Endorsed!

I thought about making a Facebook post that said "Endorsed!"  But most people wouldn't know what I meant--they'd rightly ask, "Endorsed by whom?"

On Wednesday, I met for an Endorsement panel for Candidacy in the Southeastern Synod for the ELCA, the more inclusive expression of the Lutheran church in the U.S.  I had already written a 39 page Endorsement essay, which was really 7 writing prompts, which had me do a mix of new writing and including papers written for classes.  So I had already answered a lot of questions that the Candidacy Committee might have had:  why do you want to be Lutheran or why do you want to be ordained or how do you understand Luther's theology for our time?

We talked about some of those answers, of course.  But we spent more time talking about my experiences as a creative/artistic person and as a minister at a small, country church in Bristol, TN.  It was a wonderful experience:  I felt affirmed and supported the whole way through.

I know that I am lucky.  I've heard the Candidacy horror stories, stories across denominations.  My experience was much more like a really deep, really nourishing conversation during a retreat where the real world won't intrude.

I'll probably write more about this experience in weeks to come.  I didn't want to write about the Wed. conversation before I got word about the decision of the larger Candidacy Committee that met yesterday.

By late afternoon, I got the word by way of e-mail:  "Congratulations! The candidacy committee overwhelmingly approved you for endorsement!"

What does this mean? It's the last phase before Ordination. I have an internship to do, which will be at Faith Lutheran, where I am their Synod Appointed Minister. It will be from Advent to Easter. I will meet with the Committee in April, with ordination expected shortly after.

The synod is very supportive of my need to be bi-vocational, as I am now on the tenure track at Spartanburg Methodist College.

Speaking of teaching, let me shift my attention--one last day of teaching to do this week, and if I go now, I can get a quick walk in before the commuting and the teaching.

A Good Stretch of Poetry Days

The past few days have been a good poetry days, in a more well-rounded sense--by which I mean, I've been doing more than just writing down a line or two.  Let me capture what a good stretch of poetry days looks like:

--A few months ago, I had an idea for a poem, Jesus buying a fixer-upper of a house.  I didn't do anything with this idea since I first had it (in late April, as evidenced by this blog post).  But this week, I returned to it, and I'm really delighted with the surprises that the poem offers.

--Yesterday, I read a volume of poems.  My students were working through a time management module and had to enter due dates into calendars and planners.  I thought they would blaze through the assignment, but only a few of them did.  I went back to my office to get something to read.

--That book was Donna Vorreyer's Unrivered.  What an amazing book!  Vorreyer explores themes of aging and the natural world and relationships, and many of her poems have theological imagery and ideas that I didn't expect.  She's also skilled at a variety of forms.  It's a book that demands a re-read, which I hope to do soon.

--I read most of the book in one sitting, and I returned to read the rest of it later in the afternoon.  It's always a very different experience to read an entire collection in one day, and I'm glad I did it yesterday.

--I had a late afternoon phone call after the Endorsement Panel yesterday.  I was invited to be the official poet, a poet laureate of sorts, of the Southeastern Synod's Synod Assembly.  What a cool possibility!

--My mom heard me say that I was invited to be poet laureate of the Synod, which would also be an interesting possibility.

--This morning I returned to my poem about Jesus working on the fixer-upper.  Here's what I wrote, a stanza which surprised me--I didn't know I was going to write it until the lines flowed out:

Jesus wipes down every surface,
scrubbing when necessary.
He paints the walls in a soothing
version of the color that first flooded
the world when God said,
“Let there be light.”

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The readings for August 23, 2026:

First Reading: Isaiah 51:1-6

First Reading (Semi-cont.): Exodus 1:8--2:10

Psalm: Psalm 138

Psalm (Semi-cont.): Psalm 124

Second Reading: Romans 12:1-8

Gospel: Matthew 16:13-20


In this Gospel reading, we find Jesus asking some of the basic questions. “Who do men say that I am?” “Who do you say that I am?” It’s a curious exchange that has Peter proclaiming Jesus as Lord, and Jesus instructing him not to tell anybody about himself.

We see in this text Peter getting the kind of affirmation that many of us crave. Jesus tells Peter that he will be the cornerstone, the rock.

I think of Peter and imagine that in times of frustration, he must have looked back at this moment with Christ. What a comfort that memory must be.

I spent much of my younger years longing to be sure that I was doing what God put me on earth to do, as if I had only one destiny, and I might be missing it.

My parents, in their wisdom, kept reminding me that God can use me no matter where I am. God is the original collage artist, taking bits and pieces that don’t seem to go together, and creating them into a cohesive whole.

It might be worth thinking in poetic terms about this Gospel. If Peter is the Rock, who are you? Some of us are willow trees that bend with storms but don’t break. Or maybe we’re sand, having been worn down by those storms, but still valuable. Maybe we’re soil made rich by the compost of circumstances. Some of us are grass, that steady groundcover that makes the larger plants possible by holding the soil in place.

I could go on with these metaphors, but you get the idea. The Gospel wants us to wrestle with these questions. Who are you? And who is the triune God in relation to you?

What part does Jesus play in our lives? A guy we see once a week in church? A fellow traveler? Comforter? Savior? Someone we don’t know very well because we just don’t have the time? Co-creator of a joy-filled life? Reason for living?

More importantly, can people see who Jesus is to us by the way we live our lives? How is our life a testament, like Peter’s? How can our life be more of a testament? What changes can we make today?

Signs and Signifiers and Keeping a Record

It's been a strange beginning to the work week.  Let me record, so I don't forget.

--I've been in that liminal space where it's time to settle into the semester, yet I could still delay doing that for another few days.  My office hour time has been consumed by meetings and Convocation, so I have yet to get my Brightspace course shells set up.  At this point, it doesn't matter, because the classes meet in person.  Soon, though, it will be time for students to submit work, and I need to get those structures set up.

