Catechisms and Croziers in Confessions Class

In yesterday's Lutheran Confessions class, our professor closed our session on Luther's large and small catechisms by asking what the role of the historical church documents is today which led us to an interesting discussion about good ways to educate children--and acknowledgement that now, as in Luther's day, adults may need some basic Church/Christian education too.

At some point in class, we talked about protests and whether or not clergy would be allowed at twenty-first century protests.  Our professor, who is president of the seminary and has been a bishop in the past, said of course clergy are allowed to go to protests as long as they remember that they are answerable to the larger Church, which includes bishops.

Along the way, we had a talk about the authority of bishops, and our professor said that he used to go to protests for causes that aligned with his faith, and he would go in full bishop regalia, including crozier.  He did this for a variety of reasons, but mainly to remind everyone whose authority he claimed.  He knew that if any clergy member was going to be arrested, they'd start with him, and he figured that they might resist, since it wouldn't make a great visual, arresting a bishop in full regalia with a crozier.

We had a few minutes of amusement, thinking about the police trying to figure out how to handle the crozier and envisioning the police car driving away with the crozier sticking out the window.  Then it was back to the serious business of thinking about the future of the Church in light of Reformation history.

Recording of Ash Wednesday Sermon

My Ash Wednesday sermon went well, I think.  I always try to say something I haven't said before, and on church festivals like Christmas Eve, Easter, and Ash Wednesday, it's more difficult.  Last night, I was successful.  If you'd like to see it, I posted a recording here, on my YouTube page.  It talks about my shift in thinking, from Lenten disciplines to Lenten enrichments.

If you want to read along, I put the sermon manuscript in this blog post.

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The readings for Sunday, February 22, 2026:

First Reading: Genesis 2:15-17; 3:1-7

Psalm: Psalm 32

Second Reading: Romans 5:12-19

Gospel: Matthew 4:1-11


This week's Gospel tells us the story of Jesus being tempted in the wilderness. Notice that Jesus is human in his temptations: he is tempted by the ideas of fame, power, and immortality.

In her book, Things Seen and Unseen, Nora Gallagher points out that Jesus will indeed accomplish these things that Satan asks him to do. Jesus will reverse these days in the desert: he will multiply bread, he will hurl himself from the cliff of his crucifixion and be caught by angels, he will be worshipped, but by humbling himself in service (page 85).

Gallagher says that we face the same kinds of temptations that Jesus did: “Magical powers, helplessness, rescue, fame and power—they beckon me every day of my life. Just around the corner lies happiness; a new lover will provide lasting bliss; if I had what she has then I would be . . . They are the fantasies, the illusions, that suck out my vitality, that keep me from discovering my own rich reality. To come to terms with illusion is one of the great jobs of our lives: to discern what is fantasy and what is reality, what is dead and what is alive, what is narcotic and what is food” (page 84).

We may want to tell ourselves that Jesus could resist temptations because of his Divine side. But I would posit that Jesus' special powers of resistance were less about his supernatural side, and more about his spiritual discipline. He's in the wilderness, making a retreat to pray, when he’s tempted. He resists. Throughout the life of Jesus, we see him hard at work honing his powers through his spiritual practices.

Here's the good news. These practices are available to all of us too. Great disciples are not born, they are created. How? We turn ourselves into great disciples the same way that a doughy person transforms himself or herself into a great athlete, the same way that a creative person becomes a great artist. We show up, day after day, logging the training miles, working on our art. And soon enough, we wake up to find out that we've transformed ourselves into a person with new powers.

The season of Lent begins, that season of penitence and discipline. Now is the time to attend to your spiritual life. What practices will you adopt to become a great spiritual athlete? You’ve got a wide variety to choose from. You could give something up: gossip, worry, sugar, alcohol, excessive Internet time, caffeine, chocolate, speeding, more money to your tithe. You could add something: additional Bible reading, more devotional time, prayer, a creative practice. Spend some time in discernment. What one practice could you choose that would bring you closer to God by the time that we get to Easter?

Sermon for Ash Wednesday 2026

February 18, 2026, Ash Wednesday
By Kristin Berkey-Abbott



Matthew 6:1–6, 16–21


A lot of us approach Ash Wednesday as a kind of wake up call, a reminder that we all die in the end, and so we better get on with it and start living better lives. Because we live in a secular culture that wants us to forget this reality, in many ways the Ash Wednesday message that we're returning to death is an important one.


And yet, the older I get, the less I need this reminder. When I was younger, the Ash Wednesday message—we are dust and to dust we shall return—that message still had the power to shock me. For a very long time, my maternal grandmother was one of the oldest people I knew, and she always had more energy than the rest of us combined. But now I’ve seen death come for former classmates, former colleagues, and friends and family. Some weeks, it feels like every day comes with the Ash Wednesday wake up call, as people younger than me die, and now it seems predictable, no longer freakish.


So we might be tempted to choose a Lenten discipline with an eye to cheating death. We might want to give up alcohol, for example, in the hopes that we get a few more years. We might give up sugar, thinking that we’ll say a prayer whenever we have a sugar craving, but also hoping to lose some pounds along the way.


One of the problems that comes with thinking about our Lenten disciplines this way is that many of us go right back to our former habits once we get to Easter. Shouldn’t a Lenten discipline change us more profoundly and permanently? What does it say about our discipline, Lenten or otherwise, that we can drop it so quickly?


