Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The readings for Sunday, May 18, 2025:

First Reading: Acts 11:1-18

Psalm: Psalm 148

Second Reading: Revelation 21:1-6

Gospel: John 13:31-35

When I was a child, I wished that my family was part of a more rigorous religion. I wanted to go to Confession every week. I wanted to do more penance than just saying I was sorry. I thought it would be neat to be a kosher Jew, with lots of laws to keep. The Lutheran concept of grace didn't thrill me very much. It just seemed so easy.

In today's Gospel, we get our marching orders: "I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another." (verses 34-35). When I was a child, I would have rolled my eyes and asked for a harder assignment.

Now that I am older, I think that loving each other is plenty hard enough. As a grown up, I think that following dietary laws would be an easier command. I think of all the other things Jesus could have required of us, and some part of me wishes for one of those.

Why is it so hard to love each other?  We don't want to get involved. We don't know what to say. We don't know how to act. So, we take the easier route and lose ourselves in our busy routines. We get so frantic with our schedules that we don't have time for ourselves, much less each other, much less God.

But Jesus tells us firmly that we are to love each other. He doesn't tell us how, but he shows us. This Gospel lesson comes after the washing of the disciples' feet and a leisurely dinner.

If we don't know how to love each other, we might start by sharing meals together. We have to eat, no matter how fast-paced our lives. Why not take some time to slow down as we nourish ourselves? Why not take some time to nourish ourselves in other ways? By sharing meals, we open up the door to love.

We might engage in other behaviors that open our hearts to love. We might try not saying negative things about each other. It's so easy to gossip. It's so easy to make ourselves feel good by pointing out the faults of others. But why do that? Why not focus on the good of our fellow travelers with us on our journeys?

Refusing to bash others verbally could be our modern equivalent of foot washing. We could show our care not by lavishing attention on physical bodies, but by lavishing our attention on the good qualities of others.

We live in a culture that prefers to argue, to fight, to tear down. Focusing on the good qualities of others seems as intimate in our current climate as foot washing must have seemed in the time of Jesus.

Of course, to focus on those good qualities, we have to get to know each other well enough to know what those good qualities are. Back to the dinner table!

I've only focused on two ways of loving each other; the ways to love are infinite. Choose the one that calls to you and decide that this will be your ministry. Know that you will have to gently refocus your efforts time and time again, as you move along. Fortify your efforts by asking God to help you, so that you can glorify God, so that everyone will know the God you serve by the efforts you make to serve others.

Graduation Recap

Yesterday at the end of graduation, I said to one of my professors that I didn't think I would have many more experiences that were that meaningful in my remaining years on the earth.  My professor started to protest, and then we looked at each other, and she said, "You're probably right."  A graduation ceremony in the national cathedral, a graduation where we were lifted up and affirmed before being sent out into the world to do the work we're called to do--no, it won't get much better than that.

I knew that my graduation would be livestreamed, and I hoped that it would be available as a recording too.  Hurrah--it is!  You can view it here, and be sure to watch the benediction at the end, at hour 1, minute 58.  It was the most passionate benediction that I've ever seen, and I felt so blessed--not in the "Have a blessed day" kind of blessed, but the "I am casting a spell of protection over you as I give you your marching orders" kind of blessed.

We got to the cathedral in plenty of time, and there were still parking places left in the parking garage.  I took leave of my family to go wait in the Joseph of Arimathea chapel.  We stood in alphabetical order and waited and waited for it to be time to walk to the back of the cathedral.  

It was great to have that downtime before graduation, a chance to chat with my fellow students.  I reconnected with a student who invited me to go to a Carolyn Forche reading with her in the spring of 2023 (I wrote this blog post about it).  We talked about how rewarding it had been to be in classes, instead of learning on our own.  Before I went to seminary, I wondered if I couldn't just accomplish a similar amount of learning if I bought a lot of books and read them.  Perhaps I could have come up with something similar, but I wouldn't have been able to replicate the insights that came from professors and fellow students.

At first my heart fell a bit when I saw the program; it shouldn't come as a surprise when a seminary graduation is more like a worship service.  I was happy that all of the presentations and acceptance speeches and the main speech were so compelling.  More than once I reflected on how grateful I am to have been part of a seminary that is so committed to social justice, to diversity, to acceptance, to being a faithful and powerful witness in the heart of the nation's capital.

Soon it was time to get our diplomas.  We went to wait our turn, and then, suddenly, there's my name being called, and I made my way across the platform.  We got our actual diplomas, and I was happy that my name was correct--no reason that it shouldn't be, but it's more common that some part of my name is misspelled than that various entities get it right.

We got our fiery benediction, and off we went, out into the cloudy afternoon.  I was grateful that the rain held off, grateful that I was able to find my family, and so, so grateful that I was in a space where I could be fully present.  I didn't have a boss who told me that I couldn't go or who said that I needed to check in.  All of my jobs have been at a stopping point, a serendipity that I couldn't have engineered any more perfectly.

We ate dinner at Millie's, which had a synchronicity that delighted me.  During my first walk as a seminary resident, I discovered Millie's and came back for an ice cream--that became my occasional treat.  My sister and I ate there a few times.  The first time I had the steak salad, it was amazing.  It hasn't been that wonderful since, but I was happy to have it one last time with my family:  salads and wine and a dessert that a fellow student had sent to us.  What an expansive generosity yesterday we experienced yesterday!

At the end of the day, my spouse gave me a gift that he picked out at the cathedral gift shop:  beautiful blue prayer beads on a bracelet, with a charm that contains a small bit of paper with a Bible verse that reminds me not to worry.  I think of how many worries I've had about seminary:  could I do the work, would I have enough internet bandwidth, could I maintain all the kinds of balance I want to maintain?

I am glad to have the answers to those questions.

I am happy to have this diploma, this degree completed.

Graduation Morning

 It is graduation morning, a day which may have seemed improbable years ago, before Covid, before seminaries started experimenting with distance learning, before higher education began its long and then sudden decline, before, before, before.

I have earned an MDiv from Wesley Theological Seminary, and later today, I'll participate in the graduation ceremony that happens in the National Cathedral.  It starts at 2, and you could watch from a distance by way of this livestream link:  https://youtube.com/live/hAGLcoosBYo?feature=share

I am not sure what to expect, beyond the usual:  lots of folks in caps and gowns, walking across some sort of stage to get a diploma.  I have participated in many graduations, but rarely as the one getting the diploma.

I have sensible shoes, and I'll wear the olive skirt with the pockets, not the black but pocketless skirt that would blend with the gown better.  I am not nervous about the graduation ceremony.  I'm not speaking, after all.  My family will park the car, and I'm hoping we'll be early enough that they can get a space in the parking garage.

Because the Eucharist ceremony was on Thursday, we've spent several days here in the DC area, days with family members, precious time.  Some of us have been in a local hotel, sharing space with lots and lots of soccer players who are in town for various championship games.  This morning, I'm hearing sniffling and sneezing and hoping it's just allergies.  I have avoided airline flights for a variety of reasons, but belatedly, I'm thinking about the risks of crowded hotels.  We haven't lingered in common spaces or crowded spaces, so hopefully we'll be O.K.

I'm thinking about the last time I stayed in this hotel, back in October for the onground intensive week.  At that time, it seemed more populated by business travelers.  I remember feeling so exhausted, not just from the intensive work, but also from the cumulative fatigue that comes from having a natural disaster fall on one's head.

It's good to remember that it hasn't all been easy. I still feel a bit weird, like people are making too much fuss over me.  After all, I've enjoyed my classes and most of the work felt like it came naturally to me.  But as I think about this 4 year journey, I am reminded of all the ways it has taken perseverance.  It's good to celebrate these milestones.

Thinking about Anna the Prophetess on Mother's Day

It's interesting to arrive at Mother's Day after I've spent time this semester thinking about the depictions of women in the birth narratives of Jesus.  I took a seminary class on Christmas and Easter, and I knew I would need to write a paper.  I thought about Elizabeth, who has been interesting to me for years, as I got older, and I started to realize how few older women are in the narratives of Jesus and how rarely we focus on older people at all.