--I've been trying to decide how to record what I do in class--I'm going to keep a weekly list in my bullet journal, because it will be easier to find it again.  I've also discovered that I need to do a better job of adding handouts to the course shell.  I did none of that in last year's Creative Writing class.  Happily, I recorded a lot of what I did in this blog.

--Last night, I saw a Facebook post that Wesley Seminary created with a “We’re welcoming students back to campus!” motif: tables of breakfast, welcome baskets, happy faces. I am happy for those students, don’t get me wrong. But it does remind me of how my time at seminary was not what I expected, with no one on hand for move in day, no welcome of any kind. We were still social distancing in 2022, so that was part of it. For the 1st part of the semester back in 2022, we wore masks to our in-person classes.

For the most part, I’m still very happy I got to go to seminary, to attend physically in person, for a year. But occasionally, I feel a stunning sadness at all the ways it was so different from what I expected.

--Let me end with a happier memory of this 2nd week's beginning.  I went to the library to pick up my book on hold:  Nora Ephron's I Feel Bad about My Neck.  The librarian touched her neck and said, "This 72 year old librarian feels seen."  

I told her about my idea for my Nonfiction Writing class, which is focusing on the wide variety of personal essays we could write as a way to begin the class.  I'm bringing in Molly Jong-Fast's NYT essay with its realistic assessment of plastic surgery which references the Ephron essay.  I said, "Of course, these students are 19 and 20 years old, and they have gorgeous skin, so I don't know if they can relate to any of this."

The librarian beamed at me and said, "You're going to have a wonderful class.  Those students are so lucky."

We did have a really good class yesterday.  My English 101 and ALP classes were good too.

--In an evening of whiplash, with up and down feelings, I did ask God for a sign, even though I don't really believe God works that way.  I looked at the screen door and saw a perfect, tiny butterfly, so perfect that I wondered if someone had put a butterfly sticker on the screen.  Nope--my spouse took the screen door off the sliding track, and it flew away.

I'm going to see it as a sign of blessing, even if I'm a woman who tells herself that she doesn't believe in signs.

Sunday Sermons and Good Sundays

Yesterday was a good day at Faith Lutheran--the energy level felt a bit higher, a few more people attending than we had in the slower summer Sundays.  

I used the youth sermon to talk about the behavior of Jesus towards the Canaanite woman, the way we see Jesus at his most human, the hard parts of being human, the way humans get grumpy and tired and don't always treat each other well--but the way we can course correct in real time, just like Jesus did.

I was happy with how my adult sermon went, and happy about the last part of the last sentence, which wasn't in the manuscript:  "to live into a future where everyone has a place at the table, not under the table."

You can watch the recording of the sermon here on my YouTube channel, and you can read the manuscript in this blog post.

Sermon for Sunday, August 16, 2026

August 16, 2026
By Kristin Berkey-Abbott




Matthew 15:[10-20] 21-28



We have met the Canaanite woman before, and not just 3 years ago when we were last at this place in the lectionary cycle. In Mark, she’s called a Syrophoenician woman. Both of these descriptors—Canaanite and Syrophoenician--are markers that would have been more clear to first century ears than to our own. She is an outsider in all kinds of ways: she’s female, she’s not from Galilee, and most scholars assume she’s not Jewish. And yet, she shows us a way that outsiders can make the culture more inclusive.


Jesus goes to the region of Tyre and Sidon. He’s now left Galilee, his home base. Tyre is 20 miles away, Sidon further north, 50 miles away. His reputation as a healer has spread far and wide. Some Bible scholars seem surprised by this, but I’m not. Imagine if someone today could heal the toughest cancer and not with a rigorous regime of chemo that leaves the body exhausted, but with a touch that restores health. Ancient people were not that different from us. Humans seek healing, then and now.


But the Canaanite woman is not sick herself; she asks for healing for her daughter. Is her quest on behalf of another’s health the reason that Jesus and the disciples are so dismissive? No—Jesus has healed others who came to him hoping that he would come to heal a friend or relative or even a servant. Earlier in the Gospel of Matthew, a centurion comes to Jesus on behalf of his servant, and Jesus heals from a distance.


We might be starting to notice an inconsistency in Jesus’ approach. In parts of some Gospels, he heals only after a discussion. In other parts, like with the bleeding woman, he heals without even giving consent. He heals people who are grateful. When people don’t say thank you, he may notice, but he doesn’t reverse the miracle.


If you are hoping that I can give you secret insider information that I got at seminary, information that will lead us to a consistent theology, well . . . I’m sorry. Maybe I’ve found my life’s work for the last 1/3 of my life, but I don’t have an answer now.


Jesus doesn’t limit his powers of healing only to Jews. The centurion and the servant are Romans. But the woman in today’s Gospel is an outsider on a different level, a much more ancient level, going back to the time of the Torah.


She is a Canaanite woman, and using the word Canaanite instead of Syrophoenician makes her outsider status even more ancient. If you think way, way back in the Bible, you may remember that when the Israelites leave Egypt, led by Moses, they are headed to the promised land. Unfortunately that promised land was already occupied—by Canaanites. That vicious battle created hatred that stretched across centuries, hatred still active in the time of Jesus.


She comes to Jesus, knowing of this enmity, this bad blood between people but also knowing that her daughter is sick. She enters this male entourage and insists on being heard.


But notice how she insists. Her language is key to understanding how respectful she is. Her language also shows that she is professing Jesus to be more than just a healer or a miracle worker. She begins by using this title: “Lord, Son of David.” She recognizes him as the Messiah, the promised one foretold by prophets, and she does this throughout her interactions by using the term “Lord.” We often hear that word as one of Jesus’ other names, like Christ. But she’s using it in an ancient context, and her kneeling before Jesus reinforces that signifier.


