Fifth Sunday after Pentecost

2 Kings 2:1-14; Luke 9:51-62

 This week the stories are all about leaving. And with any story about that subject—about the parting of friends and loved ones—there are those who realize what's happening (Elisha) and those who don't have the slightest clue (the disciples). Reading both of these I have to chuckle when people comment that Scripture does not speak to our lives today. Today, more than most days, it speaks directly to mine.


We get a sense that Elisha knows something is about to happen. He knows something is coming. When the descendents of the prophets of Beth-El come out with the tragic news, Elisha does not seem surprised by it. Perhaps there were hints, things unsaid, a distant look in Elijah's eyes, or, maybe, he had told his student that he would soon be saying goodbye. And suddenly every moment was precious. Elisha was determined to drag that goodbye out to its last second.


But the disciples, no matter how many times—cryptically and outright—they were told what was coming, were oblivious to the news. They didn't notice the signs. They didn't see that something was wrong. And, perhaps, when the hammer fell on the nails, they realized that they had not made the most of the time. I often wonder how many of them, if they were tempted, would have chosen to go back in time and savor every moment and try to change the way things turned out.


There are the goodbyes we know are coming. When a friend gets a job in a new state, we are faced with the reality that this person who has become such an important part of our life may never be in the same room with us again. In those times, we drag out the conversations, lengthen the evenings. We do all we can to put off the little goodbyes that are taking us closer and closer to the last goodbye. Moments become precious.


Some partings, however, come without warning. Maybe we, like the disciples, were given hints that things would not always be as they are now. Or, maybe, we have no warning that the person who was here yesterday will not be here tomorrow. And, unlike Elisha, we do not get to follow them to the Jordan for one last conversation, one last look, one last moment.


There is no balm for these partings. When two of us are separated on this earth, there is certainly hope of seeing one another again. But we all know that lives have a way of filling up and dear faces soon find themselves relegated to memory and Christmas cards as new ones are met. And when the whirlwind comes, we are faced with a world without someone we love.


Even Jesus went away, leaving his friends behind. But he left with a promise that he would see them again. And we must trust that neither chariots or horses or crosses or goodbyes will be the last word in our conversation.


Be with us in our goodbyes, expected and unexpected.


(This week's post is dedicated to my friend Joanna. May light perpetual shine upon her.)

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 after Pentecost

I Kings 21:1-21a


"I found you," Elijah tells Ahab, "because you sold yourself to do the evil in the eyes of the Holy One."


"Because you sold yourself." Those are strong words. They remind me of the stories of bluesmen in the Mississippi Delta who went to the crossroads to sell their souls to the Devil. It implies an exchange of promises, a contract, a deal struck by moonlight. They're words that are quite dramatic.


And, as such, they tempt me to ignore them as hyperbole. Isn't Elijah exaggerating just a bit? Yes, Ahab benefitted from the schemes of his wife. He probably didn't need Naboth's land, but he certainly didn't turn it away when it became available. Yet, despite this, he didn't ask for Naboth's death. He didn't kill him. Ahab, in the end, just benefitted from circumstance. Really, if he didn't take hold of the land someone else probably would.


Besides, what does it mean to sell yourself anyhow? Was Elijah implying that Ahab had sacrificed a part of his character or, else, himself for that land? Did he mean that by taking hold of that vineyard that Ahab had given part or all of himself to someone else? Really? Did Elijah feel that by benefitting from what had happened Ahab had somehow given up a part of himself that he could never get back? What exactly does he mean by selling yourself?


In the wilderness, after his baptism in the Jordan, Jesus is tempted three times. Here make stones into bread. Throw yourself from the top of the temple. Just worship me and all the riches of the world are yours. Each time, Jesus said no. While each temptation carried within in something about trust in God and humble living, they also offered a price for who Jesus was. A price, I suppose, that would have been paid in exchange for who he was.


While I've never been handed a dead man's property, I know that every day I'm are confronted with prices for who I am. There's the moment when I see a corner that could be cut, something that I can just let slide by because no one will notice and, hey, it won't make a big difference anyway. Or, perhaps, there's a hint in someone's conversation that they really need to talk and I am tempted to pretend I didn't hear that soft plea. And then there's when I could overlook my wife's exhausted tone or just listen even though (I feel) there's no need to talk out the details.


In those moments, I've sold just a little of myself. Something of who I am is handed over for some small gain. Perhaps it isn't noticeable at first. But the sales are final. And, slowly, as the small purchases add up, I one day might look up and find that, like Ahab, there's nothing left of me anymore.


God of wholeness, we are tempted to pay too dear a price for too small a thing. Send Elijahs into our life to remind us that who we are is far too great a cost.

Second Sunday after Pentecost

Psalm 30


Over the past two weeks I've been to two graduations. Long commencement speakers aside, I really do enjoy the pomp and ceremony of these rituals. Like any rite, they are moments of transformation. Those receiving their bachelor's degree enter with tassels on the right and leave with them on the left. Robed men and women reemerge with colorful hoods draping down their backs. A chapter is closed and a new one begun in the space of a sunny afternoon.


Graduations mean something to friends and family just as they do to the person receiving their diploma, since they are the ones who know the story behind the day. In a way, it's a shame that there isn't enough space to give a brief history of the person walking across the stage. Perhaps they excelled in their studies and have finished in three-and-a-half years. Maybe they've been working hard through a decade of nights and weekends, balancing work and children and personal tragedies, all to reach this momentous day.


Watching the students receive their diplomas this morning, I couldn't help thinking about the oft-quoted line from one of the Psalms for today. "In the evening, weeping will spend the night and in the morning: a cry of jubilation." Too often, I think, we can be too glib with these powerful words. We say them as if to promise some sort of brevity to our own or, worse, another's suffering. But that isn't how the Psalmist uses them at all. Though it seemed in the good times that he would not be shaken for a long, long time, this didn't mean that the times of dis-ease felt any less endless. The time when sorrow would finally pass must have seemed as distant as morning during a restless night.


As spouses and parents and loved ones let out joyful cries this morning, I wondered how many of the graduates had once thought their long night of sadness would never end. The student who lost a father in her first year of studies, who saw her grades plummet and her life fall apart, had she ever wondered if day would come? The young man who had, halfway through his studies, realized that what he'd always dreamed of being was not what he was meant to be, had he ever questioned if the sun would rise? And did any, in the midst of papers or exams, ever doubt that they would wake up at this dawning?


We who are resting in the seemingly eternal untroubled period cannot promise when the new day will begin. Those who are awake while everyone else rests cannot be certain that this night is without a dawn. All we can do is sit and wait. And, if we listen together, we may be surprised to hear a stone beginning to sing as it moves to let something completely new come forth.


God of new beginnings, help us to weep with those in the night and rejoice with all who have seen the first light of morning.