If you were at church on Sunday, or if you listened to the sermon (thank you tech wizard Katie!), you hear me think out loud about giving up something that’s really hard. We live in a culture that’s always giving up sugar or dairy or gluten or extra calories. There’s lots of support for that effort. On Sunday, I made this impromptu suggestion: If we’re giving up something for Lent, let’s give up talking badly about other people, both the people we know personally and the ones who are famous. If we want to do something really hard, let’s giving up thinking bad thoughts about others—let’s give everyone the benefit of the doubt and tell ourselves, “They’re doing their best.”


Luther encourages this behavior. In The Small Catechism, in interpreting the Eighth commandment, “Thou shalt not bear false witness against your neighbor, he tells us that the commandment is about so much more than refraining from lying. He says that we are to interpret everything that our neighbors do in the best possible light.


But I’ve decided not to do this as my Lenten discipline. Just thinking about it for 48 hours made me realize how hard it would be and how much of my time would be consumed with reminding myself that people are doing their best. Maybe I would retrain my inner thoughts. But maybe there’s another way to do this, a way that would benefit not just me, but others.


I like the idea of adding something for Lent, although I realize that for some of us, just thinking of where we would add the extra something might make us ready to throw up our hands in defeat before we even start. In the past, I’ve added a daily devotional, and if that’s your preference, know that the publishing world has noticed—you’ll have a lot of books to choose from.


As I was reflecting on Lenten disciplines, my mind wandered to how many people I know personally who are facing crises of various sorts and how few are not. I made a note to myself to pray for them. And then, my Lenten discipline revealed itself.


I’m going to send at least one note of encouragement to someone each day. It will be a physical note, written by hand on paper, and sent through the mail. As I’m writing the note, I’ll be praying for them and for the larger world. My hope is that the recipient will have their spirits lifted, at least for a time. They’ll have something to keep on paper, a reminder that someone is praying for them and with them.


Some of you might ask, “Don’t you already do send hand written cards?” Yes, for friends who really need it, for people for whom it is the only way to communicate, like my friend who had a stroke and is confined to a skilled nursing unit. I send a note at times of acute crisis. But I’d like to send notes as a matter of routine.


It may seem like a little thing, especially when compared to the big, difficult thing of refusing to think bad thoughts about anyone that might flit through my brain. But refusing to think bad thoughts would only be changing me. Sending notes of encouragement has the potential to change over 40 individuals, at least for a brief moment at the mailbox. Sending notes of encouragement will give me a tactile prayer discipline. If I begin this practice now, my hope is that it will be cemented by Easter, that I can continue sending notes and cards of encouragement throughout the year.


We might think that a Lenten discipline needs to be something dour or something that imposes order on chaos. But what would happen if we looked for ways for our Lenten disciplines to bring us joy? Writing cards will bring me joy, from the creating of the card to the affixing of the stamp. I’ve been buying more stamps than I have been using, and the post office creates so many beautiful stamps.


I’ve found it useful to think about Lenten enrichment, instead of Lenten discipline. The theologian Diana Butler Bass reminds us that the earliest Christians saw the season of Lent as preparation for meeting the risen Lord. It’s an interesting idea—if you knew that Jesus was coming here, in the flesh, to celebrate Easter with us in this sanctuary, and then spending the week with you, in your house, what would you be doing right now to prepare?


Don’t say you would be deep cleaning the house, unless that brings you joy. I’d be reaching out to people, planning some get togethers. I’d bake a poundcake or two, because they freeze well, and they’re a versatile dessert. I’d get together the art supplies we’d need to have a fun morning creating together, where I would see the creative process of God in real time.


I could go on and on, but you get the idea. Let’s approach this Lent as a time where we’re getting ready to meet Jesus, where we have the courage to put aside all the stuff that hasn’t served us well, and we have the discipline to commit to joy, and to choose the joy of living in the Kingdom of God even before death. Death will come for us all soon enough. Choose joy. Choose Jesus.

The Day Before Ash Wednesday

 Today is Mardi Gras, and it's also Shrove Tuesday. It's the day before Ash Wednesday, the day before Lent begins. The holidays of Shrove Tuesday, Carnival, and Mardi Gras have their roots in the self-denial of the Lenten season. These holidays are rooted in the fasting traditions of Lent and the need to get rid of all the ingredients that you'd be giving up during Lent: alcohol, sugar, eggs, and in some traditions, even dairy foods.

Mardi Gras and Carnival, holidays that come to us out of predominantly Catholic countries, certainly have a more festive air than Shrove Tuesday, which comes to us from some of the more dour traditions of England. The word shrove, which is the past tense of the verb to shrive, which means to seek absolution for sins through confession and penance, is far less festive than the Catholic terms for this day.

In the churches of my childhood, we had pancake suppers on Shrove Tuesday. In the church of my childhood, a church could count on its members gathering whenever the church doors were open. Thus we had Shrove Tuesday pancake suppers and Wednesday Bible study meetings and groups of all sorts gathering throughout the week.

These days, most mainline churches feel lucky if members come on Sunday, much less at other points in the week. Many churches have Confirmation classes during Sunday School time, unlike my experience of trooping back to church in the late afternoon of a Sunday. Many churches do the whole Holy Week journey on Palm Sunday because they know that church members won't be coming back on Thursday and Friday.

It feels like we should do something special on the day before Ash Wednesday, but I suspect many of us aren't interested in traditional Mardi Gras festivities which often include large amounts of alcohol.  This blog post has a recipe for a quick yeasted bread that is relatively healthy.  It's fairly simple to make, and easy to make more festive if that's your thing.

