Wednesday, April 2, 2025
Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel
First Reading: Isaiah 43:16-21
Psalm: Psalm 126
Second Reading: Philippians 3:4b-14
Gospel: John 12:1-8
I've always had some amount of trouble with this Gospel; I suspect it's because I would have been that disciple who said, "Just think what we could have done with the money that went to buy that expensive oil. Doesn't Jesus know the electric bill is due? We could have helped the poor. And she went and poured it all over his feet!"
I know that traditionally we use this Gospel lesson to make us think forward a few weeks to Good Friday, when Jesus' dead body will be anointed with funeral oils. But there's still something about this Gospel that makes me restless.
Perhaps it is Jesus saying, "The poor you will always have with you." I'm uneasy with the way so many people through the centuries have used this line to justify their unwillingness to work to eradicate poverty. A shrug of the shoulders, that verse out of context, and poof, we don't have to worry about our riches.
I've been trying to sit with this passage in a different context, in the context of the whole Gospel of John. Jesus says that the poor we'll always have with us, but we won't always have Jesus (at least not in human form). I'm trying to see it as Jesus telling us that we must treasure the moments in life that are sweet. Did Jesus know what was about to happen to him? Different theologians would give you different answers, but even if Jesus didn't know all the particulars of his upcoming execution, he must have known that he was stirring up all sorts of worldly trouble for himself. He must have known that he wouldn't have had many more of these occasions to sit and savor a meal.
I'm sure he's also speaking towards our impulse towards anger and self-righteousness. I can criticize the decisions of others in how they spend their money and what they should be spending their money on ("Imagine. She calls herself a Christian and look how much she spends on books. She could get them from the library and send the money she would have spent to Habitat for Humanity"). It's not always easy for me to know how to allocate my resources of time, treasure, and energy.
Truth be told, I find it easier to work on many a spiritual discipline than to sit and savor a meal with those whom I love, the ones, whom, like Jesus, I won't always have with me. I find it frighteningly easy to slide into the behavior of the disciples, that self-righteousness which precludes being able to enjoy a meal together.
In these days that feel increasingly hectic, let us remember to take time to focus on what's truly important. Let us put aside the anger and judgment that can make it so hard to live in community.
Tuesday, April 1, 2025
Five Years of Morning Watch
Yesterday was the fifth anniversary of morning watch, the morning devotional time that I do for my Florida church and anyone else who wants to tune in. I started doing it during the early days of the pandemic, when my church was looking for ways to stay connected. I still went to church on Sunday mornings, where, for a few Sundays, a core group of us gathered to do parts of the service live and stream it to our members at home.
We also brainstormed other things we could do, like a Compline service. I volunteered to do something in the morning. One of the brainstorming group suggested that in addition to some sort of reading, that we have time for something creative.At first I thought about choosing the readings, and then I thought, why do this? I have Phyllis Tickle's The Divine Hours; she's done this work for me. I did the readings for the day, took a five-seven minute pause to do meditation, writing, sketching, yoga, whatever gets us grounded for the day. And then we came back for closing prayer, also from The Divine Hours, and I gave some closing thoughts, a benediction of sorts. I did the first one on March 31, 2020, and I'm still doing it every morning.
It hasn't changed much. I do show the sketch I'm working on; my dad made a comment that he wanted to see what I was working on, so I started holding the sketch close to the camera.
I've continued to do morning watch, and it's interesting to scroll back through a selection of posts that Facebook gave me when I did a search. Here I am with much longer hair. Here I am in a variety of rooms (the house near the beach, the downtown condo, our Lutheridge house, my seminary apartment, vacation/travel destinations). Here I am with Christmas lights in the back, and here I am almost always with construction happening in the background. I won't link to all those posts, as I'm almost sure it's only interesting to me.
This blog post tells a more complete story of the early days. It also contains this link to the first day when I used Phyllis Tickle's work--on March 30, I had technical difficulties, so I didn't post that broadcast. It's gotten 187 views. Later broadcasts get much fewer views. But I hear from people who find it meaningful, so I'll keep doing it.
To be honest, even if I didn't get encouragement, I'd probably still do it. It helps me to stay faithful to this method of formation.
Monday, March 31, 2025
Recording of Yesterday's Sermon
Last week's feast days meant I didn't post a link to the video of my sermon on my YouTube channel. Today I'll get back in that habit. Here is yesterday's sermon, where I preach on the parable of the Prodigal Son, or as I prefer to call it, the Parable of the Two Lost Sons.
If you'd like to read along, the print copy of the sermon is here in yesterday's blog post.