Jesus’ response is harsh, which we’ve talked about before, and in today’s context, it’s a bit baffling. If he’s only come for the lost sheep of the house of Israel, then what’s he doing far away in Tyre and Sidon? You might bring up the parable about the shepherd who leaves the 99 sheep behind in search of the one who wandered away. The writer of the Gospel of Matthew is actually starting to expand the idea of the flock in a different way. It’s as if the shepherd in the parable decided to add a different type of animal to the herd.


Scholars now believe the Gospel of Matthew was written in the first decade or two after the destruction of the temples by the Romans. Keep in mind, it wasn’t just the destruction of the Temple—the Romans forced every Jewish survivor to leave the city of Jerusalem, and they would not return to that city again in mass numbers until the 20th century.


The Gospel of Matthew shows us a community in exile figuring out how to be a community in exile. Will they continue to be Jews who believe in the Divinity of Jesus or will they include believers who are Gentiles? The Canaanite woman argues for inclusion—she argues forcefully, yet respectfully. In this way, she changes Jesus’ mind and the approach of believers for decades to come. And if we look around, we could say that she was successful and leave it there and go home feeling happy.

But the message in today’s Gospel is that we’re never done with God’s vision for a more inclusive kingdom. Even Jesus has some growing to do. Even Jesus could dream a bigger dream, if only someone would come along and help him see what might be possible.


Today’s Gospel has reverberations for our own culture. We are a humanity in desperate need of new visions. We might hear this Gospel about ancient divisions and think of the ancient divisions plaguing our own times, divisions that come through history that is both different, yet ageless. People kicked out of homelands so that others can have a homeland—how do we solve that division? Geographical divisions that are intractable—how do we solve those disagreements? Old disagreements that fester into entrenched grievances—how do we solve that division? These are still essential questions for individual communities and larger nations.


Every person alive can tell a story of being on the painful side of exclusion and being outcast. How can we heal that wound?


The Canaanite woman shows us a way. We look to see what is healing and life giving. We look to those who are casting out demons, not the ones driving us into insensibility with evil speech. We insist on the dignity of everyone and give reverence to those who are deserving.


And yet, those actions alone may not be enough, if we don’t have the courage that it takes to be persistent.


As we work towards creating a better world, one in line with the flourishing that God wants for creation, we may not have success right away. The powers and principalities of the world will not say, “We were just waiting for someone to come and show us that a better way is possible.” We might be ignored. We might have to listen to harsh language about us and our visions. It might even be worse.


The Canaanite woman shows us the power of faith coupled with persistence. She is our ancestor in faith, and she showing us how to live in a time of cataclysmic change, showing us how to live in a world where the predominant response to cataclysmic change is to build more boundaries so that those who have a lot want can exclude those who aren’t so fortunate. The Canaanite woman changed Jesus’ mind; she changed the trajectory of his mission. Let us go and continue to live into the promise of this vision.

The Feast Day of Mary, Her Assumption and All Else

 Today is one of the many Marian feast days. Today we celebrate Mary's Assumption into Heaven. Here are the readings for today:

First Reading: Isaiah 61:7-11

Psalm: Psalm 45:11-16 (Psalm 34:1-9 NRSV)

Second Reading: Galatians 4:4-7

Gospel: Luke 1:46-55

I will state the obvious from the beginning.  We don't really know very much about the historic life of Mary.  That's both a blessing and a problem.  Because we don't know much about her, our imaginations can fill in all the blanks.  That can be wonderful, but we can make Mary into the person we need her to be. We could spend a lot of time trying to decide if this is a problem or as a benefit.

Did Mary know that she was headed for a chosen status before the angel Gabriel showed up?  I picture her as a young girl, having interesting dreams, having flashes of insight as she was taught to do daily tasks and how those tasks might be transformed into something more transcendent (bread baking, for example).  And then she takes that insight and teaches Jesus.

I might have a different version of Mary next year.  And I have no way of knowing whether or not any of it is true.

Likewise with her assumption into heaven--could this have actually happened?  Unlike some theologians, it doesn't seem very important to me.  I'm much more interested in the ways that God shows up for each of us with offers of potential and promises kept.

Throughout history, Mary has been used to show how all of us are somehow less worthy.  But most of us don't have the benefit of the angel Gabriel showing up to paint a picture of God's idea of what we could be and what the world could be.

Mary's response is worth remembering, especially as she hearkens back to Abraham and Sarah in praising God, who has kept the promises made to the ancestors.

Here we are, on the Feast Day of the Assumption, hearkening back to the Feast of the Annunciation.  If I had a favorite Marian holiday, it would be this one, or maybe the Visitation, which celebrates both Mary and her older kinswoman, Elizabeth.  These days, I'm yearning for more models of healthy aging, and perversely, Elizabeth speaks to me more often than the other elders in the Bible.

I am grateful for these shreds of information and insight from our spiritual ancestors.  While I wish we had more, I'm happy that we have enough for my imagination to take the reigns.

Thirty-eight Years Married

Today we celebrate our 38th wedding anniversary--38 years! It feels like just a blip.  Here is one of my favorite pictures of us, a picture taken at the March 2026 wedding of our nephew, who was born in 1993:

This morning in 1988, we'd have been in Greenwood, South Carolina. I'd have slept in the house that used to be a parsonage where my grandfather served a congregation for many years. Thirty years ago in that house, my grandmother ironed my wedding dress. Below you'll see my grandmother, with my aunt Joyce helping.




Yes, I had a long, white dress. We got married in the same church in Greenwood, South Carolina where my parents had gotten married in 1962, the same church where my grandfather had been the pastor. We had the ceremony at 11:00 in the morning, so that our out of town guests with long travels home would have plenty of time.  We tried to keep the ceremony and the reception relatively simple. For example, we chose daisies for our bouquet. Our reception included sandwiches, so that our out-of-town guests wouldn't have to buy lunch on their way out of town. We had the best wedding cake I've ever had.