We have had a burst of spring-like weather in the mountains, and today is the last day to see the trolls at the arboretum.  It's a strange Mardi Gras/Shrove Tuesday celebration plan, but I have high hopes for it.

Recording of Sermon for Transfiguration Sunday, with Discursive Ramble about Giving Up Badmouthing for Lent

I went a bit off-manuscript with my sermon yesterday, adding some background about Lenten disciplines--if we decide to do something special for Lent, do we give up something or add something?  I did a bit of thinking-in-real-time about giving up saying anything bad about anyone:  people we know, famous people, everyone.  That part of the sermon felt most electric as I was giving it, and it's very near the end.

To see what I mean, you can view the recording here on my YouTube page.  You can read the manuscript by going to yesterday's post.

Sermon for Sunday, February 15, 2026

February 15, 2026

By Kristin Berkey-Abbott



Matthew 17:1-9






In Protestant churches, Transfiguration Sunday is always the Sunday before Ash Wednesday. Because we’re on a three year lectionary cycle, we get the story from all three Synoptic gospels, Matthew, Mark, and Luke, one per year. There is no transfiguration story in John, but the fact that the other three Gospel writers include this story tells us how important the story was to the earliest believers.


In all three versions of the story, the disciples do as they are instructed and keep quiet about what they’ve seen, at least at first. We celebrate this festival thousands of years later, so at some point they told someone. Some stories are just too good to keep quiet, after all. Church scholars think this is the kind of story that makes sense and is more helpful in retrospect, in those post-resurrection years when everyone is trying to make sense of what they have experienced.


The Transfiguration story comes in the middle of the story of the life of Jesus, yet it may feel familiar, like some elements of an earlier story have been transfigured into this one. With the heavens opening again and the voice declaring the worth of Jesus again, the Transfiguration echoes the baptism of Jesus, which we celebrated a month ago. At his baptism, Jesus hasn’t yet started his ministry, and God is pleased. Now, 14 chapters later, God is still pleased.


So why does Jesus command silence? Why not have the disciples go out and tell what they have seen? In this text, we see the tension between knowing when to keep God’s glory hidden and when to reveal it. If you’re like me, you may remember last week’s Gospel passage that told us not to keep our light hidden away—and yet, here is Jesus, seeming to tell us to wait a bit. Ancient lamps were more like candles than modern lamps, and we know that sometimes, flames need to be protected or they will go out. Maybe that’s why Jesus asks for silence, at least for a little bit.


Throughout the life of Jesus, we see that God’s way is not the world’s way. In the transfiguration story, we see this tension operating in ways that we might recognize. Peter’s reaction is the same across all of the transfiguration stories in each Gospel: “Let’s stay here longer! I’ll put up a tent for each of you.” This word tent is sometimes translated as booth.


The actual word in Greek is not tent or booth but tabernacle. A tabernacle is a sort of tent, designed to be a movable temple, the very first type of worship space the Jews had when Moses led them, the design of which would also be the foundation of the design of the Temple.


I’ve often been suspicious of Peter in this story, as if he’s some sort of modern influence peddler. What’s next? Will they sell souvenirs? Charge admission? But there’s nothing in the text to support my view of Peter. What’s more likely is that he wants to make the moment more permanent. Let seekers come up the mountain to them, if they’re so eager. And meanwhile, Peter gets to be part of the conversation with Jesus, Elijah and Moses.


It’s understandable that Peter wants to make this time of togetherness last. Who among us has not had a similar mountain top experience? In fact, I’d say that’s one of the big issues believers face, the tension between wanting to be away from it all, learning from wise ones in a small, supportive community, and the requirement to be with strangers in the world. It’s most striking, for me at least, when I’ve been part of a great retreat, and I find myself weeping as I’m driving home because I don’t want a great retreat to end. However, one of the purposes of a retreat is to give us space to strengthen our faith, so that we can live in the world, meeting strangers, sharing the truth with them when the time is right. We can’t stay permanently at the retreat center, although it is so very tempting. We strengthen our faith so that it stays a strong fortress as we go about our lives in the non-retreat world.


So, it’s easy to understand Peter wanting to stay on the mountain top. But why are the disciples so afraid when the cloud descends and they hear the voice proclaiming Christ’s glory? They’re fine with Elijah and Moses appearing and Jesus shining in a new way, but a voice from the cloud makes them fall down in fear?


Notice what it takes to restore them. The Gospel of Matthew is the only Transfiguration story across the three Gospels that has Jesus touch the disciples and tell them not to be afraid. Here is where we see the human side of Jesus, after seeing the holy side of Jesus in the Transfiguration. It’s his touch that calms their fear, and this detail is reminiscent of other ways that Jesus shows that God is not remote, but that we serve a God who is intimately involved in our lives. This detail reminds me of the post-resurrection stories, where Jesus lets Thomas touch his wounds, his wounds which are very human, still bloody, but also holy. By touching the wounds, Thomas believes.


At the point where the disciples hear the voice come to them from the cloud, do they know who Jesus is? Just a chapter earlier in the Gospel of Matthew, Peter has declared that Jesus is the Messiah—but what does he mean when he uses the word messiah? It’s a question that threads its way across all of the Gospels as we see everyone asking it: the crowds that follow, the tax collectors, the wounded and sick, the Pharisees and religious leaders, and soon, other types of leaders too, Roman rulers ask—who is this guy Jesus? And in this chapter, we have an answer from God: “my son, the beloved.”