So, I decided to write about Anna.  Here's what I wrote in part of my final project:

When I think of Anna, I compare her to Elizabeth, who is also very old. For many years, I looked to Elizabeth as a model of a way to be a post-menopausal woman in society. As you know, I think that the Church needs to do more to minister to the spiritual needs of people at midlife, particularly at the far side of midlife, the side that is closer to old age than adolescence. In some ways, Elizabeth is a great example. Finally her deferred dreams come true—how glorious! 

But her story offers a particularly patriarchal fulfillment, in the form of a baby. I do understand the kind of currency that a baby represents in the first century. But it is a vision of wish fulfillment that may not speak to twenty-first century Christians of any gender or age, particularly for those of us who are older. If offered a baby in my old age, a baby that I had to grow in my previously empty womb, I would say no thank you.

----

Back to me, writing this blog post.  It seems strange to be sounding anti-mother, on this Mother's Day.  We'll likely hear/read lots of rah-rah posts/sermons/articles on mothers today, and I have nothing against that.  I also suspect we'll hear lots of folks reminding us of how painful the topic of motherhood is and reminding us how many people around us might have tried to have children without success and might have been silent about the subject.  We'll also see/hear plenty about how so many of us nurture, even without biological connection.

But there are plenty of women who don't have much connection with this nurturing angle.  And there are plenty of men who might wonder why we're still so gendered when it comes to this subject.

Let me finish with the conclusion to my seminary project.  It seems a good way of thinking about all these angles:

As you can see, Anna’s story is full of important reminders for us today. If we’re feeling old and washed up, God still has a place for us. If we’re feeling young and insignificant, God has opportunities that the rest of our culture may not offer. No matter how many ways we feel barren, new growth is possible. God’s good news is more inclusive than we dared imagine. And we are at a hinge point of history where it is more important than ever to deliver that good news to a world that is so hungry to hear it.

Prayers of Blessing at a Seminary Eucharist Service

Yesterday was an even more interesting juxtaposition of events than I thought that we would have when I first wrote a blog post in the morning.  In the morning, I learned of the death of Martha Silano.  In a way, it wasn't a surprise.  I knew of her ALS diagnosis, and her latest poems showed how quickly the disease was progressing.  Here is her May 3 Facebook post:  “If I could eat just one sliver of Genoa salami … and maybe a bite of crispy bagel …. I’d give back every poem I’ve ever written.”

Those words have haunted/inspired me in the days since, the idea that we never know when the things we enjoy might become unavailable to us, because of disease or the forces of history or the lack of time or tariffs or any other reason we want to plug in.  I think of all the times when I've been worried about something (weight gain or would I have enough money to pay the bills or would a teaching schedule come through or why did someone wrinkle their face a weird way which might mean that they are annoyed with me) when I should have been cherishing the moment in a different way, a savoring the richness way.

I thought of Martha Silano at lunch.  My mom, dad, spouse, and I had gone up to Fredericksburg, MD, and we ate at The Wine Kitchen.  It was the perfect day to enjoy their patio seating that overlooked the Carroll Creek, which had a vibe that was both commercial and natural; the weather was perfect with a light breeze, and it was shady.  They had a lunch special that included a glass of wine.  I had the glass of wine for many reasons:  because it went so well with the mushroom strudel, because it was a good deal, because it was part of a perfect lunch.  In my head, I made a toast to Martha Silano and all the wise ones who have reminded me that we need to enjoy life as we can, in all the ways that we can.

During the afternoon, we found out that we have a new pope.  There was some time in the afternoon between lunch and leaving for seminary for the Eucharist service, and I did some reading.  Pope Leo seems like an interesting choice (a Chicago native who spent so many years in Peru that he became a naturalized citizen of Peru).

And then we headed down to D.C.  We left early, because one can never be sure about rush hour traffic.  We got there a bit early, but that was good, because I could get the tickets my family will need to get into the graduation ceremony.  There was a moment when the person in charge of tickets looked at the list, and I felt this fear that maybe I wasn't on the list, that maybe there was some requirement I had forgotten.  Happily, that fear was ungrounded.  I got the tickets, and we went to the chapel.

It was wonderful to sit in the chapel, being surrounded by classmates and family members.  I was touched by how many people remembered me from my brief time living on campus; a few people could still call me by name.  The Eucharist service included a blessing of graduates-to-be by individual faculty members.  We waited in a line, and as each person was free, we processed to them.  I felt lucky to be blessed and prayed over by a faculty member whom I liked:  I took both her Ethics class and her Stories of Power class.  Some of the faculty members I didn't know, and I wondered how that prayer would have been--much more generic, I imagine.

My prayer/blessing included mention of me as a Literature professor, as someone who inspires good in the world, as someone who is both confident but with humility.  I found myself wishing I could have recorded it in some way.

But then I thought about how much I have recorded, which often means I'm not truly in the moment.  I tried to concentrate on staying present and tried not to think about how much concentration it takes to stay present with the moment.

There was a reception afterwards, with heavy appetizers, which made our evening meal.  We ended with a glass of wine each back at the hotel, a wonderful end to a wonderful day.

We live in a time where everyone uses the word "blessed" so much that it seems stripped of meaning:  "How are you today?"  "Blessed"--or "Have a blessed day."  But I really do feel blessed, along with the guilt that comes along with that.  Why do I get to enjoy a day like yesterday when a talented poet like Martha Silano does not get a longer time on the earth?  Even theological thinkers have some trouble with that question.

In the end, let me just remember that if we're lucky, we have good days, and the good days aren't a sure thing.  Let me remember to live with intention, to seek out the good days, to arrange my life so that good days are more likely. 

Contemplating Julian of Norwich During Graduation Week

Today is the feast day of Julian of Norwich, at least for Lutherans, Episcopalians, and Anglicans; Catholics will celebrate on May 13. Tonight I will go back to my seminary campus for the Eucharist service for students who are graduating with their Masters degrees, and there's a dinner and reception afterward.  How wonderful to be celebrated this way!

And how different from how Julian of Norwich has been celebrated, or ignored, through the centuries.  She was alive from roughly 1343 to 1416, a tumultuous time with the Black Death making its first appearance in England and a revolt of peasants that spread across the country.  She lived in Norwich, which was a center of commerce and a center of religion.  

I've been interested in Julian of Norwich for a long time.  When I first started teaching the British Literature survey class in 1992, the Norton Anthology had just added her to the text used in so many survey classes.  Why had I not heard of her before?  After all, she was the first woman writing in English, at least the first one whose writing we still have.

My students and I found her writing strange, and I found her ideas compelling.  She had a series of visions, which she wrote down, and spent her life elaborating upon. She wrote about Christ as a mother--what a bold move! After all, Christ is the only one of the Trinity with a definite gender. She also stressed God is both mother and father. Here in the 21st century, we're still arguing about gender and Julian of Norwich explodes the gender binary and gives us a vision of God the Mother, God the Wife--and it's not the Virgin Mary, whom she also sees in her visions.

Her visions showed her that God is love and compassion, an important message during the time of the Black Death.  She is probably most famous for this quote, "All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well," which she claimed that God said to her. It certainly sounds like the God that I know too.

Although she was a medieval mystic, her work seems fresh and current, even these many centuries later. How many writers can make such a claim?

A few years ago, I read her complete works, which I didn't enjoy as much as I thought I would.  The writing seemed circular, coming back to many ideas again and again, with lots of emphasis on the crucified, bleeding Jesus, lots of focus on suffering and sin. The excerpts that most of us read, if we read her at all, are plenty good enough.  I was both disappointed to discover that, and yet happy.

Not for the first time, I wonder what's been lost to history in terms of writing. If she was thinking about some of these explosive ideas, might others have been even more radical? What happened to them?

