Fourth Sunday after Pentecost

Luke 8:26-39


It gets overshadowed by the more impressive points of the story. To be honest, it's hard not to pay attention when you're told your antagonist is a wild, naked man roaming among the tombs like a character out of a horror movie. In fact, I'm quite surprised some studio—desperate for a Halloween box-office win—hasn't put our man on film. He'd be heavily made up, probably modestly clothed, and at the climax we'd see the CGI demons come rushing out of him like lava from a volcano.


But the story here is about more than demons and wild men (and pigs). The story is about home.


At the outset of the story we're told that this man—whose name we never know—did not remain in a house. The word for house doesn't just mean that he didn't have a roof over his head. It implies living with a family—those who loved him. This isn't just a case of living on the outskirts of civilization; this man was alone.


This is why the end of the story is not to be missed. The temptation is to think that the conversation with Jesus is just coda. But it isn't. The ending of the story takes us back to the beginning and that statement about this man and his lack of a home. Jesus, out of love, sends this man to a place he had not been in a long time. He sent him home—a place of friends, family, community.


Talking about this story with a friend, the question came up "What if home isn't home?" What if the place that is "home" is just as lonely as the tombs, as life among the dead?


I, of course, did not have nor do I have any answer for that question. Sometimes it feels that the place we came from—be it the place we grew up, where we spent our formative years, or even a place that once was home but has since been taken from us by tragic events or bad memories—is not a place we want to which we want to return. Maybe the man who had been possessed feared returning to the village because he knew no one there would welcome him.


But what I did say, and what I do believe, is that home is more than a place. Home, in the end, is wherever we are allowed to be who we were created to be. It is with people who know our past—no matter how wild and naked it was—and love us anyway. No, they love us because that is who we were and part of who we are.


Finding our home can be difficult. It can feel like years before we are reminded who we are. It can seem that we belong among the dead.


But the day does come when a boat appears and someone, fearlessly, approaches when all others run away. And they ask "What is your name?"


God you know us and call us by name. Remind us who we are so we might live into whom you created us to be and find those who will love us for all we are and all we've been.

(Edit to Add: I posted a different devotion earlier today.  In the end, I liked this one better.)

Third Sunday of Easter

John 21:1-19

Have you ever had that dream? You know the one: you're at a party, or maybe walk into a important meeting, or see the cue for your appearance on stage only to realize that…you forgot something this morning. The dream comes in various ways. Sometimes you're in your PJs. Sometimes, especially for guys, you realize you somehow left your pants hanging on the back of the chair. And then there's the time where you must've been in a really big hurry because you forgot to put anything on at all.


Now some commentaries try and pretty up this week's Gospel and say that Peter had just stripped down to his underwear. But that's not what we hear, is it. Hearing that Jesus is the stranger on the shore Peter tosses on his clothes "for he was naked." It makes sense that before greeting someone important like Jesus, Peter felt the need to look a bit more presentable. But it does seems kind of silly to put your clothes on before going for swim, doesn't it? That's what Peter did, though.


Even without a book on dream analysis, we all know that getting caught naked in front of people (dreamt or real!) isn't so much about being undressed. Sure, it's embarrassing for people to see that we haven't been keeping up our workout schedule, but that's not the worst of it. The worst of it is the vulnerability. Being naked or even just improperly dressed in front of others just feels so…well, naked. We feel like we're exposed. It's as if every part of us is suddenly on display for everyone. And we can't hide anything.


Peter tried to cover up his vulnerability. He arrived wet and out of breath, but he was not quite so vulnerable as he had been. To stand before Jesus, the one he'd denied and abandoned, naked would have been too much to take. But clothes aren't enough, he finds, to hide him from that gaze.


"Peter," Jesus asks, "do you love me." Peter tries to hide his vulnerability, this time behind words. "You know I do," he answers twice. But the question probes deeply. It strips away all his effort and leaves him, in the end, naked—emotionally and spiritually—before Jesus. And he must admit that there is no hiding. He must admit that before Christ he is completely vulnerable.


Jesus' question to Peter isn't just for him, it's for us as well. It leaps off the page and makes us want to run for our clothes—our excuses, our list of accomplishments, our busy schedule. But no matter how much we throw on, we find that Jesus is still there loving us and asking "Do you love me?"


God of love, you know that we love you. You also know all things. Help us as we tend to the sheep we find along our way.