The larger question is one that believers have contemplated since the time of Jesus—what does it mean that Jesus was the son of God? The Gospel of Matthew grounds the answer in the ancient Covenant, with echoes back to Moses in today’s Gospel reading. We have God speaking to humans out of a cloud in both stories, God both revealed and hidden. Throughout the Gospel of Matthew, we are reminded that God is not doing something brand new with Jesus—Jesus says again and again that Jesus did not come to do away with the law and the prophets, but to fulfill what is revealed to Moses on a different mountain, where Moses receives the law, the law that generations of prophets will call the people back to when they stray.


Jesus tells his disciples to tell no one yet, because he knows that there are difficult days ahead, days where God’s glory will be obscured. Surely he must hope that the disciples will remember, that during the darkness, the memory of Jesus transfigured will give them strength to survive.

On Wednesday, the season of Lent begins. In the ancient church, Lent was supposed to be a time when Christians remembered Jesus and his decision to go to Jerusalem, to battle all the forces of evil there, and earliest Christians remembered by waging their own battles against the forces that would lead them astray. In our modern times, this might be translated as giving up chocolate or caffeine, but early Christians were much more rigorous in their fasting. Lent is supposed to be the most difficult seasons of the church year, a time of penitence and fasting, a wilderness time where we test ourselves to get ready for the celebration season of Easter and Pentecost. The idea of having Lenten disciplines should also strengthen us for our own times of trial and tribulation, even though we can’t be sure when they will come our way or what they will look like.


It’s easy to lose sight of what’s important. It’s easy to lose track of God, particularly during times of chaos, as one season shifts to the next. On this Transfiguration Sunday, let us resolve to let Jesus touch our lives with his transforming power. May our Lenten disciplines reveal Christ’s glory to us and fortify to leave the mountain top, ready to do the work that is ours to do.

The Feast Day of Saint Valentine

Here's one of those strange feast days, a feast day that's more popular in the general culture than it is in the church culture that pays attention to saints and their days. 

Those of us in religious circles might spend some time thinking about this feast day and the ways we celebrate it, both within our religious cultures and in popular culture.  I've often thought that marriage at its best is sacramental:  it demonstrates to me in a way that few other things can how deeply God loves me.  If my spouse's love for me is but a pale shadow of the way God loves me, then I am rich in love indeed.

I use the word marriage cautiously.  I don't mean it the way that some Christians do.  I mean simply a love relationship between adults that is covenantal and permanent in nature, as permanent as humans are capable of being.

I realize that this day is fraught with sadness and frustration for many people. I went to elementary school in the 1970's, before we worried about children's self esteem. If you wanted to bring Valentines for only your favorite five fellow students, you were allowed to do that. So, some people wound up with a shoebox/mailbox full of greetings and treats, and some wound up with very little.  I was in the middle, but instead of focusing on how lucky I was to have love notes at all, I compared my haul to those of my prettier friends.  I'm still working on remembering the wisdom a yoga teacher told me once:  "Don't compare yourself to others.  It won't help your balance."

I still worry about how this day might make people feel excluded.  I worry that as with baptism, we don't support people in their covenantal relationships in all the ways that we could.  I worry that a day that celebrates love in this way makes people who don't have a romantic relationship feel doomed.

To me, this feast day is essentially a manufactured holiday, yet another one, designed to make us feel like we must spend gobs and gobs of money to demonstrate our love.

Every day, ideally, should be Valentine's Day, a day in which we try to remind our loved ones how much we care--and not by buying flowers, dinners out, candy, and jewelry.  We show that we love by our actions:  our care, our putting our own needs in the backseat, our concern, our gentle touch, our loving remarks, our forgiveness over and over again.

And sustained by the love that sustains in our homes, we can go out to be a light that shines evidence of God's love to the dark corners of the world.  Every week, we are reminded of the darkness, and some weeks it intrudes more than others.  We must be the light that beats back the darkness.

On this Valentine's Day, let us go out into the world, living sacraments, to be Valentines to one another, to show a weary world the wonders of God's love.

A Creed Is Not a Pledge of Allegiance

Yesterday in my Lutheran Foundations class, we had a great discussion about the 3 creeds that are so important to the Church:  the Apostles Creed, the Nicene Creed, and the Athanasian Creed.  We talked about how they've been used, and they've been used as part of worship, primarily.  In Luther's time, and perhaps ours, most people had at least one creed memorized, along with the Lord's Prayer.

We talked about how the creeds can be a stumbling block for 21st century believers.  Is it lying to say a creed in worship if we don't believe in certain concepts?  My professor said that it's an interesting starting point for a conversation, but it's not a reason to reject a believer or a seeker.

My professor said, "A creed is not a pledge of allegiance."  I loved this way of conceptualizing a creed, so I wanted to make sure that I noted it here.  My professor said that a creed is one of our anchors that keeps us connected to the ancient church.  It's more about church history and what we've agreed is important as a Church.  It's not about what we say that we must believe to be part of the congregation or to make it to Heaven, the way many people use both the creeds and scripture.

My professor is president of one of our Lutheran seminaries, United Lutheran Seminary, so I'm glad to be reassured of this Lutheran approach to the creeds.  As we closed our class, he referenced our former bishop, Elizabeth Eaton, who said we didn't need new creeds, that our old creeds give us plenty to work with, without adding anything new.

I love this perspective on the creeds that I got from the class, which is a different one from the church history classes that I took.  I feel lucky to have had this opportunity. 

