Sermon for Sunday, March 15, 2026

March 15, 2026
By Kristin Berkey-Abbott




John 9:1-41



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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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

Wednesday Night Soup and Worship

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

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

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

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

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

What Time Is It? What Season Is It?

 I'm one of those people who wish that we wouldn't turn clocks forward or back, even though I know that if we did that, we'd lose something in terms of darkness and light.  If we had fewer sunsets that came later or fewer sunrises that came earlier, but I don't think I would care.  For me, it doesn't matter if we spring forward or fall back, it takes me weeks to get back to a regular sleep schedule, as regular as my sleep schedule is.

This week, in addition to a time change, we've had a drastic change in the weather--it's been downright hot.  So my sweaty self thinks it's summer, while my light sensitive eyes read spring in the shift in light, while my body is still back in winter in its desire to go to bed early.

I had thought of this time away as having writing residency possibilities, at least in the morning, since I get up hours before my parents.  But instead, I'm tired.  I pulled up some poem rough drafts that I thought I could finish transforming into final drafts, but no, not this morning.  I need to write Sunday's sermon, and if I was really efficient, I'd also write the one for the following Sunday, when we'll be away at a family wedding.

I want to write something more profound as a blog post.  But it won't be this morning.

Happily, Rabbi Rachel Barenblat has written something more profound.  In this blog post, she writes eloquently about why she won't be using AI when she crafts sermons and other religious writing--or any writing:  "My divrei Torah and sermons are love letters, of a kind: they’re love letters to Torah, to God, to my tradition, to the communities I serve. They’re not just communicating information, they’re conveying heart. This may make me old-fashioned. (The fact that I’m still writing longform blog posts on my own blog may also be a sign that I”m old-fashioned!) But it is still my goal to communicate with others without AI mediation. It matters to me that what I share (here and on the bima) are always the words of my own mouth and the meditations of my own heart."

Today my mouth and heart are tired.  Here's hoping for a better day tomorrow.

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

 The readings for Sunday, March 15, 2026:

First Reading: 1 Samuel 16:1-13

Psalm: Psalm 23

Second Reading: Ephesians 5:8-14

Gospel: John 9:1-41

Occasionally, a student will ask me how I know that a symbol is really a symbol, and not just me overreacting to something in the text. I always reply that we know we're looking at a symbol when the author comes back to it again and again. Then an image is meant to take on more weight.

Today's Gospel would be a good illustration of this point. Again and again, we see blind people in this text, from the physically blind to the metaphorically blind. Again and again, the text returns to blindness. Clearly, we're meant to explore issues of our own blindness. It's not bad to do a spiritual inventory periodically. Where do we see evidence of God in our lives? Where are we blind to God's presence?

As I read the text for this week, I found myself getting to this point from a different angle. Look at how Jesus cures this blind man. He mixes dirt and spit (dirt and spit!) onto the man's eyes and instructs him to bathe. I'm not the first to be struck by the earthiness of this cure: the use of different elements (dirt, saliva, and water), the rootedness of the cure in the physical (Jesus doesn't cast a spell, for example, or call on angels), and the simplicity of it all.

It might make us think back to the Genesis story, of God forming the first humans out of dirt (Adam) and an extra rib (Eve). It might make us think of all the ways that God uses basic, earthbound elements in both creation and salvation.

Think of our sacraments, for example. There's baptism, the word bound with water. And the water doesn't come to us from some special source--it's not magic water that we can only get from a special spring. The power comes from the word--and perhaps more importantly, from the words that the congregation offers. When we baptize someone, the whole congregation takes a vow to support that person--when you wonder why baptism is such a public event, and why some people are adamant that it not be separated from the service and the congregation, that's why. It's not a photo op. It's a sacrament.

Think about Holy Communion. I've been to many Holy Communions now. Some churches use wafers specially ordered from religious communities, but you don't have to do that. I've had Communion with pita bread, with challah, and once, with a pizza crust. I've had good wine, bad wine, and grape juice. Again, what's important is the symbol of the elements, mixed with the words. It's not just about memory--it's how God becomes present to us, through a mystery that we don't fully understand.

As we work our way through the Scriptures, think about how often God takes simple things and turns them into routes that can lead to salvation. The most stunning example, of course, is the story of the Incarnation. During weeks where I'm impatient with my own failing flesh, I'm even more astounded than usual that the Divine would take on this project.

And we, of course, can work similar magic. Open up your dinner table, and observe grace in action.  Or  make a phone call or check in by way of social media. Forgive freely, and watch redemption work. Pray for those who would do you wrong, and notice what happens. Get your fingers in the dirt and watch the flowers bloom later. Take some simple elements and envision them as sacramental, a symbolic route to God.

Recording of Sermon for Sunday, March 8, 2026

Yesterday was a good day at church, which was a relief, because my energy level was lower than usual, what with the time change and all the traveling I have been doing.  I've put a recording of my sermon here on my YouTube channel.  If you'd like to read along, this blog post has the sermon manuscript.

Sermon for Sunday, March 8, 2026

March 8, 2026

By Kristin Berkey-Abbott



John 4:5-42


This week, we move from the shadows where we met Nicodemus, into the bright midday light where we meet the Samaritan woman at the well. This conversation with the Samaritan woman is the longest one that Jesus has—with anyone, across all of the Gospels. This encounter comes shortly after the one with Nicodemus, and taken together, they both point towards ways that people will react to Jesus.