I'm grateful that we have her work--at least there's something that gives us a window into the medieval mind, which was more expansive than we usually give credit for.  And I'm grateful that so many people have discovered her in the decades since the Norton Anthology first included her.

I'll keep her in mind today, as I participate in ancient rituals, like Communion, that she, too, celebrated.  I'll keep her in mind as I discern next steps on the path.  My path would seem as strange to her as hers does to me--although I will confess that the cell of an anchoress/anchorite is appealing on some days.  I love the idea of ancient church rites and rituals that connect us across centuries--may they continue!

Getting Ready for Graduation

Part of what I will do during this brief May break is going to various doctors.  Nothing is wrong, but I am at that time of life where preventative maintenance takes more time.  Specifically, I have my first colonoscopy two weeks from now.

Yesterday I went to an ENT.  I've had various doctors look at my left ear, and the audiologist referred me to the ENT because she wasn't comfortable with the amount of hard wax that was in my left ear.  I made the appointment and then got very intentional about using the earwax softening drops every night.  Happily, it worked.  The ENT was able to get the impacted wax out with injections of warm water, which was unpleasant but not as painful as scraping would be.

Still, it all left me a bit sore and unsettled, which was not a surprise, which was why I postponed this appointment until the week when I didn't have teaching or seminary classes to take.  I spent much of yesterday afternoon sitting and sewing and waiting for the aspirin to take effect.  In the evening, I packed a bit for the upcoming graduation festivities.

I feel a bit strange, doing all the graduation festivities.  But I've always done them.  It feels important to mark the time that way.  It feels a bit self-indulgent, although I remind myself that no one has to come see me.  And it's not like I have to take time off work to do all the graduation festivities.  

Life reminds me over and over again that I may think I have lots of chances to travel, to be with loved ones, to do out of the ordinary activities--but that's getting less and less true, as I get older.  

Plus, this graduation is in the National Cathedral--this graduation will likely be the only one I've ever had in the National Cathedral. 

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The readings for Sunday, May 11, 2025:

First Reading: Acts 9:36-43

Psalm: Psalm 23

Second Reading: Revelation 7:9-17

Gospel: John 10:22-30

This week's Gospel reading takes us back to the metaphor of the sheep. Those of us living post-agricultural lives probably don't know how stupid sheep are. The idea that we are sheep is not attractive. And yet we have a shepherd who loves us and calls to us, no matter how many times we wander away and get into scrapes.

What would a more modern metaphor be? That of the clueless student, who nonetheless can respond to a specific voice? That of a computer that is just a dumb box of electronics until the right programmer comes along? The electrical circuits that are mute until electricity flows from the power plant?

We might also ponder the nature of the questioners in this passage. They say to Jesus, "If you're the Messiah, we wish that you would just say so."

This moment must be one of those that would drive Jesus to thoughts of taking up a really bad habit to deal with the pain of these people who just don't get it. Jesus must have considered just giving up on the whole salvation project since he was undergoing so much to save such clueless people. How many more ways did he have to say/demonstrate/show that he was the Messiah before people could understand?

Before we spend too much time congratulating ourselves for recognizing the voice of our shepherd, we might consider all the ways that Christ calls to us and we refuse to hear. Christ tells us to give away our wealth, and we rationalize: surely he didn't mean all of it. Jesus tells us to care for the sick, and we do a good job of that, some of us, as long as we liked the sick person back when that person was well. Jesus tells us to visit those in prison. I haven't done that--have you? In short, Jesus tells us to care for the poor and oppressed and to work for a more just society. How many of us do that?

This idea that we should focus on the poor and the oppressed is revolutionary.  Jesus knows that if we do that, we can change the world.  But even if that change takes awhile (and it does), in the process, we change ourselves in essential ways.

Jesus reminds us again and again that we're not just doing charity work, but we're also trying to create a more just world.  We don't share our food just to fill the hungry stomachs, although that's important.  We should also work to transform the social structure that keeps people hungry.

We have many opportunities to work for justice. Most of us don't because we lead lives that leave us tired. But often, a group that works for good in the world can energize us. Find a group that works to alleviate a social injustice that particularly pains you and join it. Write letters to your elected officials. Help build a Habitat house. At the very least, you can give food (real food, not just the castaways from your pantry) to a food bank. At the very least, you can clean out your closets and give your perfectly good clothes to the poor.

In this way, we can help God, who is making a new creation. In this way, we respond to the call of our shepherd.

Recording of May 4, 2025 Sermon

The recording of my sermon for Sunday, May 4, can be viewed here, on my YouTube channel.  If you want to read along,  my sermon manuscript is in this blog post.

I was pleased with how the sermon went, how I didn't need to refer to my manuscript very often.  I liked my energy and the energy from the congregation.  It was a good morning.

Sermon for Sunday, May 4, 2026

 May 4, 2025

By Kristin Berkey-Abbott

 

Gospel: John 21:1-19

 

 

I was going to write a different sermon.  I had it planned out in my head.  It was going to be about the disciples not knowing what to do with all they had seen, so they go back to the life they had known before, their pre-Jesus life, their fishing life.  I thought that the previous chapter of John was vague enough about which disciples had seen the risen Lord that maybe they don’t even know about the Resurrection yet.

And then I went to seminary class on Thursday night, my very last seminary class, where we studied the Resurrection narrative in the book of John, which includes this chapter.  My seminary professor mentioned that this is the first time in the book of John that the disciples fish.  Sure, they are still from Galilee, a fishing culture to be sure, but the depictions of the disciples as fisherman come from other Gospels.

I knew that John had been written last of all the Gospels, so I asked if the writer of John knew of those Gospels.  My professor said that scholars have a 50/50 split—50%of them think that the writer did know, and 50 think not.  And it’s been this way since we’ve had the Gospel of John, unlike other Gospels, where our thinking about them may have changed radically along the way.

 

And when John mentions “the disciples,” the way that he does in the previous passage of John, the one we heard last week when the resurrected Jesus appears to the disciples in the locked room, the writer of John usually means all the 12 disciples, and probably more.  In today’s reading, it’s only 7 of them, and they’re named.

 

So, back to today’s passage and the strange response to the resurrected Jesus which happened in the previous chapter.  Instead of focusing on why Peter decides to go fishing, and I don’t really have the answer for that, let’s focus on the ways this passage feels familiar.  We know that the Gospel of John was written last, and there’s never been a manuscript of John without this last chapter—so the writer intended it to be there.  We also know that several hundred years later, when church fathers decided which books would become the Bible, they chose only these 4 Gospels, and they decided to put John last.  Modern readers and believers might be frustrated at all the ways the Gospel writers create stories about Jesus that don’t always agree with each other.  The early Church fathers chose these four Gospels because of how they work together to give us a more complete picture, not because they are the four that are the most accurate.

 

This last chapter of John feels like a fitting conclusion to all 4 Gospels.  There’s the fishing, which ties the book of John to the earlier Gospels and connects us to the idea of the new mission of these disciples, to go and fish for people.  They are fishing on the Sea of Tiberias, which is really the Sea of Galilee, renamed when a Roman ruler wanted to feel important.  The shadow of empire is long, even in this post-resurrection world.

 

The men have fished all night and caught nothing—another familiar element, another tie to earlier Gospels.  Jesus tells them to try again, and now they have so many fish that they can’t haul the nets into the boat—they have to drag it to shore behind the boat.  In some ways, it’s a foreshadowing of what Jesus says will happen to Peter when he’s older and will need to be led.

 

This abundance of nets full of fish that will be used for food—that’s a reference back to an earlier abundance, the feeding of the 5000 in the sixth chapter of John, which also happened by the Sea of Tiberias.  Over and over again, Jesus shows us the contrast between God’s power and the power of earthly empires.  An earthly ruler renames the Sea of Galilee after himself and raises the taxes so high that most people can barely survive.  And what does Tiberias do with the money?  Beautify the royal palace, of course.