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

 The readings for Sunday, February 15, 2026:

First Reading: Exodus 24:12-18

Psalm: Psalm 2

Psalm (Alt.): Psalm 99

Second Reading: 2 Peter 1:16-21

Gospel: Matthew 17:1-9


Here we are at Transfiguration Sunday again. We celebrate this festival on the Sunday before Ash Wednesday, and it's such a familiar story that we may feel that we can get nothing new from it. But it's a story that bears repeating.

When I read the Gospel again, I'm not surprised by Peter's offer to build booths and celebrate the Transfiguration in a commercial way. Christ's command to tell no one makes me pause. Why can't we share this amazing moment?

Christ says this often. Go and tell no one--that seems to be a constant command. And it seems antithetical to the task of the Church.

In just a few months, we'll get a very different Pentecost message. Aren't we supposed to go and witness? Spread the good news? If Jesus is our role model, what do we make of his command to stay silent?

In some ways, perhaps Jesus knew the times he lived in. He knew that early fame would undo his purpose. He knew that people would focus on the physical plane--"This man can heal my blindness"--but not the spiritual plane, the one where we need healing the most.

He also knew that people who see visions, who catch a glimpse of something otherworldly, are often shunned by the community. What would have happened if James and John and Peter came down from the mountain and proclaimed what they had seen? How would the community have responded?

Jesus knew that he couldn't appear too threatening to the status quo too early. In the verses that follow, the ones not included in this Gospel, Jesus makes clear that persecution follows those who see visions. And that persecution still persists today. Our culture tolerates those of us who pray. It's less tolerant of those of us who claim that God replies to our prayers.

The life of the believer is tough, and one measure of its difficulty is knowing when to speak, and knowing when to hold our tongues. Sometimes we should keep our counsel. Sometimes we should testify verbally. Always we should let our lives be our testimony.

Christ also might have been wary of the human tendency to rush towards transfiguration. We yearn to be different, but so often, we shun the hard work involved. We might embrace transformation before we stop to consider the cost.

Like Peter, we might want to turn Christ into Carnival: build booths, charge admission, harness holiness. Jesus reminds us again and again that the true work comes not from telling people what we’ve seen, but by letting what we’ve seen change the way that we live. Our true calling is not to be carnival barker, but to get on with the work of repair and building of the communities in which we find ourselves.

Teaching from the Buddhist Monks Who Are Walking for Peace

Like many, I've been moved by the Buddhist monks who are walking from Texas to D.C. for peace.  I even talked about them in a sermon in early January, as something giving me hope.

Today they'll be at the National Cathedral, and I'm not sure of their time in D.C. beyond that.  It's hard for me to imagine any officials from the federal government meeting with them, the way that state governing people along the way have, but I'm willing to be happily surprised.

In this post on Diana Butler Bass's Substack, she gives the monks' answer to why they are walking.  I want to make sure I have this, should I want to find the words later, so let me post them here:

"Some people may doubt that our walk can bring peace to the world — and we understand that doubt completely. But everything that has ever mattered began with something impossibly small. A single seed. A first mindful breath. A quiet decision to take one step, then another.

Our walking itself cannot create peace. But when someone encounters us — whether by the roadside, online, or through a friend — when our message touches something deep within them, when it awakens the peace that has always lived quietly in their own heart — something sacred begins to unfold.

That person carries something forward they didn’t have before, or perhaps something they had forgotten was there. They become more mindful in their daily life — more present with each breath, more aware of each moment. They speak a little more gently to their child. They listen more patiently to their partner. They extend kindness to a stranger who needed it desperately.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

And that stranger, touched by unexpected compassion, carries it forward to someone else. And it continues — ripple by ripple, heart by heart, moment by moment — spreading outward in ways none of us will ever fully witness, creating more peace in the world than we could possibly measure.

This is our contribution — not to force peace upon the world, but to help nurture it, one awakened heart at a time. Not the Walk for Peace alone can do this, but all of us together — everyone who has been walking with us in spirit, everyone who feels something stir within them when they encounter this journey, everyone who decides that cultivating peace within themselves matters.

One step becomes two. Two become a thousand. A thousand become countless. And slowly, gently, persistently — not through grand gestures but through ten thousand small acts of love — we can help make the world more peaceful.

This is our hope. This is our offering. This is why we walk.

May you and all beings be well, happy, and at peace."

Sunday and Salt

I was pleased with my sermon yesterday--it was a tighter composition than I'm always able to pull together.  And I feel like both sermons went well.  I preached on Matthew 5:  12-20, and I decided to focus on salt alone.  The believer as light metaphor is fairly easy to understand, and I feel like I've done that several times before.  But I didn't see any references to salt in my past sermons.

Yesterday morning, for the youth sermon, I made a big bowl of popcorn.  I left some of it unsalted and put it in sandwich bags.  I salted the rest and made more bags of popcorn.  

I'm not crazy about all the sandwich bags, but it's the easiest way for me to do my youth sermon on salt without getting popcorn all over the place, the way we would if I just passed around two big bowls.  Plus it minimizes germ spreading--no hands in the same bowl of popcorn.

As I divided the popcorn, I thought about seminary, about my Foundations of Preaching class.  In that class, we had a lot to do in a very short time, so I don't fault the professor for not talking about children's sermons much.  I'm glad that I'm old enough to have seen plenty of examples of both good and bad children's sermons through the years.

I did check with the parents before giving out popcorn--no allergies to popcorn or salt.  If I preach on this passage in the future, I might do the same for the adults.

To read a manuscript of my adult sermon, see this blog post.  To see the recording, I uploaded it here on my YouTube channel.

