think of Saint Patrick in these years when we've been censoring books that mention slavery, when we've been banning curriculum that talks about the more recent history of slavery, when we've been altering information at museums and national parks.  Hmmm.

We like slaves who are safe in centuries we can scarcely remember.  Patrick was born to a high ranking Roman family in England, but when he was approximately 16, he was kidnapped and spent 6 or 7 years as a slave in Ireland. While there, he learned the language and the non-Christian customs of the land.

This knowledge would come in handy when he was sent back to Ireland in the 5th century to solidify the Christianity of the country. There are many stories about Patrick's vanquishing force, complete with Druid spells and Christian counterspells. I suspect the real story was perhaps more tame.

Later scholars have suggested that Patrick and his compatriots were sent to minister to the Christians who were already there, not to conquer the natives. Other scholars have speculated that one of the reasons that Christianity was so successful in Ireland was because Patrick took the parts of pagan religions that appealed most to its followers and showed how those elements were also present in Christianity--or perhaps incorporated them into Christianity as practiced in Ireland.

These days, I am thinking about all the decisions made in the earliest centuries of Christianity, about roads not taken, about the ways we could have had a more vibrant religion.

This morning, on the Feast Day of Saint Patrick, I'm realizing that we do have it.  

I'm thinking of Celtic Christianity and all the ways it can enrich our daily lives.  I realize we could argue about whether or not Celtic Christianity really existed in the way we might think about it now, this many centuries later.

Even if modern versions of Celtic Christianity aren't historically accurate, these ideas have much to offer us in the twenty-first century.  I like the idea of living in community.  I like the idea of taking care of creation.  I like the way that spirituality can infuse every element of our lives, if we're being aware and intentional.  In an article from the Northumbria community, Trevor Miller says, "Esther De Waal puts it well; ‘The Celtic approach to God opens up a world in which nothing is too common to be exalted and nothing is so exalted that it cannot be made common.’ They believed that the presence of God infused daily life and thus transforms it, so that at any moment, any object, any job of work, can become a place for encounter with God. In everyday happenings and ordinary ways, so that we have prayers for getting up, lighting the fire, getting dressed, milking the cow etc."

The entire article is well worth your time, especially if you're looking for ways to revitalize your own spiritual life.  What a great way to celebrate Saint Patrick--much more nourishing than corned beef and green beer! 

Sermon for Sunday, March 15, 2026

March 15, 2026
By Kristin Berkey-Abbott




John 9:1-41



On Friday, after two days of wrestling with this Gospel text, after thinking about issues of sight and blindness, I went to the optometrist and the dermatologist. Oddly, I got more insight about sight from the dermatologist than the eye doctor. In some ways, these two things—Gospel text and doctor visits—are not connected. The eye exam happens annually, and I had the dermatologist appointment way back in December, after my biopsy came back as a melanoma, long before I was thinking about this Gospel text.


At Friday’s dermatology visit, we talked about my last visit, about how we both first thought my melanoma was something else. It looked like a pinkish bug bite, not the classic dark-mole-gone-wrong kind of melanoma. But because it turned out to be a melanoma, on Friday we evaluated my skin much more thoroughly than we ever did before. My dermatologist decided to biopsy three more spots, which she likely wouldn’t have done if I hadn’t had the last biopsy come back as a melanoma.


In today’s Gospel, too, we see people taking a second look. In some cases, the second look has life-saving implications. Sadly, though, that’s not always the case.


The disciples see a blind man and ask who sinned. This belief would be common in ancient times where disease was thought to be an outward sign of inward unworthiness. In many ways, we still see vestiges of this belief today. I thought of it recently, when an old grad school friend announced he had esophageal cancer, and another grad school friend and I tried to remember when he had stopped smoking. It seems a modern method of doing what those disciples did: trying to establish who is to blame for misfortune and often, sadly assuming that it is the victim’s fault. And there’s also more than a bit of trying to reassure ourselves that we can avoid misfortune by virtuous living.


Jesus gives an answer that we would now expect, that nobody is to blame. And then, Jesus goes further, saying that he can use this misfortune to glorify God. Jesus in the Gospel of John is always on the lookout for ways to show people who he is. In the Gospel of John, Jesus knows that he’s the Messiah from the get go, and he’s always trying to let others know too. It might be with long discussions with people like Nicodemus and the woman at the well. This Sunday, Jesus shows that he is the Messiah by making a blind man able to see and later telling the blind man that he is in the presence of the son of man who is the light.


This healing bothers me, though, and it’s not about the spit. If Jesus walked into this sanctuary right now and offered to heal the arthritis in my feet with his holy spit and some dirt, I’d have my shoes off lickety-split. But it’s the fact that Jesus doesn’t ask the man if he wants to be healed, the way he does with so many others. I know that it’s my 21st century sensibility that makes me wish that Jesus had looked for a way to show that the blind man had different abilities, like enhanced hearing. I wish that Jesus asked permission before he rubbed the mud on the man—or at the very least told him what he was about to do, the way the best doctors tell us what’s going to happen before they do the procedure, like my dermatologist did on Friday: “now I’m going to take a picture of your spot . . .”


The next part of text is even more disturbing, and a good teaching moment about rebirth and healing: we see the reaction of all the neighbors, some of whom don’t recognize the blind man who can now see and some who doubt it’s the same man. By now it’s clear that we’re working with blindness on many levels. Had the neighbors really never seen the blind man at all? How could they not recognize him after spending time assisting him? Perhaps they are like my dermatologist, who sees me in a new way, now that I’ve had a melanoma. But it’s probably something more troubling.