 

Jesus, on the other hand, offers miraculous provision:  more fish and bread than we can eat, and basket after basket of left overs.  Jesus shows us who has the power to provide, and it’s not the earthly empires that demand our allegiance.

 

It is this abundance that enables the men to recognize Jesus, and even though they are only 100 yards from shore, less than a tenth of a mile, Peter cannot wait—he jumps in the water and swims ahead.  Jesus has cooked them breakfast

 

 

Jesus has been cooking breakfast over a charcoal fire—the only other time we see a charcoal fire in the book of John is when Peter betrays Jesus, saying not once but three times that he doesn’t know Jesus, as the people try to warm themselves beside a charcoal fire and determine if a traitor is among them.

 

Jesus gives Peter another chance to answer questions—three times, Peter has a choice to decide on his allegiance.  In much less scary circumstances, Peter has a chance to claim Jesus—and this time, he does.  It’s a powerful lesson for Peter, and a powerful lesson for us.  Here once again, as with Thomas last week, Jesus meets a disciple where he is.

 

Notice this final lesson in the book of John.  Jesus leaves the tomb and doesn’t look back.  Still bearing the physical wounds of betrayal, Jesus goes back to his friends.  He wants to share a meal, and that’s what he does.  I imagine it’s what we’d like to do with all the loved ones we have lost.

 

You might be looking at that rather ominous part of the message, about being led where we do not want to go.  The Resurrection message can be lost in the magic of the chance to have a meal again.  Post-resurrection life is not a return to the old life, even if it does have some of the markers of the old life:  a meal of fish and bread, a command to care for others similarly, an abundance that earthly powers cannot match.  It’s one of the central mysteries of our faith:  through Jesus, the powers of death are defeated, but for much of our lives, it very much appears that they are still in control, as we succumb to doubt and perhaps denial.

 

But rest assured, by the Sea of Tiberias, and forward through human history, the story of Jesus is one not of reversal of power, but of a redefinition of power.  Jesus shows us what is important in the breaking of the bread, the drinking of the wine, in all that those acts mean.  From the beginning of his ministry to the last meal on the beach, Jesus commands us to love God and love each other, and Jesus shows us what that love looks like.  Jesus shows us a quality of mercy and models that mercy for us—we can forgive each other the way that Jesus forgives Peter.  Jesus shows us how to feed each other physically and spiritually. 

 

We live in a world where Powers and Principalities don’t feed us, but instead try to train us to fight over the scraps left over from imperial rulers who don’t have our best interests at heart.  Jesus shows us that another world is possible, a world of abundance for all, not just for the ones at the top.  Let us show the same enthusiasm as Peter, diving into the water, an all-in response to our savior who waits on the beach, cooking us breakfast, offering forgiveness again and again. Let us cast down our nets again, even if we’re sure that it’s a pointless endeavor.  Let us recognize the abundance God offers, nets full to the point of breaking, breakfast waiting on the shore, sustenance for us all.

Last Seminary Paper Submitted

Last night, after my final seminary class session, I turned in my final seminary paper.  It was about recovering the voice of the prophet Anna, who we meet for 3 verses in the second chapter of Luke (36-38) after Simeon has hogged the spotlight.  We don't get Anna's words, but we do get her actions:  she sees Jesus and goes out to tell everyone the Messiah has come, which makes her the first evangelist after the birth of Jesus.  Thirty some odd years later, Mary Magdalene will also testify, but Anna is first.

It was a fun paper to write for a cool assignment.  In the first part of the assignment, 8-10 pages, we were to write an academic essay that looked in depth at the text that we chose, mostly exploring what others have said about the passage, and in the last part of the assignment, we had much more leverage to be creative:  we could write a sermon or a skit or an outline of something longer, but we had to explain the relevance of the material to a modern listener.

Much of the week, I've been focused on this assignment, but every so often, I let myself think about the whole seminary process, and what all has changed since I first explored the Wesley website, in February of 2021.  In a way, I'm very lucky:  the website described the seminary as it was before Covid.  Even now, as I look at the website, I see pictures of the largest lecture rooms on campus full of people.  When I was there, taking classes in person, we were able to space out across the room, and I was glad.  But the lower in-person attendance did mean that many of the campus opportunities described, like food service, no longer existed.

When I first applied to seminary, the school where I had my full-time job had been sold, but we weren't sure about the implications.  For a time, the new owners talked about consolidating, then they expanded, then they closed most of the campuses, then they closed them all.  I'm glad that I didn't count on them for future income.  I've never regretted leaving academic administration; I was always wanting to protect the interests of faculty and students, and people higher up wanted me to figure out how the school could make more money (they hired me, a PhD in English, and wondered why I couldn't figure out how to transform a campus into a money-making machine).

When I first applied to seminary, we had a house with a mortgage in a flood zone, less than a mile from the Atlantic Ocean.  In between then and now, we moved to a condo in downtown Hollywood, which we only lived in for 10 months before buying the house we own outright now, in the mountains of North Carolina.  We also moved some of our stuff to a seminary apartment, which I only lived in for 9 months.  It seemed certain that the building would be bulldozed to make room for a brand new building, but that hasn't happened yet.  I have no regrets about making the decision to move back to North Carolina.  I've been able to take the classes I need in the modality I need.

I do feel lucky that I got to experience seminary classes in a wide variety of modalities--and such a wide variety of classes.  I've taken art classes where I got to work in mediums that were new to me.  I've taken theology classes and Bible classes and preaching classes.  I've taken classes that didn't fit neatly into the subject matter.  I've had amazing professors who have astonishing credentials.

We've weathered a variety of disasters.  One was a disaster in the traditional definition of that term:  Hurricane Helene.  I expected that a hurricane might disrupt seminary when I lived in South Florida, but not in North Carolina.  The extent of the devastation still shocks me.  I broke my wrist, which was a survivable disaster, but it did require surgery (three years ago, on this very day), and it did complicate the end of my second semester (thank goodness for talk-to-text technology) and made the move to North Carolina harder than it had to be, since I couldn't pick up anything at all.  My husband's brother died suddenly, just six weeks after graduating from seminary himself.  I've spent my seminary years worrying that one of our parents would die, but I didn't expect a younger member of the family to drop dead.

My job trajectories have surprised me.  When I did all the pre-candidacy interviews, at the point after I described my job history, more than one person mentioned how my face lit up when I talked about teaching.  And here I am, teaching full-time in a face to face modality again.  When I first applied to seminary, I had never heard of Spartanburg Methodist College.  Now I don't understand why more people haven't heard of it:  it's a solid school with an amazing scholarship program. 

I've also had the opportunity to serve as a part-time Synod Appointed Minister, which has given me a lot of the joys of being part of church leadership with none of the headaches.  When I started applying to seminary, I would not have thought that I would be a good fit for a rural church in the mountains of east Tennessee.  Nothing has deepened my appreciation for worship like this appointment has.

Even though I'm finishing my MDiv, I'm still a distance from being ordained.  Because I went to a Methodist seminary, I have some Lutheran things to do, like CPE and at least one class in Lutheran theology and an internship (as of right now, my SAM experience can't count for an internship).  But I have no regrets about my seminary route.  It's been a wonderful experience, one that has shaped me, one that I will miss.

May Days and Feast Days

Here we are in the merry month of May--how can it already be May? The first day of May has ancient roots as a celebration of Spring and new growth and the return of warm weather. More recently, the first day of May has become a celebration of workers.

So let's think about some ways we could make the day special:

--The traditional way would be flowers, traditionally flowers that we would leave on dark porches for people to discover when they woke up. It's probably too late for that approach, but it's not too late to appreciate flowers. You could buy some flowers or a flowering plant. Or, for future enjoyment, you could do what we did: buy some seed packets, plant them, water them, and see what happens.

--It is probably also too late to weave long ribbons around a Maypole. But we could braid ribbons or strips of cloth and meditate on the types of joy we'd like to invite into our lives.