Sermon for Sunday, February 8, 2026

February 8, 2026
By Kristin Berkey-Abbott



Matthew 5:13-20


Like many Americans in the later decades of the 20th century, my grandmother was told that she had high blood pressure and needed to watch her salt intake, which she interpreted to mean that she could not add salt to food. One of my enduring memories of her is the way that she worked around this rule. We’d have tomato sandwiches, and instead of giving the tomatoes on the sandwich a sprinkle of salt, she’d have a handful of potato chips.


She knew what she was doing; she always said, “I’m just eating these for the salt. Tomato sandwiches don’t taste right without the salt.” And being the nutritional expert know it all that I was as at the age of 28, I would say, “Grandma, I’m sure your doctor would rather have you use a sprinkle of salt on your sandwich than eat those high fat chips.”


And now, I can’t read this passage and others like it without thinking about the use of salt, both in the ancient world and in our own world. The use of light, both the literal use and the symbolic use, hasn’t changed as much in two thousand years. But our relationship to salt is different. Or is it?

Think about your own feelings about salt. Do you salt your food before you even taste it? Guilty. Do you have a variety of salts and swear that you can tell the difference between them? Me too. Well, that’s not exactly true, but I do swear that kosher salt is different from all the rest.


At this point you may be saying, “Wait, is Jesus giving us cooking commandments or dietary instructions?” To which I would say, maybe not literally. But in terms of how to live life—yes, he’s using salt as a way of teaching us about the life of the faithful, and the ways that the lives of faithful people can add dimension and nuance to their communities—and in doing so to change the world beyond their communities.


We’ve lost some aspects of this metaphor. In the time of Jesus, his Jewish listeners would have heard the message about salt and remembered that salt was a symbol of the Covenant that God made with God’s faithful people. Sacrifices in the temple would be sprinkled with salt as a sign of that covenant.


Salt was also used as a preservative—one reason why canned food often has a fair amount of salt. But in ancient times, before refrigeration, salt was the kind of preservative that meant you could have meat long after the point where ordinary meat would spoil. You could butcher an animal and not have to eat all the meat right away. You could get to the time of the year when it was impossible to find fresh meat, and if you had salted meat, you would have a much more interesting diet.


So, is that what it means in this context? What does it mean to think of ourselves as salt? Jesus is telling us that as believers, we enhance what is good. He is also telling us that faithful people elicit what is good. Just as salt brings forth some qualities of food that we wouldn’t have otherwise, followers of Jesus do the same for their societies. They make their societies better in ways that wouldn’t happen otherwise. Think about all the hospitals and universities and other types of schools and childcare centers that wouldn’t exist without the efforts of believers who took the words of Jesus about caring seriously. Similarly, many scientific developments happened because of a belief in a better world and that belief was often nurtured in communities of believers.

As I was driving this week, I listened to a show about vaccines, and one of the experts talked about polio and Jonas Salk, who created the polio vaccine. Because he refused to patent the vaccine, more people were able to get it across the world, and the disease was eradicated more quickly. Salk, who had Jewish immigrant parents, was educated in public schools, schools which were formed a century or more earlier by other immigrants who believed in education for all. The decision by Salk and other polio vaccine creators not to patent the vaccine so that more people could have access—that decision has inspired later generations to do the same.


As I listened to this interview with modern vaccine creators about the polio vaccine, I thought about another ancient use for salt. Long before our modern agricultural processes, people would use saline solutions to purify the soil and get it ready for planting. I thought about how previous generations can live faithfully, and not only enhance and preserve their own societies, but also prepare soil for future generations to grow and thrive.


Another darker use of salt has been a constant across empires, though, as a weapon of war. Across time, armies have sowed so much salt into the soil of adversaries that nothing else could take root.


As I go back to our reading from Isaiah, as I think about the relentless march of armies and world history, I think of what it would mean to read those passages in the context of being the salt that thwarts the evil that empires want to sow. If we feed the hungry, clothe the naked, care for those outside our family and friend groups, then we build a stronger society.


We might have been taught that good government should also want to do those things, but we know that it’s far more common for empires to rule by way of fear: fear of hunger, fear of exposure, fear of being cast out, fear of violence and imprisonment, fear of war. Those fears can keep more of us cowering in the shadows, not demanding the justice that God’s law, God’s law proclaimed by Christ, demands. If more of us cower, unsavory types can move in and make money from our collective misery. If we aren’t active in our societies, who will do the work of preserving, fertilizing, and enhancing so that our world is more in line with what God envisions for humanity, instead of what wealthy billionaires would inflict on us all? I know which one has a vision that is better for those of us outside the elite, and it’s not the wealthy billionaires. It’s God, the way God has been made known through the generations, through ordinary people like my grandmother.


My grandmother and I ate those tomato sandwiches in her breakfast nook, not the formal dining room. In that room, in addition to boxes of breakfast cereal and the everyday dishes, sat her hymnbook, her Bible, and her daily devotional. She began each day with a daily devotional and each meal was punctuated with prayer: prayers for her family, prayers for her church, and prayers for the world beyond. Those of us who joined her for meals saw a powerful, albeit quiet, example.


I have learned my grandmother’s lessons well, although not necessarily in the ways she might have foreseen. I will always salt my tomato sandwiches—with kosher salt, if it’s available. And I will spend every day looking for ways to be the salt in the larger world.