Sunday, March 30, 2025
Sermon for Sunday, March 30, 2025
March 30, 2025
By Kristin Berkey-Abbott
Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32
Today’s parable is a response to the grumblings of religious leaders, to the question of why is Jesus acting differently than we might expect. Today’s parable is actually the third in a series. Before the parable of the lost sons, Jesus tells the very short parable of the lost coin, the longer parable of the lost sheep and the shepherd who goes out to find it, and now, the parable of these two lost sons. We tend to focus on the prodigal son, but both boys are broken.
We’re probably familiar with this story, and our familiarity can keep us from seeing some of the finer nuances. The set up of the story: man acquires wealth, ne’er do well son wants his share in advance, father agrees—we might see these plot developments as serious breaches of etiquette, but we likely don’t understand it the way that Jesus’ listeners would have.
Jesus taught in a time when it became increasingly difficult to hang onto ancestral lands, and at a time when loss of land meant an instant plunge into poverty and precariousness. A younger son asking for his share of the inheritance might shock them in the same way that it might shock us, but there would have been the additional shock for first century listeners at the audacity of the son assuming he would get an inheritance at all. Customs were changing by the time of Jesus, but historically, the younger son would get no more than 1/3 a share of inheritance. The father’s decision to liquidate land holdings would have been seen as much more scandalous. There’s also the complication of selling ancestral heritage. Many of us are not living in homes that our parents and grandparents lived in, and even if we are, we don’t see the land and the home on it as prepared for us by God. If we sell our homes, we don’t see it as an act that negates a covenantal relationship with the Creator, the way that first century humans would.
The younger son takes his inheritance and goes off to a distant land where he won’t be bothered by family connections. We might understand this yearning, but first century humans would not. Just as land gives security, so does family, according to a first century mindset.
The younger son squanders his money, the same way he squanders all the advantages that he had at home--no surprise to us or to first century listeners. His decision to accept a job feeding pigs would be a profound shock to Jewish listeners, as would his temptation to eat pig food himself, if any had been offered to him. This part of the plot would show how profoundly debased the younger son has become.
But then, the younger son sees an opportunity. He comes to his senses. Another translation says, “He returned to himself.” He remembers who he is, and whose he is—or was. He has hope that his father will let him return as a servant. It’s one of the only wise decisions we’ve seen the younger son make. There’s also a less generous interpretation, that the younger son sees an opportunity to get even more money out of his father, that his return to himself is the self we see at first, the manipulative, conniving self.
The father’s response probably makes sense to us in the 21st century. We’ve probably had a variation of this type of experience—love goes silent, but then, somehow, we rekindle it. Friends leave, children leave, family members leave—but if they’re still alive, some part of us yearns for them to return, and some part of us might always be watching, and in the meantime, we make do with phone calls and video chats.
First century listeners would be shocked at the father’s reaction. Just as the younger son debases himself, the father debases himself in rushing out to greet the younger son. First century listeners would expect the father to reject the son who has so dishonored him. Perhaps we do too: fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice . . . But the father not only embraces his boy, but throws a party to have the whole community participate in the welcoming. And where is the older son? Has he been invited? He has to hear what is going on from a slave. No matter where we are in our family systems, we must feel that sting.
And then, the next dishonoring: the older son throws a jealous fit. I suspect that the older son’s reaction is not unfamiliar to many of us. We’re here in church, week after week, which suggests to me that we are the responsible ones in the family and society dynamics where we live. We’re the ones who go to work, whether we feel like it or not. We’re the ones who save for the future. We’re the ones who make the weekly phone calls, who plan the family get togethers, the ones who know which members are OK and which are faltering. And what reward do we get? I know that there are seasons where we choke on the unfairness of it all. It’s easy to envy the ease with which some of our society just do their own thing and give themselves to riotous living—or worse, take from others who can least afford it and have not received their just compensation. It’s normal to feel resentful when those riotous partiers do not get any sort of punishment and worse, are given even more opportunities and celebrated.
The older son’s response might not have puzzled first century listeners or us, but the father’s actions towards the older son would have. The father goes to talk to the older son. He leaves his guests whom he has invited to his house—a serious breach of etiquette. He argues from a place of abundance, while the older son reacts out of a space of scarcity and righteous indignation. It’s worth considering where we are. Who are we in the story? Are we the oldest son, feeling overlooked and abandoned? Are we the younger son, scattering resources? Are we the father, eager to share and rejoice when the lost have been found?
The traditional approach to this parable is to see the Father character representing God, with a love that we cannot hope to offer to others. In writing a book-length exploration of this parable, theologian Henri Nouwen says, "Perhaps the most radical statement Jesus ever made is: 'Be compassionate as your Father is compassionate.' . . . "what I am called to make true is that whether I am the younger or the elder son, I am the son of my compassionate Father. I am an heir. . . . The return to the Father is ultimately the challenge to become the Father" (123).