In many ways, we're still that same couple: we try to keep life simple, while at the same time, keeping a commitment to hospitality. We are hyper-aware of our blessings, and the fact that much of the world will never taste the extravagance of a wedding cake. But we don't deprive ourselves--we stop to admire the daisies.

Here you see a picture of us on this day in 1988, and the two of us at our 25th anniversary dinner:

Here's my final thought for an anniversary morning. I'd expand the thought to include not just our spouses but also our friends and colleagues and family members.

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The readings for Sunday, August 16, 2026:

First Reading: Isaiah 56:1, 6-8

First Reading (Semi-cont.): Genesis 45:1-15

Psalm: Psalm 67

Psalm (Semi-cont.): Psalm 133

Second Reading: Romans 11:1-2a, 29-32

Gospel: Matthew 15:[10-20] 21-28

I don't like this picture of Jesus that today's Gospel represents. He treats the Canaanite woman rudely, with a complete lack of compassion. What do we make of this vision of Christ?

Part of the answer may depend on your view of Jesus/God. Do you see God as unchanging? Do you see God as never making mistakes?

If so, perhaps you should re-read your Bible, especially the Old Testament. Throughout the Scriptures, we see God changing course, often influenced by humans. God does not command us to be passive and just accept whatever comes our way--whether it be from God, powers and principalities, other humans, or Satan. That theological idea that we have to just accept our lot in life in the hopes that we'll get our reward in Heaven--it's a major misreading of the Scriptures and of theology.

I like the idea of God who allows us to disagree--and a God that sometimes agrees that we are right in our disagreement. I like the idea of a God that is being shaped and changed by creation, just as we are being shaped and changed by creation--and by God.

I know we'd rather believe in an absolute God, a God who has all the answers. We don't want to believe in a God who gets tired. We don't want to believe in a God who doesn't have absolute control. We want a God who can point and make magical changes, even though everything we've experienced about the world doesn't suggest that God acts that way very often, if at all.

In today's Gospel, we see a tired, irritable Jesus. It's a terrifying idea (I'd prefer a divinity of infinite patience), but it's the best support to show that God did indeed become human.

The Canaanite woman is much more Godlike than Jesus in this Gospel. Here's a woman who is desperate to help her child. When Jesus rebukes her, she stands up to him and argues her case. And she persuades him. She demands justice, and because she stands her ground, she wins. Her behavior is much more Christlike than Christ's.

She has much to teach us. We are called to emulate her. When we see injustice, we must cry out to God and demand that creation be put right. Many theologians would tell you that if you want God to be active in this free will world that God has created, that you better start making some demands. God can't be involved unless we demand it (for a further discussion of this concept, see the excellent books of Walter Wink). If God just intervened in the world, that would violate the principle of free will which God instilled in creation. But if we invite God to action, then God has grounds to act.

I would argue that some of the most sweeping social changes of the twentieth century were grounded in this principle of crying out to the wider world and to God to demand that justice be done. Think of Gandhi's India, the repressiveness of the Jim Crow era in the USA, the South African situation decried by Archbishop Tutu, the civil wars in Central America, the Soviet occupied Eastern Europe: these situations horrified the larger world and the movements to rectify them were rooted in the Christian tradition. True, there were often external pressures applied (economic embargoes and the like), but each situation prompted prayer movements throughout the world.

Let the Canaanite woman be your guide towards right behavior. Let the actions of Jesus remind you that even if you're snappy and irritable, you can change course and direct yourself towards grace and compassion. Let your faith give you hope for a creation restored to God's original vision of a just and peaceful Kingdom.

The Feast Day of Saint Clare

Today we celebrate the life of St. Clare of Assisi, one of the first followers of St. Francis, and founder of the Order of the Poor Ladies (more commonly called the Poor Clares).  She wrote their Rule of Life, the first woman to have created such a thing, a set of rules for the life of a monastic order.

The Poor Clares lived a life committed to poverty, what St. Clare called a "joyous poverty."  Why joyous?  Because they felt they were following Christ in a much more authentic way and because they more vividly felt the presence of Jesus because of their lifestyle.  Throughout her life she faced pressure from church officials to abandon or weaken this commitment to poverty, and she resisted.  

Yet she also understood poverty as a practice that needed to be navigated in a way that didn't threaten life itself.  In a Facebook post Tim Brown, ELCA pastor and Stewardship expert at the ELCA, says, "Though St. Clare was intent on living in a post-ownership society, she also understood that savage piety could produce a backhanded vanity. "We are not made of brass," she said once to an overzealous sister, reminding the order that poverty was a gift, not a quest or competition. Human bodies can handle only so much deprivation."

The order still exists today, which tells me much about her accomplishment.

She was also instrumental in assisting St. Francis of Assisi, and many give her credit as one of his earliest followers.  Her order was based on his intentional community, and again, Franciscan strains of spirituality not only exist but are strong today--a testament to their work.

Tim Brown concludes his Facebook post by noting three truths:

"St. Clare is a reminder for me of a couple truths:

 
First, the spotlight unfairly falls on men in history. Clare was inspired by Francis, but more fully lived into his ideal vision of a monastic life than he ever did. She is the shining example that what he preached was a good way to live.

Second, piety can be just as competitive as gluttony in the hands of the overzealous. Martyrdom complexes are as sinful as extravagance. Clare's call was to humility, not destitution.

Finally, never underestimate the ability to move someone when words and actions hold hands. Clare looked not only to the sermon Francis preached, but to the sermon he embodied, and was motivated to do something life-changing."

Back to me:

In these days of increased tensions of all sorts, the life of St. Clare seems to take on fresh importance.  Let us take a moment to say a prayer of gratitude for her.  Let us remember the poor.  Let us vow to be joyous about reduced circumstances, should we be facing them.  Let us meet our savior as we minister to each other.