We live faithful lives, salty lives, in order to create the kind of soil that can support God’s vision, a vision of flourishing, not floundering. We live faithful lives, salty lives, so that society can be the kind of garden that will NOT be poisoned for the purposes of empire, so that those enemy poisons WILL NOT take root. We live faithful lives, salty lives, to nurture the next generations coming after us who will continue the work. We are not useless condiments, salt without flavor, just taking up space on the shelf. NO. We are here to keep our commitment to God. We are here to follow that commitment to the larger community. We are tiny grains of salt, each and every one of us good, each and every one of us able to overpower the evil that threatens to root itself in our communities. We are here to rebuild the ruins, to restore the streets, to repair every breach. In our doing, we will solidify the foundations of future generations.

Revisiting Reformation History

I am taking a Lutheran Foundations class at United Lutheran Seminary.  Because I went to a Methodist seminary, my Candidacy Committee required that I take this class on my route to ordination.  I thought it was a course in Lutheran theology, but it's much more than that.  It's a class that addresses the question:  what does it mean to be a Lutheran?

In yesterday's class, we went over the history of the Reformation, which was more than just Luther nailing his theses to the Wittenberg door.  Much of it was familiar to me from Church History class, but we spent a lot more time focused on the German part of the Reformation.

My professor stressed how the people of Luther's time must have seen these developments as God/Holy Spirit involvement.  Here's Luther, in a distant outpost of the Holy Roman empire, in a small university, causing all this disruption, and living to tell the tale.  I tend to think of Luther, and it was good to remember that he was about as marginal as it was possible to be, without being a peasant.

My professor pointed out that if you're the pope, and you excommunicate someone, you no longer have power over them.  Similarly, if you're the Emperor, and you put a price on someone's head outlawing them, you've played your highest card.  If that person persists in their actions, you've got no leverage left.

We talked a bit about Calvin too, less about Henry VIII.  At the end of class, our professor showed us a map of Europe showing which parts were Catholic, Lutheran, and Calvinist.  It's amazing to think about how these developments happened in a century, and people were very aware that they were living in a time of great change (unlike, say, people living in the 14-16th century, who were probably not thinking of themselves as living in "The Renaissance").

It's no wonder that Luther's contemporaries thought of him as having supernatural powers.  I'm trying to decide whether to use these ideas in Sunday's sermon or in a Transfiguration Sunday sermon.

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

 The readings for Sunday, February 8, 2026:

First Reading: Isaiah 58:1-9a [9b-12]

Psalm: Psalm 112:1-9 [10]

Second Reading: 1 Corinthians 2:1-12 [13-16]

Gospel: Matthew 5:13-20


With the Gospel for this Sunday, we get our mission statement from Jesus. We are to be the salt of the earth, the light of the world. Maybe you read the Gospel for Sunday, and you despair. Maybe you've felt much more like a flickering candle lately. Maybe you yearn for verses about dimly burning wicks and the assurance that God will not extinguish you for your lackluster burning.

Jesus tells us that we are to let our light shine, but he doesn't tell us how hard it will be some days. As a child, I always thought that once the light was lit, the hard part was over. I would just shine and shine and not hide my light under a bushel and not let Satan pfff it out (as that old song goes).

I did not anticipate the days and months I would feel like I had no light at all, no wick to light, no oil left in the lamp. I did not anticipate the days that I would wish I had a flicker, a guttering flame.

How do we keep our light from going out? I feel certain that it's in the various disciplines that we adopt to strengthen our spiritual lives: praying, journaling, reading the Bible, reading other spiritual literature, being in nature, fasting, feasting, tithing, charitable giving, working for social justice, practicing gratitude, caring for those who need us, noticing the wonders of the world.

It's important to realize that we can't keep our lights lit if we see this activity as a once-a-week duty. I suspect that even a once-a-day duty isn't enough. We need to develop disciplines that reorient us throughout the day. We need to build in breaks throughout the day to attend to our wicks and lights.

Maybe we could tie these spiritual disciplines to other breaks we must take during our days. You've probably done this practice at one point in your life: we could say a prayer of gratitude before we eat. We could listen to spiritually uplifting books or music during our commutes or workouts.  As we wash our hands throughout the day, we could remember our baptismal promises.  Many charitable activities force us to keep to a schedule.

It’s important to remember that we are often the only light of Jesus that many people will see throughout the week. How would our attitude and behavior change if we saw our lives through this prism? We are the instruments and tools that God uses to deliver God’s light into the world. How can we make ourselves better at the task?

Some of us think that we need to lead people to Jesus by talking to them about our faith. But our lives and our actions have already done all the talking before we ever open our mouths. Keep that in mind as you interact with people. Let your life do the shining. Be the salt that adds savor to everyone’s surroundings. Glorify God in this way.

The Feast Days of Anna and Simeon

Today we celebrate the lives of Simeon and Anna. Yesterday was the feast day that celebrates the presentation of Jesus at the temple 40 days after his birth. Simeon was the priest at the temple that day. God had promised Simeon that he would not die without seeing the Messiah, and at the end of Simeon's life, God fulfills the promise.

When he held Jesus, he said the words that many of us still use as part of our liturgies: "Lord, now you are letting your servant depart in peace, according to your word; 30 for my eyes have seen your salvation that you have prepared in the presence of all peoples, a light for revelation to the Gentiles, and for glory to your people Israel."

On this day, we also celebrate Anna the Prophetess, who was also there for the presentation. Like Simeon, she's at the end of her life, and she's spent much of her life in the temple, doing the support work that keeps religious work running smoothly. It's interesting that I assume she did the support work--the text says she spent her days worshiping God and fasting and praying. My brain filled in the rest: that she did the sweeping and the care of the candles/lamps and the feeding of everyone.