Both Nicodemus and the Samaritan woman ask questions, and Jesus answers them, although not with a straight forward answer that they might have been expecting or hoping to hear. In both encounters, Jesus shows that he has an understanding of the questioner that is deeper than surface level. In both encounters, Jesus takes time out of his increasingly busy schedule to listen and to have a conversation—not a conversation where he’s hoping to win converts but a conversation that invites the listener to a deeper relationship.


On another level, these two people, Nicodemus and the Samaritan woman, couldn’t be more different. Nicodemus is a man, a Pharisee, which means he has spent more time than the average man reading and studying the Law and the Prophets. Nicodemus has social status—he’s a leader of the Jews. The Samaritan woman comes to Jesus from a very different place.


For one thing, she’s a Samaritan, which means that she is part of a Jewish community that isn’t in conversation with the Jewish community of Nicodemus—in part because of geographical divisions, a split about the proper geographical place to worship God. We may hear the word Samaritan and attach it to the idea of the Good Samaritan, who stops and tends to the wounded traveler. People in the time of Jesus or the slightly later time of John’s Gospel would not have had these associations. Samaritans would have been seen as the outcast tribe of Judea that worshipped wrong and lived wrong because they embraced wrong beliefs.


Some have interpreted the fact that the Samaritan woman has had five husbands to mean that she’s a woman of looser morals than most. But there’s nothing in the text that asserts our modern claim. She would not have been allowed to divorce her husbands; it’s more likely that she has been a widow five times, which might soften our hearts towards her. It’s also possible that she’s been divorced a time or two or five, but again, this would have been done to her, not done by her.


Similarly, some interpreters have seen her appearance at the well at midday to mean that she’s so slutty that the women of the town have shunned her, and she has to come to the well by herself in the heat of the day. Women customarily came to the well at sunrise; they came in groups both for safety and for community. What is this Samaritan woman doing at the well all by herself? We might be tempted to jump to the conclusion that she’s an outcast many times over.


Scholar Laura Holmes cautions us about this traditional reading of the woman at the well, as a woman ostracized by her society. Look at the way the Gospel for today ends. The woman goes back to town and tells everyone what she’s experienced. If she was truly an outcast from her Samaritan society, no one would have given her the time of day. Instead, they listen to her and come out to verify for themselves. We’re told that many believed in him BECAUSE of her testimony. Once again, one of the earliest evangelists was female.


In last week’s Gospel, Nicodemus goes away puzzled. In today’s Gospel, the Samaritan woman also goes away puzzled. But instead of staying in the shadows, the way Nicodemus seems to, the Samaritan woman invites others to help her discern the truth. It’s a very Lutheran approach, isn’t it? In the end, they all have opened eyes and a deeper understanding.


They invite Jesus to stay with them, and he does, for two days. A better translation of the verb would be “abide.” We’ve seen this word before, and it means more than just to stay. It is more akin to making a home in a place—it’s a word that connotes settling in, getting grounded, creating and sharing community.


I assume that something similar happens to Nicodemus along the way, but we don’t see it in the same way that we do here, with a whole community doing the work of discipleship. Some come to believe in Jesus because of the testimony of the woman. Some may decide on the strength of their own encounter with Jesus, but it’s an encounter they wouldn’t have had without the woman at the well.


I assume that there are others in the Samaritan community who will be more like Nicodemus: hearing and questioning and remaining baffled as they go away. Will they come back? Has Jesus planted a seed that will lead to later flowering? We don’t know.


We also see the disciples in action. Here are men who have been with Jesus, and yet they still don’t understand. They have an encounter with Jesus that is similar to the encounters that Nicodemus and the Samaritan woman at the well have. They ask questions about reality as they understand it. Jesus answers questions that they don’t even know they have or can’t articulate yet. Jesus shows the same patience with the disciples that he shows with Nicodemus and the Samaritan woman. He understands that they are asking a different question, but he wants to show them a different way of perception. God is in their midst, and he wants to guide them to a deeper communion.


We see a similar dynamic today. Some will hear the words of Jesus and go away puzzled. Some will come back. Some will be curious. Some will be cautious. Some will witness to the whole community early on. It may take time for others. Some will live with Jesus for years at a time and still have questions.


The throughline is Jesus, who takes time to move the listener to a deeper understanding—an understanding of who Jesus is, and who the listener is in relationship to Jesus. Jesus offers living water, and like the Samaritan woman, we may be stuck on a literal level, wondering about how to get water with no dipper. It may take us time to realize that Jesus offers something much more profound.


Jesus is there, the drinking gourd, offering water for our parched souls. As he tells the disciples, he is the food that nourishes, the food we yearn for, even if we’re not always aware of our hunger.


When Jesus nourishes us and gives us living water, we can leave refreshed, replenished and renewed. We can go into the larger community, ready for the harvest that someone else began, generations of disciples before us, nourishing the earth, planting the seeds, watering the soil.

In a Week of Unraveling, the Sun Still Rises

It's been a week of hard news, a week of war and death and the world as we knew it unravelling.  I do realize my privilege in saying this.  For many parts of the world, that's just a regular week:  war and death and unravelling.

I've taken solace in the sunrise.  Part of it is the happy confluence of being able to get out for a walk in the last week before Daylight Savings Time starts.  Next week, it's back to walking in the dark if I want to get my walk done before my work day.

So this week, let me record these pictures from the high point of Lutheridge, the chapel and Dedication Altar.  Let me remember that God can transform every manner of gruesome death into new life.