Sermon Recording from a Good Day at Church

We had a really good day at church yesterday at Faith Lutheran in Bristol, Tennessee.  I say this with some sense of wonder because I arrived in a grumpy mood:  we left ten minutes later than I had requested, which meant I felt frazzled.

I prayed for my grumpy frazzled mood to lift as I waited for my spouse to come downstairs and open the door, and happily it did with the first hymn.  My sermon went well.  I was more pleased with my adult sermon, but I also think what I did with the youth was important, talking about storms as what they might encounter in school (it's their second Monday back today).  Grown ups hear about Peter sinking in stormy waters and immediately think about the chaos in their lives, but most youth are not trained in this kind of interpretation.

We even welcomed a new member, the nephew of one of our current members and his two small (delightful!) children.  I got donuts in Arden, at my newish favorite donut store that's open at 5 a.m., even on Sundays.

You can find the recording of my sermon here.  If you'd like to read along, the manuscript is in this blog post.

Sermon for Sunday, August 9, 2026

August 9, 2026
By Kristin Berkey-Abbott


Matthew 14:22-33




We seem to be in the escalating miracles section of the lectionary. We might be able to explain away the miracle of last week’s reading by guessing that the crowds share more food as they are inspired by the actions of a few. But making a storm stop immediately—that miracle reveals the Divine nature of Jesus. No one could doubt after that miracle, right?


Perhaps not. Jesus has calmed a storm before today’s text in the Gospel of Matthew. It happens in the 8th chapter, when Jesus takes a nap in the boat as the storm rages around the disciples on the deck. When they are desperate enough to wake Jesus, he immediately stops the storm. The disciples are left puzzling over what they have seen, asking in verse 27 of chapter 8: “What sort of man is this, that even winds and sea obey him?”


The two stories have similarities beyond the storm and Jesus’ power over it. In both stories, Jesus has been ministering to a crowd. In today’s text, instead of getting in the boat with the disciples, Jesus sends them out in the boat and dismisses the crowds. Finally, he has time to go to the mountain to pray.


In the ancient world, particularly the Jewish world, the mountain is where one goes to meet God. Moses gets the 10 Commandments on a mountain. Prophets get Divine insight on mountain tops. Ancient ears would have heard about Jesus going to pray, and they might have interpreted that verb in a different way than we do. They might have heard about Jesus on a mountain and assumed that not only did Jesus talk to God, but also that God spoke back.


Ancient ears would have heard the part about the boat and the sea differently too. In the ancient world, the sea is a place associated with chaos, and a storm at sea would be evidence of a world out of control, depths that will swallow up even the best fisherman or sailor. Similarly, the early hours of the morning are evidence of the kind of dark night of the soul that we see periodically in the Bible—like the time Jesus prays in the Garden of Gethsemene.


So, when the men see Jesus, it’s not a surprise that they think they are seeing a ghost or some other creature rising from the depths to finish up the process of destroying them. Jesus speaks, and even then, they’re not sure of what they see. The storm still rages, after all. Can they even hear him?


Peter’s words—if it is you-- make me think that they can hear, but they just can’t process it. And who can blame them? When they last saw Jesus, less than 12 hours ago, he was headed in a different direction. And they may see him as a miracle worker, but even miracle workers can’t walk on the water in the middle of a storm.


Jesus can—and Peter can too, before he lets his analytical brain take control. Many a sermon has been preached on faith and how our rational brains might undermine our relationship with God, just the way we see here. Peter sinks, Jesus saves him, and still the storm rages around them.


Maybe it’s not Peter’s rational brain that fails him, that gets in the way of his faith, but fear. It’s not that Peter says, “Wait, I’m walking on water, and humans shouldn’t be able to do this.” No, it’s the wind that howls in his ears that makes him afraid and vulnerable.


I suspect the same is true for most of us. It’s not our science trained brains that get us distracted from God, but it is fear that deafens our ears to the call of Christ. But today’s story reminds us that it often takes an experience of soul rattling fear that leaves us open to finding God in the midst of the raging chaos that surrounds us. When our lives are progressing smoothly, it’s easy to think that we don’t need God. It’s when our lives fall apart that we find ourselves reaching out to God, God who has always been there, reaching out to us.


Today’s Gospel ends with the disciples recognizing the divinity of Jesus, which is not how the earlier story of Jesus calming the storm ends. Is it the difference between calming the storm from the safety of the boat in chapter 8 and walking on the water in the storm, as he does here? Is it that they have seen more and more that convinces them and by chapter 14, they are ready to confess their faith?


Maybe it is because they are Jews, shaped by the Passover story. With the pairing of last week’s Gospel with this week’s, we see Jesus re-enacting this ancient story in some key ways: there’s food in the wilderness and deliverance from waters that threaten. And there’s another echo of Exodus; when the disciples think they are seeing a ghost, Jesus identifies himself by saying “It is I.” Hebrew scholars note that Jesus uses the same words in the same form of Hebrew that God uses in the burning bush to tell Moses who speaks from the bush.


We are not Jews shaped by the Passover story, but Christians shaped by the story of a Messiah. Listen to those words again from verse 27: "Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid." Which part of that passage do you hear differently than others might? For me, it’s that ending, “Do Not be afraid.” From the beginning of the story of Jesus to the end, these words repeat: “Do not be afraid.” Mary and Joseph both receive this message, as does Jesus. And so do the disciples, throughout their time with Jesus.


But too many of us ignore the first part of what Jesus says. It’s not enough to train ourselves to not be afraid. We also need to take heart—or as an earlier translation says, “Take courage” or “Have courage.” If we don’t need to be afraid, we should be liberated to dare to do more.


Our courage might fail us, of course. Just because Jesus meets us in the storm, it doesn’t mean an end to all of our troubles. In today’s Gospel, the storm continues. And unlike the storm in chapter 8, in chapter 14 Jesus doesn’t command the storm to stop. Perhaps it ends, as all storms do, when they’ve expended all available energy.