We have the song of Simeon; I wonder if Anna sang a song? I wonder what it would be?

I am fairly new to this pair of feast days; in fact, I only realized a few years ago that Anna and Simeon share the same feast day. I love feast days that celebrate humans at the end of life, humans who haven't done anything particularly remarkable--although staying faithful for a lifetime is fairly remarkable.

The churches of my childhood didn't spend much time on the old people in any story. The lectionary readings focus on Jesus and the disciples, who are often presented as men in the youthful prime of their lives.

I'm forever grateful to feminist scholars who have returned to these texts and given them a new spin as they imagined what would happen if we moved women to the center of the narratives--or, if not the center, at least out of the marginal shadows.

I feel a need to do something similar with the stories of the old folks. Elizabeth, Simeon, and Anna are great places to start.

Today, let us remember that God makes us a similar promise to the one that Simeon receives. We need but open our eyes to see the presence of the Divine. And if we're faithful to the best of our abilities, we may find out we've been holding the Divine in our hands all along.

Halfway Point of Winter

We are at the halfway point of winter--halfway between the Winter Solstice and the Spring Equinox. Today is Candlemas, where Christians celebrate the presentation of Jesus at the Temple, and pagans long ago celebrated the goddess Brigid (and the feast day of St. Brigid was yesterday), and some Wiccans today will be celebrating at Imbolc, or a variation of any number of pagan holidays. It's also Groundhog's Day. It's one of those times when we can almost perceive the shifting of the seasons. It's not spring yet, but it will be soon.

Candlemas is the feast day that speaks to me. Candlemas celebrates the presentation of Jesus at the temple. It's the last feast holiday that references Christmas. We could see it as the final festival of Christmas, even though most of us have had the decorations packed away since even before Epiphany.

This morning I'm thinking of Simeon, who held onto the promise of the Messiah throughout his very long life before he saw it fulfilled. He waits and he waits and he waits. But finally, at the end of his life, he does hold the Messiah, the light of the world, in his hands.

Simeon holds the baby Jesus. Imagine it: to hold the light of the world in your hands. In so many ways we still do. We carry the light of the world inside us. How can your body deliver light to the world?

Some churches and monasteries will bless the year's supply of candles. I love this tradition, although it's never been mine. Today would be a good day to light a candle and to think about our own lights. Are we dimly burning wicks? Take heart--the Bible promises that we can still be useful. Does our light burn pure and true? Take care to protect that flame.

The holidays of early February (Groundhog Day, Candlemas, St. Brigid's Day, Imbolc and Oimelc ) remind us that the light hasn't really left us. Spring will be here soon.

A Poem for the Feast Day of Saint Brigid

Today is the feast day of St. Brigid, one of the patron saints of Ireland.  She is one of the early Christians, living from roughly 451-525 (AD/CE) who stood at the intersection of Christianity, Druidism, and the other pagan religions of Ireland.  This time period was also a time of societal collapse--the Roman empire was in slow (albeit sometimes spectacular) decline/collapse, and if I'm remembering my history correctly, Ireland and England were attacked by various tribes from the northern parts of Europe.  It would have been a difficult time.

Brigid is one of those extraordinary women who did amazing things, despite the patriarchal culture in which she lived.  She founded founded some of the first Christian monasteries in Ireland, most famously the legendary one in Kildare.  She also founded a school of art that focuses on metal working and illumination.  The illustrated manuscript, the Book of Kildare, was created under her auspices.  Unfortunately, it's been lost since the Reformation, so we know it by its reputation only.

Monastic, administrator, artist--it's no wonder that her story calls to me from across the centuries.

I didn't really know much about Brigid until about 2011 or 2012, when I read several blog posts about her.  In 2013, I drove all the way to Mepkin Abbey on her feast day.  I thought about her life as I drove across cold landscapes.  I finally wrote a draft of the poem that appears below.

Years ago, I wrote this:  "I will try to imagine Saint Brigid through a more realistic lens.  I will write a poem where she tells me that she accomplished all sorts of things along the way, while all the time struggling to create her great illuminated work.  I will imagine something that she did that we know nothing of.  I will imagine that she will feel sad when she realizes that modern people don't even know of her great work, but instead of her institutions at Kildare and beyond.

I will think about a woman at midlife 1500 years from now, a woman who reads about my life.  What will amaze her?  How will she see the ways that I did, indeed, live an authentic life, even as I lost sight of that fact in the daily minutiae?  If she blogged about me, what would seem important enough to include?  How would she finish this sentence:  In the last half of her life, Berkey-Abbott accomplished ______________  ?"

I have yet to write about Brigid's lost work, but I did write the poem that imagines Brigid through a more realistic lens.  It was published in Adanna, and I'm happy to repost it here.  If you want additional background on Brigid, see this blog post.


The True Miracle of Saint Brigid


You know about the baskets
of butter, the buckets of beer,
the milk that flowed
to fill a lake.

You don’t know about the weeks
we prayed for the miracle
of multiplication but instead received
the discipline of division.

I managed the finances to keep us all fed.
By day, I rationed the food.
At night, I dreamed of a sculpture
manufactured of metal.

I didn’t have the metal
or the time, but in the minutes
had, I illuminated
any scrap of paper I could find.

Lost to the ashes:
The Book of Kildare, but also
my budget ledgers, flowers
and birds drawn around the numbers.