How on earth can we accomplish this? Nouwen suggests that we cultivate these three traits: "grief, forgiveness, and generosity" (128). To those I would add that we should commit ourselves to believing in resurrection. Believe in the possibility of second (and third and fourth and fifth) chances. Continue to hope that the lost will be found. New Testament scholar Amy-Jill Levine reminds us that we may not need to go far—the lost ones may be in our own households. We can rejoice at the return of the prodigals. Levine tells us not to wait for apologies that may never come or forgiveness that may be far away before we throw a fabulous party to rejoice.
And here’s the way that we can mirror the radical love of God. When we notice that someone is missing from the party, someone is standing in the shadows, stewing in resentment, anger, grief, envy—we can leave the guests that are more fun and go get that person, assuring them that they were always invited, never an afterthought. God calls us to love each other in this way.
The parable is unfinished, probably on purpose. We don’t know the older son’s response. Is family harmony rebuilt? Does the prodigal son leave again? Does the older son believe that he has a place in his father’s heart? We don’t know. We don’t even know what the son says. We want to know what happens next, and Jesus doesn’t tell us. It could be his way of indicting the Pharisees and us—or it could be Jesus’ way of inviting us into the story. What does the son say to his father’s radical love? What will we say in the face of God’s radical and abundant love?
Friday, March 28, 2025
Week of Smoke, Week of Encouragement
It has been a strange week, a wonderful week, a tiring week, a good week overall for me personally but not so much for larger communities. Let me record a few snippets.
--It's been the week when we've learned that some of the highest federal government folks have been talking on unsecured networks; this week's scandal has been dubbed "Signalgate." I've been shaking my head, as many people have. Many of us have had to go through yearly trainings to remind/teach/train us of the importance of keeping secure information secure. And one doesn't need these trainings--it's common sense. Grrr.
--It's been a week of other kinds of smoke. We've had lots of fire in the Carolina mountains. So far my house is safe, but the smoke is visible, and the air quality is poor. As I drive back and forth to Spartanburg, I can see huge plumes of smoke in the distance. We need rain, a few days of soaking (but not torrential!) rain. More than that, we need the downed trees cleared away, but I'm not sure how that will happen.
--We've had family members in town as one of the next generations scouts wedding venues. It's been great to be with them. It was too brief, but brief visits are better than no visits.
--My seminary schedule is a bit strange, with lots of due dates next week. The good news is that by getting this work done now, I'll have less to do later. But I am feeling loaded down.
--The two classes that I'm taking have been particularly good this week, so that's a blessing. And I've gotten good feedback--much needed encouragement, encouragement needed because I'm tired, not because I'm doubting myself.
--It's also been a good teaching week, with encouragement and praise. It's nice to feel appreciated. And it's a marvel to be praised for all the things I do, like the quilting bee on Monday. I've worked at many a place where people would have questioned what any of that had to do with writing an essay, with the insinuation that I should just do my job. And it's nice to be in a place that has space to do a quilting bee.
--I had students who came to the quilting bee who wanted me to do it again, and one student who wishes I would teach a sewing class. I wish I had those kind of sewing skills. I can't take a pattern and cloth and end up with a shirt.
Even though it will be an intense week-end getting next week's seminary tasks done, it will be good to have a day when I'm not driving. It will be good to have some time to get the work done.
Wednesday, March 26, 2025
Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel
First Reading: Joshua 5:9-12
Psalm: Psalm 32
Second Reading: 2 Corinthians 5:16-21
Gospel: Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32
Ah, the Parable of the Prodigal Son. We've heard it so many times that we may have forgotten pertinent details. We remember clearly the younger son, the one who squanders his fortune in a foreign land and becomes so hungry and desperate that he yearns for swine food. We understand this part of the parable. Even if we haven't been the wastrel child, who among us has not occasionally envied the ease with which some of our society just do their own thing and give themselves to riotous living. We assume the younger son represents us as our worst sinner selves.
We forget that this story has two lost sons.
Yes, the older son is just as lost as the younger. Perhaps more so.
Look at his behavior and see if you recognize yourself. He has to find out from the servants what is going on. He hasn't been invited to the party. He has done all the right things, been steadfast, honored his father and society, and what does he get? Does he get a party? No!
Which child is more lost? The one who gives into his animal nature, who indulges in carnal pleasures? Or the one who shows himself to have all sorts of repressed anger, a well of resentment that erupts all over his poor father?
In his book, The Return of the Prodigal Son, Henri Nouwen says, "Looking deeply into myself and then around me at the lives of other people, I wonder which does more damage, lust or resentment?" (71). What a powerful question!