Another interpretation of “Take heart” is “Be of good cheer,” or even “cheer up,” which might change our approach to the text considerably. We don’t need to be afraid. On the contrary, we can take heart and be of good cheer, because Jesus shows us again and again that his power is greater than any earthly power.


I wish I could tell you that a life following Jesus is one where there are no storms, but endless parties with everyone fed and leftovers collected. Jesus doesn’t promise us that life. But he does promise that if we fix our eyes on Jesus, if we listen to his words instead of the winds howling in our ears, we’ll survive the storm. Maybe it’s because we have faith enough to ignore our fear and walk on the water. It’s more likely that we survive because we fail, and in that moment of failure, we cry out for help. And Jesus is there, as Jesus has always been there, hand outstretched.


With the help of Jesus, we’ll make it back to the battered boat, and the battered boat will make it to the other side. All we need to do is let Jesus grab hold of us and steer us back to safety.

Shifts for Those with Sense to See

I am always intrigued by how we can see seasons shifting, long before the calendar would tell us to expect these changes.

We have to learn to see with new eyes, eyes that focus on what's there, not what we're expecting to see. It's more of a shift of imagination than with our literal eyes, our literal sense: 

It's similar to how we can see God at work in the world--but it might mean we need to change our focus. 

Once we see it, the changing of a season, the evidence of God in the world, it's hard to ignore.

In future years, I might see this photo as evidence of a world on fire; I wouldn't be wrong, but it's early morning mist here, not smoke from fires.

One aspect I can't capture:  the way the greenness of the trees is thinning, the way I can see distant lights from roads in ways I couldn't just a month ago.

Back to School, Back to Hiroshima

Yesterday was a delightful day.  Today will be delightful too, although it's a full day on campus, so it will be a different kind of delightful.  And I've been awake since 2, so I do worry about how tired I'll be by late afternoon.

My brain started churning at 2, churning with all sorts of worries and plans.  I need to sit down with a calendar and old syllabi and make some loose plans--or maybe weekly plans--at least that's what my brain was telling me when I couldn't go back to sleep.  My brain also jumped ahead to spring, and how I might teach the Intro to Lit class, and it's much too early to be plotting those classes.

Have I done the syllabus planning for this semester, since I was awake?  No, of course not.  I did some reading and ate some cranberry orange bread.  I did some fretting about muscle loss:  not my own, but my friend who had the catastrophic stroke a few years ago, and has lost so much muscle mass that she can't sit in the wheelchair very long.  I've wondered about other people in my life who aren't getting much exercise--but certainly more than my mostly bed-bound friend.

I am remembering 2 years ago, heading down to campus for a day that would have been even fuller, with a dinner for new faculty at the end.  I remember going to orientation sessions for new faculty and wondering how much would apply to me as a person with a one year position.  And I remember feeling so jealous of people who had the luxury of more permanence.

And now I am one of those people.

Of course, today is one of those days in history that reminds me that permanence is an illusion. Today is the day when the first atomic bomb used in warfare was detonated at Hiroshima, thus launching us into this brave new world where we find ourselves.  I think of those people headed to work when the bomb detonated, those burned into the concrete, and those further away, who would spend the rest of their lives being a walking specimen of what overexposure to radiation does to a human body before they died early.

The bombs used to destroy Hiroshima and Nagasaki were small by today's standards--but what damage they did! The effects of that bomb obliterated much of Hiroshima--and vaporized some of it. There were reports of people fused into pavement and glass--or just vanished, with a trace remaining at the pavement. The reports of the survivors who walked miles in search of help or water are grim. And many of those survivors would die of the effects of radiation in the coming years.

Through the years, I've seen many a documentary about the rush to build nuclear weapons, about the uncertainty of what would happen with those first tests and explosions--would the very atmosphere around the planet dissolve? I have yet to see any footage of scientists who wondered what might happen to civilians on the ground when these bombs exploded.

I've lived long enough to see history being made to know that the choices can be fairly ghastly. In this case, far better to develop the weapons before the Germans. I know many people who believe that the use of these bombs helped avoid more years of grueling battles in the Pacific that would have left us with even more dead--one could argue that the sacrifice of the populations at Hiroshima and Nagasaki were worth the avoidance of more years of war and that loss of life.

I've also done enough reading and thinking about pacifist approaches to wonder if there might not have been another way if we had acted much earlier.

I remember during our grad school years we went to a beautiful anti-nuclear vigil on August 6 in a city park.  I remember paper cranes and seeing some of our grad school professors there.  That would have been in 1988 or 1989.  I wonder if any groups mount anti-nuclear vigils in August anymore?

It's not that the world is any more of a peaceful place these days.  In fact, in recent years, it feels like we're sliding back to a world that's much more dangerous.  Sadly, the world still needs the blessings of the origami cranes.  They're not as easy to fold as they look--that, too, makes them an appropriate metaphor.  But they are worth the effort--and peace is worth the effort too.

Delights Planned for the Last Day of Summer and an A for Paul Class

In many ways, today is my last day of summer 2026.  A year ago, I'd have been going to CPE early and then driving to Williamsburg to help my parents recover from my mom's near death pneumonia hospitalization--I am so grateful that this summer's end is more mundane.

Our transition to the school year is a gentle one.  Tomorrow we have a very full day of teacher training and meetings.  On Friday and Monday, we have one meeting per day.  I'd prefer to have both on one day and the other day free for syllabus prep, but I'm fine with the schedule.  Having more time off is a game changer--in my younger days at community colleges, I'd have been irritable at being expected to do any of this at all.  

Of course, in my younger days, I spent much more time being irked.  Now I am older and wiser and more laid back and a better shepherd of my energy, meaning I ask more questions about situations and whether or not my irritability/anger is worth the energy and time.