--Today is a good day to think about workers, workers of all sorts. We're having more of a national conversation these days about work, about gender, about who takes care of children and elders while people work, about the locations of work. I look forward to seeing how it all turns out--I'm holding onto hope for positive change, even as I'm afraid we can never make the improvements that need to be made.

--If we're one of the lucky types of workers, the ones who aren't under threat by bosses or by globalization or by robots, we can support those who aren't as lucky. Send some money to organizations that work for worker's rights. I'm impressed with the Coalition of Immokalee Workers, which works to protect the migrant workers in the fields of Florida, but you certainly have plenty to choose from.

--Can't afford to make a donation? Write letters on behalf of the unemployed, the underemployed, everyone who needs a better job or better working conditions. Write to your representatives to advocate for them. What are you advocating? A higher minimum wage? Safer worksites? Job security? Work-life balance?

--Today, Anglicans, Episcopalians, and Lutherans celebrate the feast day of Philip and James; others will celebrate May 3. These are not the most well-known disciples. Today you could reread the Gospels, a kind of literary Easter egg hunt, to try to find them.

--Can you create something that weaves these strands together? Here are some possibilities: a sculpture made out of ribbons that explores the world of migrant workers. A poem that celebrates flowers and contemplates the ways that we love some blooms (flowers) but not others (algae, cancer). A painting that uses weaving in some ways to think about the past century of efforts to enlarge the workplace and make it safer. A short story that updates the story of Philip--who would he be today?

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

  The readings for Sunday, May 4, 2025:

First Reading: Acts 9:1-6 [7-20]

Psalm: Psalm 30

Second Reading: Revelation 5:11-14

Gospel: John 21:1-19

Here we have another mystical encounter with the risen Christ. Notice that it's mystical and yet grounded in earthiness. Jesus makes a barbecue breakfast, and Simon Peter gets wet. It's mystical, yet rooted in second chances. It's mystical and yet a bit whimsical too. The men have fished all night and caught nothing. What does Jesus cook for breakfast? Fish.

This Gospel reading also has a lovely symmetry. It ends the ministry of Jesus in the way that it began, on the shore, with Jesus calling his disciples to mission. This Gospel story gives Peter a chance to redeem himself. He declares his love for Jesus three times, just the way he had previously denied Jesus three times.

The Gospel reading for Sunday reminds us of some of the essential messages Jesus gave us. We are to let down our nets, again and again, even when we have fished all night and caught nothing. Our rational brains would protest, "What's the point? We know there are no fish!" But Christ tells us to try again.

Even when we can't see the results, even when our nets are empty, there might be activity going on beneath the surfaces, in the deep depths of creation, where our senses can't perceive any action. We might need to repeat our actions, despite our being sure that it will be useless. We aren't allowed to give up. We aren't allowed to say, "Well, I tried. Nothing going on here. I'm going to return to the solitude of my room and not engage in the world anymore." No, we cast our nets again and again.

What do those nets represent? What do the fish represent? The answers will be different for each of us. For some of us, casting our nets might be our efforts at community building. For some of us, casting our nets might be our efforts to reach the unchurched. For some of us, we cast our nets into the depths of a creative process. We cast again and again, because we can't be sure of what we'll catch. Some days and years, we'll drag empty nets back to the shore. Some days and years, we'll catch more fish than we can handle.

The Gospel also reminds us that we're redeemable. I love the story of Jesus and Peter. Peter would have reason to expect that Jesus would be mad at him. But Jesus doesn't reject him. Jesus gives him an opportunity to affirm what he had denied in the past.

Jesus gives Peter a mission, and this mission is our mission: "Feed my sheep." There are plenty of sheep that need feeding and tending. We have our work cut out for us.

This Gospel shows us the way that it can all be done: we must work together, and we must take time to nourish ourselves. The men work together all night, and in the end, Jesus makes them a meal. Think about how much of Jesus' mission involved a meal. Jesus didn't just tend to the souls of those around him. He fed them, with real food. In doing so, he fed their souls and renewed his own ability to keep healing the world.

We must do the same.

Gone Fishing: Spiritual Formation in the Every Day

Yesterday I had a phone conversation with the church council president of the church in Bristol, TN where I am the Synod Appointed Minister.  At the end of the pleasant conversation, we were trying to figure out when we would see each other in person:  I am at church this Sunday but not next, and he is not in church this Sunday but will be next.

He said, "I'm going fishing.  I probably shouldn't tell you this, but that's where I'll be."

I said, "That actually fits in really well with where we are in the lectionary.  In this Sunday's Gospel, Peter has gone back to fishing, and that's where he sees Jesus again."

The church council president said, "I'll be thinking about that as I fish."

I was tempted to say, "My work here is done."  But I wasn't sure how it would come across over a phone line.  In person, I could have made it work.

I'm delighted, of course, when people come to church and find nourishment.  But faith formation can take place in so many ways, ways we might not expect.

I love the idea of taking an activity that doesn't seem sacred and finding the connections to Jesus and to the Gospel and to church history and to our ancestors.  Let me be alert for other opportunities.

 

Last Thoughts on the Create in Me Retreat; Last Weeks at Seminary

Here we are, the last week of April, the last week of seminary classes--wow.  Let me capture a few fragments from the past week-end.

--It was a great Create in Me retreat.  Closing worship was very moving, and I'm really glad that I rearranged my schedule to be able to stay.  I also helped with clean up, and then I got to spend the afternoon with a Create in Me friend who had flown in from Minnesota.  Her plane didn't leave until 7:45 p.m., so we had time to go to Sierra Nevada for lunch and a wander through their gardens and to pop by the Asheville Herb Festival at the Ag center.  We came back to my house, chatted some more, and then she took a nap on the sofa while I looked through resources for my seminary paper that's due on Thursday.

--I enjoy the retreat because of the wealth of supplies and the chance to create in mediums both familiar and new to me.  But I love the chance to catch up with friends.  Many of them I see only once or twice a year, but they are the kind of friends whom I would trust with my life.

--As I moved through the week-end, conversations swirled around me, which is part of the nature of the retreat:  one works at a table while others talk nearby, and sometimes, it's me doing the talking.  I was surprised by how many people have lost loved ones to Covid in the past few years.  I continue to be surprised by how many non-Covid deaths have been the "loved one was fine and then dropped dead suddenly."  I realize I'm getting old, and therefore, I'm more likely to have people in my orbit who die, both suddenly and in a prolonged way.

--As we wrapped up, someone asked me if they could have the butterfly that I made for my drop-in station as a sample.  I had left it at the gallery display area.  I was happy to give it away, and she acted so, so happy that I gave it to her.  That, in turn, made me even happier.

--I was able to get to yoga each morning.  We started with a song which is really a Psalm, 51:  1-2 and 10-12, and we learned some stretching moves to go along with them.  We also used the Graham Kendrick song.  All last night, these words were singing through my brain :  "Have mercy on me Oh God, according to your unfailing love, according to your great compassion, Blot out my transgressions, wash me away all my iniquity and cleanse me from my sin."

--Today will be a day of more grading than paper writing.  My Spartanburg Methodist College grades are due tomorrow, and I hope to have them all turned in today.  There should be time for a walk each day.

--Even though I have a lot to get done this week, it will feel more leisurely, since I'm not driving to Spartanburg each day.

Wounds and Scars and Doubting Thomas

Today in churches across Christendom, those of us following the Revised Common Lectionary will hear the story of Thomas, Thomas who wasn't there when Jesus appeared to the disciples (where was he?) and who didn't believe the story of resurrection.

And who can blame him?  What a strange tale it must have seemed.

We often focus on Jesus who blessed those of us who come later, who will believe without needing to experience the Resurrection with our five senses.  But what if there's another way to think about this story?

At the Create in Me retreat this week-end, we had Jacqueline Bussie as our Bible study leader.  We talked about the issue of wounds and shame, and Bussie looked back to Thomas.  Like many of us, she feels that Thomas gets a bad rap, but she points to a different angle.  She gives Thomas credit for being willing to sit with Jesus, wounds and all.  Many of us aren't comfortable with woundedness.  We don't want to let people talk about their scars.  We want to jump ahead to healing and wholeness and resurrection.