Nouwen sees this parable as being about love and how we're loved and how we're afraid that we won't be loved. We spend a lot of time looking for the approval of others. Nouwen says, "As long as I keep running about asking: 'Do you love me? Do you really love me?' I give all power to the voices of the world and put myself in bondage because the world is filled with 'ifs.' The world says: 'Yes I love you if you are good-looking, intelligent, and wealthy. I love you if you have a good education, a good job, and good connections. I love you if you produce much, sell much, and buy much'" (42). Obviously, we can't win this game.
Luckily, we don't have to win. God loves us regardless. Of course, learning this lesson of love may take us a lifetime. We have to force ourselves to the disciplines that will thaw our frozen hearts. Nouwen suggests, "Although we are incapable of liberating ourselves from our frozen anger, we can allow ourselves to be found by God and healed by his love through the concrete and daily practice of trust and gratitude" (84).
The traditional approach to this parable is to see the Father character representing God, which is certainly true. But many of us assume we cannot love the way God can. Maybe not. But we have to try. Nouwen says, "Perhaps the most radical statement Jesus ever made is: 'Be compassionate as your Father is compassionate.' . . . "what I am called to make true is that whether I am the younger or the elder son, I am the son of my compassionate Father. I am an heir. . . . The return to the Father is ultimately the challenge to become the Father" (123).
How on earth can we accomplish this? Nouwen suggests that we cultivate these three traits: "grief, forgiveness, and generosity" (128). To those I would add that we should commit ourselves to believing in resurrection. Believe in the possibility of second (and third and fourth and fifth) chances. Believe that the lost will be found. Believe that the Prodigal will return. Throw a fabulous party. And when you notice that someone is missing from the party, someone is standing in the shadows, stewing in resentment, anger, grief, envy--go get that person and invite them to the party. Remember that we are children of a God whose love we cannot begin to comprehend.
Model that behavior.
Tuesday, March 25, 2025
Poems for the Feast Day of the Annunciation
Today is the Feast Day of the Annunciation, which celebrates the day the angel Gabriel visited Mary to tell her that God had a vision for her and for the salvation of the world and invited her to play a huge role. She asked a question or two and then said yes.
I've spent much of my life thinking about this pivotal moment. In my early years, I thought about consent. In my childhood years, we didn't think much about consent as we discussed this story; we thought about the honor of being chosen. In my teenage years, I thought about the burden of being the mother of the messiah. I thought about consent--was God a rapist?
I have since decided that Mary could have said no, which made me think about other women who might have said no along the way. Was Mary God's first choice? I've also thought about modernizing the story, which is a typical approach of mine.
Here's a poem I wrote some years ago now. (for more process notes, see this blog post), which was included in the book Annunciation:
A Girl More Worthy
The angel Gabriel rolls his eyes
at his latest assignment:
a virgin in Miami?
Can such a creature exist?
He goes to the beaches, the design
districts, the glittering buildings
at every boundary.
Just to cover all bases, he checks
the churches but finds no
vessels for the holy inside.
He thinks he’s found her in the developer’s
office, when she offers him coffee, a kind
smile, and a square of cake. But then she instructs
him in how to trick the regulatory
authorities, how to make his income and assets
seem bigger so that he can qualify
for a huge mortgage that he can never repay.
On his way out of town, he thinks he spies
John the Baptist under the Interstate
flyway that takes tourists
to the shore. But so many mutter
about broods of vipers and lost
generations that it’s hard to tell
the prophet from the grump,
the lunatic from the T.V. commentator.
Finally, at the commuter college,
that cradle of the community,
he finds her. He no longer hails
moderns with the standard angel
greetings. Unlike the ancients,
they are not afraid, or perhaps, their fears
are just so different now.
The angel Gabriel says a silent benediction
and then outlines God’s plan.
Mary wonders why Gabriel didn’t go
to Harvard where he might find
a girl more worthy. What has she done
to find God’s favor?
She has submitted
to many a will greater than her own.
Despite a lifetime’s experience
of closed doors and the word no,
she says yes.
It's a topic I return to again and again, a question I continue to have. What relevance does this Bible story have to our modern lives? I am thinking of a nap I took years ago, when I woke up and looked at a palm tree, and a poem came to me. I took this picture of the tree:
Look at the two browner fronds at the bottom, closest to the trunk--don't they look like a pair of wings? That musing led to this poem:
In the early hours of this feast
day of the Annunciation, I listen
for God’s invitation, but all I hear
is the roar of a motorcycle speeding
away after last call. The rustle
of the palm fronds in the wind,
the only angel wings today,
as I lay enfolded in the arms
of my beloved of thirty years.