On this last day of summer, I'll fill my day with delights:  a morning visit with a neighborhood friend doing creative work together in her studio and an afternoon with the LWR quilting group at the local Lutheran church.  I'll do some reading and some writing.  For one day, today I won't do any teaching work:  I turned in final grades for my online classes last night, and I still have time to create syllabi before classes start on Tuesday.

But I'm just remembering that I need to put an announcement in my onground class course shells that gives a welcome and says that more information is coming soon.  Since the shells open tomorrow, I'll do that cut and paste work today.

I'm happy that my work-for-pay still leaves me with time to see friends and do creative work of all types, along with writing and reading.  I'm grateful that my teaching life doesn't consume all my free time.  I know I say this a lot, but it's worth remembering and retreating.

It seems fitting that on one of the last evenings of summer, last night I got my grades for my summer TEEM class on Paul:  an A on each of the two papers, and an A for the class.  My teacher gave thoughtful commentary that made me feel seen and heard and understood.

I mention my reaction because last night I also got my supervisor feedback for the summer online class that I taught for SMC.  Overall, it was positive, although there is room for improvement:  more personalized feedback and more depth of feedback.  My first thought was that using names of students in grading feedback (a suggestion) would take too much time.  But it really won't take that much more time and maybe it would help students stay engaged.

I'm grateful for my return to school in late middle life for many reasons, but it's been revelatory to remember what it's like to be a student.  I used to think that A level papers don't really need much instructor feedback, but as an A student, I would feel cheated if my papers got the kinds of A level feedback that I give as a teacher.  Maybe that's too strong; I'm remembering all the times I got minimal feedback on A level papers and didn't feel cheated.  But every time I get more involved feedback, I'm grateful.  And A level students are more likely to have the time and mental space to care in a way that isn't possible for students who can't care as much because their lives are falling apart.

Meditation on Sunday's Gospel

 The readings for August 9, 2026:

1 Kings 19:9-18
Psalm 85:8-13
I will listen to what the LORD God is saying. (Ps. 85:8)
Romans 10:5-15
Matthew 14:22-33

This week’s Gospel reading reinforces the themes we found in last week’s lesson. The disciples are in the boat and Jesus walks across the water to them. They don’t recognize him; indeed, they’re terrified. When they realize who it is, Peter, always enthusiastic, asks Jesus to bid him to come, which he does. Peter walks across the water with no problem, until he realizes what he’s doing and starts to sink.

Now, most of us probably haven’t had experiences where we’ve suspended the laws of nature, but most of us can probably relate to what Peter experiences. When I first learned to type, I got to the point where I could type at a very fast speed—until I thought about what I was doing. If I just let my fingers go and didn’t look at them, if I did what I knew I could do, I’d be fine. I’ve had similar experiences in learning foreign languages and in learning to play the mandolin or the ukelele; if I play the notes without double checking both my fingers and the chord charts and music books, I find out that I really can play—still more haltingly than I would like, alas.

This story is also about God’s presence and our inability to recognize the Divine all around us, as well as our trouble accepting the miraculous. One of the narrative arcs the Bible is God’s desire to be with God’s creation, to know everybody, to be fully present in our day-to-day lives--to the extent of becoming human. And God has to go to great lengths to get our attention—bushes burst into flame, oppressive governments release the captives, loaves and fishes feed thousands, people rise from the dead, God goes so far as to take on human form—miracle after miracle, and still humans don’t understand and don’t want to accept God’s daily presence.

Even when we do let ourselves glimpse the sacred and divine, even when we experience the miraculous, how quickly we forget and let the mundane swamp us. Psychologists would probably tell us that our approach is a coping mechanism, that if we let ourselves be that open to God, we’d go insane, or at least we’d look insane to our fellow humans. I’m not sure I agree. Maybe we’d be better witnesses, better disciples.

Be on the lookout for God in your daily life. Maybe it will just be a wink from the Creator, like a tree full of butterflies. Maybe you’ll be in the presence of the full-blown miraculous, and all doubts will vanish—the tumor shrinks, the passengers escape the burning plane, the hurricane curves out to sea.

Or maybe you won't get the miracle you think you want, but the miraculous comes as you learn how to cope and you learn that coping leaves you more open to the presence of God. Watch for God, listen for God, be alert. God is there, by your side, both during the times of the miraculous as well as the mundane, in the times of catastrophe, drudgery, or luminous.

Recording of August 2, 2026 Sermon

I felt good about my sermon yesterday--it's not likely to go down as one of my best, but it's solid.  I tried to do more than just re-tell the Gospel, a problem with many sermons I've heard and one I try so hard to avoid in my own sermons.  The Gospels aren't so complicated that most people don't understand.

The recording of my sermon is here on my YouTube channel.  If you'd like to read along, I posted the manuscript in a blog post.

Sermon for Sunday, August 2

August 2, 2026
By Kristin Berkey-Abbott




Matthew 14:13-21




Last week we had parables of smallness and hiddenness to tell us what the community of God is like. I concluded last week’s sermon by saying that the Kingdom of God, this community that we’re helping to create right here and right now might remain hidden for our whole lives, visible to those around us with eyes to see, but invisible to the larger world. Today’s Gospel reminds us that the Kingdom of God might in fact burst out of whatever tidy containers we thought we had devised for it.


Today’s Gospel reading begins in the middle of chapter 14, and to fully understand today’s reading, we need to know that the first 12 verses of chapter 14 tell of how John the Baptist was killed by Herod. Jesus hears about the murder and withdraws to the wilderness.


In the book of Luke, John and Jesus are cousins; in the book of Matthew, they are colleagues. We could read the book of Matthew and infer that John is Jesus’ teacher. We also see that John knows that, he, John, is the warm up act for the Messiah who is coming.


But in the book of Matthew, John the Baptist isn’t always sure that Jesus is that Messiah. In chapter 11, John who is in prison sends some of his followers to ask if Jesus is the one. Jesus responds, as he so often does, by giving a list of what he has done, a list heavy with healing.