Bussie gives Thomas credit for being the most authentic friend to Jesus, the one who is comfortable with the wounds and the scars.  Perhaps it is Thomas' response that helps Jesus back to wholeness.

It's an interesting idea, and I wanted to be sure to record it for later.

The Feast Day of Saint Mark

Today is the feast day of Saint Mark. Looking back through my blog posts, I'm surprised to find out that I haven't written much about this feast day. It does often fall in a part of the month where I'm more likely to be at the Create in Me retreat. But it's also because it's hard to know who the real Saint Mark was. So many Marks, so hard to know for sure who did what.

Was he the author of the Gospel of Mark? The one who brought water to the house where the last supper took place? That strange naked man in the Crucifixion narrative? It's hard to say.

We do give him credit for founding the church in Egypt, and that fact alone seems important enough for him to have a feast day. I think of all the church traditions that can be traced back to northern Africa, particularly the work of the desert fathers and mothers, which led to so many variations of monastic traditions.

I also think of Augustine, the important thinker, one of the earliest Christian philosophers, who lived in Hippo. Would we have had Augustine if Mark hadn't been an evangelist to Egypt? It's hard to know. If Mark hadn't gone to Egypt, would someone else? Probably--but the outcome might have been completely different.

Today is also a good day to turn our thoughts back to those early evangelists, those early disciples. I often say that if you were putting together a team, you would not have chosen those men. But God's ways are not our ways when visualizing success.

So for those of us who are feeling inadequate, take heart. God's plans are greater than our own.

Favorite Classes

 I've spent all of my adult life as a teacher, and a good chunk of my adult life as a student.  When my American Lit class asked me if they were my favorite students, if they were the best class, I said, "If I made a list of my top 10 or top 20 classes, they would make the list."  Some of my students said, "Top 10 or top 20?"

I let the question go, but the answer would be, "It's complicated."  Should I compare them all, the upper class Brit Lit classes at FAU and the Developmental English classes at Broward Community College, as it was called then?  The students at the Art Institute of Ft. Lauderdale and the students at City College (not the famous one in NYC, but a South Florida health careers kind of school)--both closed now.   I have taught in schools in South Carolina and South Florida, but not many places in between, and those places are very different.  The University of Miami, where I taught for several years, is very different from FAU, which is very different than the local community colleges.

And yet, they are all more similar than different, all these schools where I've taught.  Most of the students are interested in learning, although not all in learning the same things.  All of the students want a better world with better opportunities--until recently, I'd have assumed we all did, whether in school or not.  I still assume that we all want a better world with better opportunities, although some people define that all more narrowly than I once assumed.

For me, what gets a class on my top 10 or 20 list is that I leave the room feeling better than when I came in--and that can happen for a variety of reasons.  I have often left the American Lit class feeling profoundly grateful for being able to teach a literature survey class one more time.  I enjoy teaching Composition too, but I have no doubt that I can do a variety of that kind of teaching until the day I die, or the day that AI becomes capable of doing it.  Literature survey classes have not come my way as an adjunct as often, and with the anti-Humanities feelings these days, it is a wonderful surprise to have the opportunity again.

Tonight I have the second to last class meeting of one of the best classes I've taken as a student, the seminary class that looks at the Christmas and Easter texts without all chapters about the life of Jesus in between.  It's a topic that interests me, but I've taken plenty of classes that interest me.  This class impresses me because of the quality of the discussion; at the end of every class, I always wish that we had more time.

Today is the start of the retreat that means so much to me, the Create in Me retreat.  In the past, when I've had a Thursday night class, I've skipped it to be at the retreat.  Today I won't be at the opening night activities.  Just as with Quilt Camp two weeks ago, I can't bear to miss this class.

I know it could be otherwise, and I am so grateful that my seminary years are ending this way, on a strong note, that makes me wish we had more time.

More Thoughts on Pope Francis

Since Monday, I've been thinking about Pope Francis, and there are better minds than mine who can explain his importance and where he fits historically.  I've particularly enjoyed a conversation with that appeared in The New York Times, and I've made it a gift article which you can access here.  David French, David Gibson, and Leah Libresco Sargeant do a great job of explaining what the Pope can do (not as much as many of us think) and what the Pope means in our current age.

I've been thinking about Pope Francis as the pope who prioritized the poor and the dispossessed.  That's one big reason why he mattered to me.  Of course I wish he had done more to move women into positions of leadership, but that was likely not reasonable of me to expect/wish.  The pope can't issue orders and force change in the way that we think.  The Pope can call a council and changes can come out of that.  But the Pope can't declare that women are now priests--as I understand it, that's outside of the Pope's power, which as David Gibson says, "The pope has supreme authority in the Catholic Church, and it’s supremely limited. There are certain things that the pope can’t do and he won’t do."

I find it fascinating that we live in such a secular age, and yet, the passing of the pope can make so many of us sad.  In some ways, that's the power that a pope has, that a president or prime minister is unlikely to ever have.

Francis provided a powerful model of how to live a faithful life, and his faithful priorities were often similar to mine.  I will miss him greatly.

April 24 update:  I also loved a conversation in The New York Times between Ross Douthat and Father James Martin, a gift article which you can access here.

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The readings for Sunday, April 27, 2025:

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 whole Bible 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. You have the breath of the Divine on you too. In our time of a ravaging respiratory virus and staying safe distances away, this imagery seems even more vivid, as we've all learned the power of the breath.

But God's breath transforms creation in ways that viruses can only dream of. God's breath can transform us too.

Watching My Easter Sermon

I have just seen the breaking news that Pope Francis has died, but I'll wait to blog about that when I've had more time to consider what I want to say. 

Today my blogging time is short.  I have a paper due for my seminary class this evening, and I need to make a short presentation.  So let me post a link to the recording of my Easter sermon and say that if you want to read a version, you can read this blog post.

Sermon for Easter 2025

April 20, 2025, Easter

By Kristin Berkey-Abbott




Luke 24: 1-12



When I first thought about this sermon, I was fresh from last Sunday’s Palm and Passion texts, and I saw some similarities. I had it all planned out in my head, how I could once again preach about the contrasts. We have Mary Magdalene and the other women who believe even though they have yet to see the risen Jesus. That strange encounter with men wearing dazzling clothes is enough to convince them. The women bring the message back, but it’s not enough for the disciples and the others. They decide the women are telling an idle tale.


Let me reassure those of you who are afraid that I’m now about to take sides in a gender war: I don’t fault the men for responding this way. They have seen what happens to people who are crucified. It would not be possible to live in first century Rome without being aware of crucifixion; people were crucified along roadways and on city gates—the public nature of it was the point, because it was meant as the ultimate in deterrence, showing what happens to those who are not loyal to Rome, and the Roman empire made sure that no one could avoid the sight. My New Testament professor commented on the lack of description of crucifixions in both the Gospels and other literature of the time, and she said that you wouldn’t describe it because everyone knew what it looked like, much the same way that we don’t need to describe our phones—we all have one, and we all know what they look like. People did not survive this execution—Rome made sure of it. So this doubting of the story of the empty tomb makes sense.


Let’s be honest—they are probably not only doubting the women, but doubting themselves. They must look back on the expectations that they had and wonder how it had all gone so wrong. Some of them must be doubting the original decision to follow Jesus at all. How could they have been so stupid? They are likely doubting each other. Think about the horrible week they have had. Not only have they lost their beloved teacher in the most horrible way imaginable, but Judas has betrayed them, and so has Peter. It’s no wonder they take the cynical route, not believing in anyone.


Peter’s reaction makes me think that the women are convincing on some level. He leaves to go investigate. Peter has often been criticized for being skeptical, since he’s the one named in this Gospel, but he shows us a healthy reaction. Isn’t that what Jesus said all along? “Cast down your nets in deep water.” “Come and see.”