It’s tempting to say something like they never saw him but just saw his disability, but that’s probably more of a 21st century approach. What’s probably more accurate about their disbelief is what the blind man says later—this kind of healing has never been done. They’re so busy looking for explanations that they fail to see the miraculous. They might see but cannot accept the miraculous. Or it may just take them awhile to process what they’ve witnessed.


The religious leaders are not much help. As is usual when they are depicted in the Gospel of John, they get bogged down in the legalistic angles of the questions: if Jesus healed on the Sabbath, he couldn’t really be doing miracles from God, could he? The reaction of the blind man’s parents shows how much power the religious leaders have—the blind man’s parents can’t rejoice for fear of being displaced from their community. Their answer also shows a way of dealing with this kind of power, a sort of understated defiance when they say, “Go ask our son the grown man. Ask the blind man who he saw heal him.” They’re not rejecting their son so much as they’re rejecting the relevance of the question.


This poor blind man! Back and forth he goes: summoned in for interrogation, released, re-examined on the same questions, until he’s finally exasperated and says in verse 25, "I do not know whether he is a sinner. One thing I do know, that though I was blind, now I see."


Keep in mind, he can’t even describe the man who healed him. He’s only heard his voice and followed his instructions to wash afterward, after Jesus has gone. He doesn’t see Jesus with his eyes until the end of the Gospel. As with so many encounters with Jesus, in a way that’s similar to the stories of Nicodemus and the Samaritan woman at the well, the blind man doesn’t understand what he’s been shown, at least not at first. And to be fair, most of us are the same way—it takes time to adjust to a new situation, to new information, to a diagnosis that comes back that is different than what we expected or hoped for, to a flood of light that breaks through the gloom.


The blind man has heard the voice of Jesus before he could see him, has felt the fingers of Jesus smearing mud on his eyes, but he doesn’t actually see Jesus with his newly opened eyes until after the relentless questioners have made their judgment and moved along.


The blind man has several encounters with Jesus: in the first one, he only hears the voice of Jesus. In the second one, after he’s been interrogated by the religious leaders, he comes to understand who Jesus is as he sees him later, face to face.


We don’t read the next chapter of John in this morning’s Gospel, but if we did, we’d have an even richer understanding of both this text and chapter 10, the one that follows this text. In chapter 10, Jesus talks at great length about sheep and shepherds and the ones who hear his voice and respond. If we read them together, it’s clear that the blind man heard the Lord’s voice and responded, whereas so many others do not.


The blind man isn’t the only one in today’s Gospel who has heard the voice of Jesus, the good shepherd. Jesus heals the blind man in a way that shows the power of God’s love to all the members of the blind man’s community and family. We might be left wondering what will happen to the blind man and the larger community. But if we read further, we find out that with each miracle, Jesus’ circle of followers grows. With each miracle, the landscape changes, for Jesus and for all who see and hear him. With each miracle, we see people expand their ideas of what might be possible in this world.


As I watched the dermatologist study my skin, I thought about how the landscape of my body has also changed. Once we looked and saw sun damage or bug bites. Now my dermatologist lingers on every spot, just to make sure that she sees, not turning a blind eye, not overlooking potentially deadly cancers.


Jesus, too, encourages us to see our landscapes differently. As with skin, there are many spots that might turn out to be nothing, like community members who don’t really know us or care to look closely. But they might turn out to be malevolent, like the Pharisees in this story who still don’t understand how blind they are at the end of today’s Gospel.


Again and again Jesus reminds us of how God knows us down to our tiniest details. Again and again, Jesus encourages us to hear God’s voice and recognize our creator. Jesus continues to invite us to experience transformation and healing, transformation that might seem impossible when we first consider it. Jesus know that if we say yes to his invitation that we might also attract the attention of the badgering, oppressive forces of society. But Jesus also promises that he will be beside us as we testify to the power of God, that once we were blind, but now we see.

Wednesday Night Soup and Worship

We are a bit past the midway point of Lent.  I find myself thinking of my Wednesday experience from this past week when I was visiting my mom and dad in Williamsburg.

We started the evening with a soup supper at my parents' church, one of my church homes away from home.  We had a choice of three soups (corn chowder, vegetable with beef, and chili) and cornbread and sourdough bread.  I love these kinds of soup suppers, and I was glad to be able to be part.

We were there for soup supper because the church does a Lenten Wednesday evening program.  It was meditative and quiet.  We ended with the option to light a small candle from the Paschal candle and put it in the cross-shaped sandbox on a table in front of the Paschal candle.  I wanted to record it, because I liked how it looked.  Is it worth the extra effort to make a sandbox in a specific shape, instead of a big bowl of sand?  Perhaps.  It was lined with 2 layers of heavy plastic, not to protect the wood frame from the flame, but to keep the sand contained.

I didn't take any pictures because I didn't bring my phone to the church.  There wouldn't have been a good way to take pictures, and I wouldn't have wanted to destroy the meditative mood by taking pictures.

On the way home, we stopped at a soft serve ice cream place, the kind that has a small building with a walk-up window and some picnic tables in the parking lot.  It was wonderful to eat ice cream after church and enjoy the freakishly warm weather.