And now John is dead, killed by the forces of government, Herod representing both Jewish rule, Jewish rule allowed by the ultimate earthly authority, the Romans. Jesus goes to a deserted place, a wilderness place. Wilderness and deserted places have deep significance in both the Gospel of Matthew and the larger Bible. Wilderness is a place outside of the reach of earthly rulers. Wilderness is a place of temptation. Wilderness is also a place of deliverance. We see all of these aspects of wilderness in today’s Gospel.


Jesus retreats to the wilderness to process what he has heard: John is dead, killed by the forces of government. We might see Jesus’ retreat as an attempt to lay low for awhile. If we thought that people didn’t know what Jesus was up to, what happens in today’s Gospel shows us otherwise.


People follow him on foot. At the end of the Gospel, we find out that 5000 men have followed him, along with women and children. It’s a town-sized crowd out there in the wilderness. In fact, most towns of that time period would have fewer people than 5000.


Jesus feels compassion for the crowds, and so he heals them. He doesn’t say, “I’m grieving because the world lost a good man today. Come back tomorrow.” He gives them what they need.


The response of the disciples might seem less compassionate, but they, too, are trying to give the people what they need: food and getting back to a safe place before night falls in the deserted place. They know how much food they have, and it’s not enough.


In contrast, Jesus tells the crowd to sit. He blesses the food and gives it to the disciples to distribute. Note how this miracle could have gone a different way and still achieved the same outcome. Jesus could have commanded food to fall from the sky, a manna from Heaven moment. He doesn’t. Jesus could have had everyone come forward and wait in long lines. He doesn’t.


He equips the disciples. He empowers them to do the work that they know needs to be done. Jesus transforms not only the food, but also the disciples, who have come to Jesus with a problem and an inadequate solution, and Jesus gives them deliverance: 12 baskets of food left over, everyone having eaten their fill. It’s a unique deliverance: God’s miracle by way of 12 pairs of human hands who go out to the people gathered on the ground.


Here we see how the Kingdom of God, God’s community, spills out of its tidy containers. John has been killed, but his prophetic mission will not end. Jesus, too, will be killed, but he has shown his disciples how to continue his work. We know that some of the people who are fed will continue to follow Jesus. They will be convinced that Jesus is the Messiah, the one for whom they have been waiting, their time in the wilderness of uncertainty coming to a close, Jesus as their new Moses.


Jesus shows how power is used in this new Kingdom of Heaven that has drawn near. He does not march on Jerusalem to avenge the death of John. He dismisses the crowds. Healed and fed, they are ready to return to the world.


Some of them are surely changed permanently. We will see that the disciples, too, are changed, although it does take them time to claim this power they’ve been given.


We, too, have this power. We’ve seen it in action in numerous ways, the way that small meals turn into nourishment for the whole community. We’ve seen it literally, with every fish fry and chili festival that we offer to our neighbors: literal meals prepared by a group of people smaller than the disciples, food that always stretches until the last ones are fed. We see this power in action in other ways too, as we carry on the work of sustaining souls, work that our ancestors began, work that is ours to continue in our own unique response when Jesus says, “You give them something to eat.”


We see a collective response to Jesus in the ways that our larger church in the world supports the sick and the hungry. We see the ways that small acts lead to larger abundance which leads to all sorts of transformations. As we get ready to return to school, I’m thinking about how Lutherans have so often been at the forefront of education, putting small sums of money together to create church camps and daycare centers and schools for everyone from pre-K to college and graduate work. Many of these institutions have lasted for several generations, some in Europe for hundreds of years.


God’s work in the world might be like a seed or a grain of yeast or a treasure in a field, hidden to all but those closest to it. Our work in the kingdom of God might seem small to us, but even a small meal in the hands of God, can feed over 5000 souls. And for those of us who identify more with the crowd longing for healing and food and something we can’t even articulate as we chase Jesus into a deserted place, today’s Gospel reminds us that wilderness time often results in a closer relationship with God.


Jesus comes to liberate us from all that tries to constrain us. Jesus tells what the Kingdom of God is like in parables, and today he shows us those parables in action. What is the Kingdom of Heaven like? It’s like a small group of people who see what needs to be done. It’s like a small group of people who are sure they don’t have enough resources, but onward they go, person to person, sharing what they have. What is the Kingdom of God like? Five thousand men, along with women and children, fed to bursting, with baskets of left overs. It’s a foretaste of the feast to come, and a taste of the Heaven that we can have right here, right now.

The Hinge Festival of Lammas

Early August is a hinge point in the calendar. In some ways, it's not as obvious a hinge as the autumnal equinox or the summer solstice; in fact, it's the time directly between those two hinges--we're as far away from the start of summer as we are from the start of autumn. But in some ways, it's just as significant a point of seasonal shift.

If we lived in medieval England, we would be celebrating the festival of Lammas, a festival that celebrates first harvests with loaves of bread standing in for that first harvest.  There might be processions to bakeries, to bless them and to bless the bakers.  

It would be a festival that celebrates abundance, the abundance that comes later in a cooler climate.  Of course, we here in Appalachia are celebrating that abundance too; the summer vegetables are still going strong with beautiful tomatoes at the farmer's market.  Yet across the region, apple orchards are opening today.

We may have slogged through summer long enough that we may feel that nothing will ever change--it will be hot and humid forever. The light hasn't changed significantly, the way it will in a month or two. But we are losing more daylight each day as we hurtle towards a different season. Students aren't in school yet, but the time draws closer. Most of us aren't agricultural people anymore, but if we were, we'd be seeing crops in their final ripening. Harvest would be coming soon.

Now is a good time to take an accounting. Have we been planning some summer festivities that we haven't gotten to do yet? Now is the time. Do we need to adjust our trajectories for the rest of the year? Let us make some plans.