What I love about the Easter stories, the one today and the ones we’ll hear in the coming weeks, is that we have so many points of entry, so many places where we might find ourselves identifying with those first witnesses of the resurrection. You might be a skeptic, like like Peter, or a cynic like the others who first hear the women, but the resurrection story is for you.


You might be like these women, up before the rest of the world awakens, up to attend to the caretaking duties that no one else wants to do. You might be the one who makes sure that the customs are followed—and we all have a variety of reasons for tending to the customs that make sense to us. I think of those ancient women, the ones who stayed with Jesus until the horrible death was complete, the ones who came to tend to his dead body. I think of that first Easter morning, and I wonder how many of them were thinking about the customs that needed to be followed and who would really notice if they slept in and ignored custom and propriety, just this once.


I think about the unnamed followers, the ones who might have been too stupefied by grief and disorientation to respond at all. Like them, we may be in an Ash Wednesday time of our lives, not a time of miracles and wonders. Like those followers, we may be whipsawed by the way that life has changed all of a sudden; we may be gobsmacked by the way that all that we thought we knew about the world and our place in it has been shattered. We simply cannot bear one more time that needs us to pivot. Maybe our understanding of who we are as a people has been stripped bare. In this mental state, we may have stopped listening to the women when they talked about the empty tomb. We might have taken on that protective shield of cynicism. We may have assumed the news after the words of an empty tomb would be something catastrophic, not something miraculous. We may turn away, unable to bear any more bad news.


I want to stress that none of these mental states—or any of the other mental states we might experience—not one of them means that we are more or less worthy of this redemption. As Jesus makes his appearances, he doesn’t say, “You there—you, who are still back in the tomb where I am no longer to be found. If you can’t snap out of it, I’m off to find better followers.” Jesus doesn’t come back to call the followers morons for not perceiving what he was up to. No—as we will see in the coming weeks, he comes back and cooks for them.


One of the benefits of having a God who has been fully human, as Jesus has been fully human, is that Jesus understands how hard it is to understand. Jesus understands our human exhaustion. Jesus understands our inability to believe in miracles. Jesus understands all the ways that grief and horror weigh us down and threaten to drown us.


The men in the tomb understand too—the reason why I think they are angelic messangers is that the same verb is used here as is used for the angel choirs that sing in the skies over Bethlehem to the shepherds on the night that Christ is born. These are messengers with knowledge to impart, and they seem comfortable with the idea that the followers of Jesus still might not be grasping the full importance of what he has told them. I imagine them saying with great gentleness, “Remember how he told you.” And then, they do remember.


In other Gospels, the women are told to go and tell the disciples that Jesus is risen. In this Gospel, the women are told to remember, to remember all that Jesus told them, all that he has promised. These women are the first witnesses, just as Elizabeth is the first witness before Jesus is even born, as is Anna, the first witness to proclaim that the Messiah is come when Jesus is presented at the Temple. These women are the first, but they will not be the last to proclaim that Christ is risen.


And so, too, every Easter, we are told to remember. We may be looking for the living among the dead. We may be unable to get the taste of ashes out of our mouths. We may have forgotten the promise of abundant life that Jesus offers to us. Happily, it’s not an entrance exam, but an ongoing revelation. Christ is risen.


Jesus is not captured by the tomb. The forces of evil do not have the final word or the last laugh. I do realize that at times, it may look that way. The inbreaking Kingdom of God that Jesus proclaims forces us to live in an essential mystery—that Kingdom is happening now, it’s underway. But that flourishing life that God intends for creation isn’t fully formed yet. We have to live in the now and the not yet at the same time. We have to believe that a better life is possible, even if we don’t have it all figured out. Christ is risen.


Paul tells us that the last enemy to be destroyed is death. The angels in the tomb proclaim that the destruction of death is in progress. Rejoice. Redemption Day is here. Resurrection is underway: for Jesus, for the world, for each and every one of us. Christ is risen--he is risen indeed.

Prayer Loom Reborn

Nine years ago, my spouse and his father made a prayer loom for our Maundy Thursday dinner and worship (for more on that experience, see this blog post).  That summer, I used it for Vacation Bible School (this blog post tells about it and gives pictures).  Eventually, we moved the prayer loom to the back of the church sanctuary.  I liked seeing it and occasionally someone returning from communion might touch it, but I imagined it had been thrown away by now.

This morning, I woke to the happy news that the prayer loom has found a new life.  One of my friends at my Florida church used it for a class project and posted pictures on Facebook, along with a shout out to me.  Here's the picture:

I look at it and can see parts of the original, still there.  It reminds me of how our prayers build on each other, weaving a web, weaving a net, keeping us from falling into the abyss.

Good Friday and Modern Evil

Last night, as we stripped the altar, one of our members read Psalm 22.  It's a Psalm that always hits me, but in different ways each year.

I have spent part of the week reading about the horrible prison in El Salvador where the Trump administration is shipping people without giving them their day in court.  I realize that there are many abuses of human rights in the world, but that's the one that has seemed inescapable this week.  This week is the first time I've seen more pictures than just the one of a bent man with a shaved head.  The pictures of men forced to kneel with no space between them has made me ache in all sorts of ways.

sketch by Jill Ross

 

I have forced myself to look at these pictures.  My brain reminds me that the federal government through the decades has always been in cahoots with shady/criminal people/governments, but it's often been at a remove:  the CIA does the dirty deed, while the administration claims surprise.  Now we have a president who muses about sending citizens to prisons abroad, a vomitous development.

Last night I thought of innocent people whisked away, all people whisked away without a chance to defend themselves.  When the lector read verse 11, I almost cried out loud:  

"Do not be far from me, 

for trouble is near,
and there is no one to help."

On this day when we remember the crucifixion of Jesus by a variety of earthly powers, it is good to remember all the ways that the power of empire has not been transformed.  But it is also imperative to remember that every faith proclaims that the powers of evil do not have the final word. 

Psalm 22 ends this way, declaring that the power of good will not be overcome:

"future generations will be told about the Lord
31 and proclaim his deliverance to a people yet unborn,
saying that he has done it."

Sermon for Maundy Thursday

 April 17, 2025, Maundy Thursday

By Kristin Berkey-Abbott

John 13:1-17, 31b-35

You might have expected our Gospel reading to focus on the eating of a meal—aren’t we supposed to be observing and remembering the Last Supper?  Isn’t this event so consequential that it becomes the foundation of one of our two sacraments?

Yes, those things are true.  The Last Supper does become the meal that the earliest Christians shared every time they were together, a literal meal, where people shared their food so that no one went hungry.  This meal, the memory of all these meal, they become our sacrament that we celebrate every Sunday.

Tonight’s Gospel gives us the undergirding philosophy, both of the sacrament and of the mission of Jesus in the world.  “Love each other.”  It seems so simple.  The reaction of Simon Peter shows that love is never simple.  

In the Gospel of John, these men have been together for several years.  In our modern times, we might wonder why Simon Peter reacts so negatively to the idea of Jesus washing his feet.  Some of us have seen the footgear worn by first century desert residents—those sandals left most of the foot exposed.  It’s not like Jesus would be surprised by Simon Peter’s feet, the way that our friends might be surprised if they ever saw our feet.  And in our age of pedicures and shoes that protect us, our feet aren’t likely to offend our friends.

What might be lost on us is that Jesus is taking on a task usually left to slaves and servants and people on the lowest rungs of society.  Peter objects to the idea that Jesus would debase himself in this way.  

What does this type of service look like today?  If Jesus appeared in our houses, we might not flinch if he wanted to wash our feet.  But our bathrooms?  Would we draw the line at our bathrooms?  If Jesus wanted to go get the meat for dinner and headed off to the local slaughterhouse, would we stop him?

Peter objects because Jesus is the leader, therefore everyone should line up to serve him.  Jesus once again tries to teach the disciples that the inbreaking Kingdom of God will not be like the earthly kingdom of Caesar or Herod or Pilate or the religious leadership.  

What does a life of service look like?  Jesus models a life of service that is much more complex than washing feet or fixing a meal.  In our Gospel tonight, with its lack of emphasis on the meal that will become the sacrament, we are reminded of the scope of Christ’s love, the mind-blowing expansiveness of the love that God shows for all of creation.

Jesus knows that Judas will betray him, but Jesus doesn’t send him away before the foot washing.  The Gospel of John is very clear about when Judas leaves so that we will know that Jesus includes him.  Peter will betray Jesus in a new way, with his denial of knowing him at all—but Jesus washes his feet too.  All of the Gospels remind us again and again—we are not so very far away from Judas or Peter in all the ways that we don’t understand what Jesus tries to teach us.  Jesus calls both men friend—and Jesus calls us friend too.

In so many ways, this last supper shows us the way we are to live in this kingdom of God that Jesus says is happening right now.  Think about the verbs we use:  Jesus blesses the bread, he breaks it, and he shares it.  It’s a metaphor for the whole human life.  We can’t share the bread until we break it.  This sacrament shows us that brokenness is part of human life, but that Jesus can transform that brokenness.  He does this by blessing—he blesses the bread, he blesses the disciples, and this meal prepares him to be a blessing for the whole world.

And it’s not just a blessing that we experience.  Jesus offers us a meal of liberation.  The Old Testament reading reminds us of how the Passover meal began, of the need to be ready for deliverance from bondage.  In the Old Testament, it was the bondage of slavery in Egypt.  Today—we are held captive by so many things:  disease, fear, loss, difficult circumstances of all kinds.  Jesus comes to tell us that we are free.

Jesus sets humanity free in many ways:  he casts out demons, he heals, and he invites people to dinner.  He shows us ways to resist the forces that want to keep us imprisoned or kill us; he reminds us again and again that the forces of love are stronger than the forces of evil that seem so powerful.

As we move through the stories after Easter, pay attention to where we find Jesus.  He doesn’t return to the blood soaked cross.  He leaves the tomb and never looks back.  He joins the disciples where they have gathered, and once again, they share meals together.  He joins followers on the road to Emmaus, and they only know who he is after they have shared a meal.  He cooks breakfast on a beach for the disciples who have returned to the fishing life that they knew before Jesus.

These meals transform these first believers.  They go from denying him, betraying him, forgetting what he has taught them to being a force that transforms the ancient world.  They do this by emulating him, by creating what is essentially a table ministry that includes the least powerful and the most powerful in their communities.

This Last Supper of Jesus is really the first meal in so many ways.  It becomes the foundational practice from the earliest days of the Christian church, and it continues to be foundational today.  It goes from a Passover meal that celebrates deliverance to becoming one of the sacraments that continues Christ’s redemptive work, a redemption now extended to all people.

Hear the good news, the good news heard by the Israelites in Egypt, the good news heard by first century followers of Jesus, the good news proclaimed across centuries.  Deliverance is at hand.  Evil does not have the final word.  Come and eat. 

Meditation on this Sunday's Gospel, Easter Sunday

 The readings for Easter Sunday, April 20, 2025:

First Reading: Acts 10:34-43

First Reading (Alt.): Isaiah 65:17-25

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

Second Reading: 1 Corinthians 15:19-26

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

Gospel: Luke 24:1-12

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

I've talked to many people who seem a bit amazed at how fast this season of Lent has zoomed by us. I've talked to several people who don't feel ready for Easter at all. Are we ever ready for Easter?

Some years feel more difficult than others.  This year, when we've had severe storms, devastating fire, political news designed to make us feel powerless, we may feel like we're more in an Ash Wednesday time.

Some years, we're ready to proclaim the risen Lord.  Other years we ask, "How can we celebrate Easter with the taste of ashes still in our mouths?"

Hear that Easter message again. Know that God is working to redeem creation in ways that we can't always see and don't often understand. But we get glimpses of it.

The earth commits to resurrection this time of year. Green sprouts shoot out from hard earth everywhere.  Even for those of us further to the south who have no real winter, this time of year brings new blooms, as the yellow tab tree blooms, and the bougainvillea seems more vivid.   Each spring, we are reminded of the cyclical nature of the world, which can bring us hope in the times in which we suffer. This, too, shall pass.

The social justice goals of past generations have come to fruition. We may be seeing ravaged populations today, but in a decade or two, we may see healing. Imagine going back to 1987 and telling everyone you saw that the Wall would soon come down, that the Soviet Union would soon be no more, and the world's stockpile of nuclear weapons would soon be reduced. No one would believe you. And yet we know it happened. We can pray for a similar outcome in Gaza and other places decimated by war.

We know that sometimes our bodies can produce miracles. We convince the cancer not to kill us this year. We abuse our physical selves with too much exercise or too much drink or too much smoke, but to our surprise, our bodies can heal.

But maybe we see those examples of resurrection as random and capricious. We taste the ash in our mouths. If we've heard the Easter story (and the Holy Week stories) again and again, we tend to forget the miraculous nature of them. Maybe we're tempted to downplay them even. Maybe we're beaten down and tired (tired of praying that the insurance company gets its act together before the next hurricane season starts, tired of praying for health and people getting sicker, tired of praying for peace in the world which never seems to come), too beaten down and tired to believe in miracles anymore.

Resist that pull towards despair, which some have called the deadliest sin, even worse than pride. We have seen miracles with our own eyes: Nelson Mandela walks out of jail to claim his place as president, for example; peace in Northern Ireland; peace in some parts of Eastern Europe. We're often too shy or scared to run out of our gardens to tell everyone else what we've seen, what we know.

We must remember we are a Resurrection People. Let us commit to new life. Let us rinse the ashes out of our mouths with the Eucharist bread and wine. Celebrate the miracles.

Holy Week Tuesday and Taxes

Today's reading from Phyllis Tickle's The Divine Hours was the story of Jesus in the Temple overturning the tables of the moneychangers.  She includes a special section for Holy Week, so that part is not as random as it might sound.

Because of where Easter falls this year, today is the day that taxes are due.  In past years, I might not have noticed.  This year, because I knew we were likely to owe money, I didn't do the taxes until later.  I got our payments in the mail yesterday (we owe federal taxes and North Carolina taxes, and we will eventually get money back from South Carolina).  It's astonishing to me that we owe federal taxes, but here we are.  We owe because for 9 months, we had health insurance through the Affordable Care Act, and then my part time job teaching shifted to full time:   good news for long term finances, bad news for taxes.

In the next two days, I need to write a Maundy Thursday sermon.  Ordinarily, that wouldn't be a problem, but I want to make sure that my sermon is different than last year's sermon.  Last year I talked a lot about foot washing.  This year, I'll shift to something else, the idea of the sacrament and how it gives us strength.  At least, that's what I'm thinking right now, before I've really started.

My brain is working on several writing projects.  I have a paper due on Monday, with a presentation to class.  I know what I plan to write.  Unlike my sermon, I've done more thinking and research for that project.  I also have a paper due two weeks from Thursday.

This morning, a happy surprise:  a line of a possible poem floated through my brain, and I opened a blank Word document to write it down.  In the past two hours, more lines have come to me, and I've written them down.  Will they cohere into a poem?  It's too soon to tell, but it's nice to feel that part of my brain click into gear again.

And, of course, there's the end of the semester grading that needs doing.  I'm keeping up, but at times, I feel overwhelmed with all that will happen in the next 4 weeks.  And then, I graduate with my MDiv.  Hurrah!

I am amazed that I am graduating, four years after I started.  It feels like no time at all, but of course, so much has happened.  At one time, in the early days, I thought it might take me six or seven years, or longer.  Of course, in the early days, I had a full-time administrator job, and I wasn't sure that the seminary would offer the classes I needed to take from a distance.

Let me shift gears one more time.  Let me think about going for a walk.  On Sunday, we had a freeze warning, and yesterday, we had record breaking heat.  I'm glad to be able to walk in the beautiful spring blooms.