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.

Trinity Sunday

John 16:12-15


"There's so much left I want to tell you," Jesus says, "but you can't handle it right now." You see, Jesus is going away. And before he goes, there are things he wants to tell his friends. But looking into their faces, seeing their eyes, he knows that to say all the things that he wants to say would crush them beneath the weight of the words.


Originally, when reading this week's selection from John's Gospel, I thought that these words were very appropriate for Trinity Sunday. Most of us cannot bear the difficult concept of this mysterious God who is one but at the same time is three. That Jesus was this one but was also in relationship with the one. Indeed, we say, we can't bear that right now especially during a holiday weekend.


But as I thought about it, I began to think about this statement in the context of Jesus' goodbye. I've so often thought of these words as implying some teaching or point of faith or revelation of the mystery of the Divine that Jesus knew would blow the disciples' (and probably our) minds. However, listening to those words while I am in the midst of saying my own goodbyes to the people and places that have made up this chapter in my life, I hear them differently.


I think about the moments of late when I have stood face to face with a friend who, for reasons of geography, I may never see again. Standing there, usually with some chaos going on around, I find myself wanting to cram in months and years worth of words. I want to say how much they've meant to my journey, to my life. I want to tell them that they've been important to me and been a part of the changes I've undertaken during my time here. I want to say how hard it is to imagine that between here and the next world I may not see them again. I want to tell them that they are loved.


Yet, as I begin to say some of these things I can see in their eyes and written upon their face perhaps the same thing that Jesus saw in his friends. I see shoulders that cannot bear the weight. I see tears on the edge of falling. I see a heart fragile enough to break. And, out of caution, I know that though there are things that I want to say they cannot handle them right now.


Perhaps Jesus still holds back the words sometimes. Maybe those moments when it seems the Heavens respond only with silence are like those moments I've experienced of late. Rather than there being nothing to say, Christ has too much to tell us. And no matter how much Our Beloved longs to tell us, Jesus knows that we are not ready, at that moment, to hear how wonderfully we are loved.


One God who is also three, teach us to live in communion as you live amongst yourself. And help us to love as we are loved.

Day of Pentecost

Acts 2:1-21


One of the cable movie channels has been running Master and Commander these past few weeks. I've not yet read the Patrick O'Brien books this movie was (loosely) based upon, but they're on my list of things-to-pick-up-and-check-out-when-there's-time. I suspect they, like the Horatio Hornblower books, will awaken my desire to be out on the ocean with nothing more driving me along than the wild and unpredictable wind.


The movie, for those who aren't familiar with it, depicts the life of a crew on a British ship of war during the era of Napoleon. There is beauty in the wooden beams that creak and groan as they sail across the waters. There is tragedy when conflict with another vessel takes lives. And, constantly, there is a mass of humanity traveling together in a too-small space amidst storm, heat, and pleasant weather.


Boats are an important symbol to Christianity. Churches, for many thousands of years, have been built to resemble them. The high wooden ceiling is meant to resemble the hold of a ship, where people lived, ate, and rested. The idea is that we within their walls are on a journey. Like the crew of a ship, we must live together, work together, and support one another.


It's a pretty metaphor, but one that isn't often stretched. Does the fact that we are on a ship mean that we must take care when we decide to pull up alongside another vessel—be it another congregation, denomination, or even religion? Should we remember, when the gunners are ready to deliver a verbal broadside, that we are opening ourselves to damage that can kill our companions, and sink our ship?


Sitting, as the church is designed, in the hold of the ship should mean something too. One, we are not at the helm that controls the boat. Nor are we standing with our instruments and navigating—determining what course is to be run. We aren't even a deckhand, at least able to pitch in and capture the wind whenever it changes direction, blows stronger, or else is against us. In the belly of the ship, we are not in charge of controlling where we're headed. We have to trust that the captain—rarely seen, but whose voice is always there—knows the sea on which we sail.


This does not mean that we have nothing to do. We are each responsible for our fellow travelers. When trouble comes, every hand is needed and everyone must depend upon each other. We all must attend to someone on board who is hungry, sick, or injured in any way.


And all of us know that no matter how well laid our course, how diligent the hands hold the wheel, sometimes that wild and unpredictable wind blows from a completely unanticipated direction. But unlike the sailors in Master and Commander, afterwards our calculations show we are now much closer to finding our way home.


Wild One who blows through our hearts and our lives, melt away the cold parts of me with fire and give me breath to share with all who want to be alive.

Seventh Sunday of Easter

Revelation 22: 12-21


American science fiction and fantasy author Piers Anthony wrote a book several years ago called Bearing an Hourglass. The book is one in a series about the various Incarnations of natural phenomenon (death, nature, war, evil, good). This book focused on a man who was chosen to be the Incarnation of Time. From the moment he was chosen for this role, he began living backwards. His tomorrow was our yesterday, and our yesterday was his tomorrow. The end of his service would be at the beginning of his life. He, thus, lived within something of a complete circle.


Reading the words of Christ in today's selection from Revelation got me thinking about that book and its main character. "I am Alpha and Omega," Jesus declares. I am A and Z. I'm the start of the journey and its ending. I am the beginning and the end. Heavy stuff.


These words did not mean a whole lot to me until my wife and I were dating. During her morning devotional one day, she read these words. She could hardly wait to tell me about them. They were so special she even had them put on the prayer book she gave me. "He's the Alpha and Omega," she declared.


At the time, and for a while afterward, I smiled as I often did when she had some epiphany over some scripture or piece of writing that, to me, either didn't speak to me or else just confused me. But one day, I finally got it. "Oh yeah," I thought, "the beginning and the end." And, from time to time, those words bubble up out of my subconscious or pop up in the strangest places. Not surprisingly, those times are the ones when I most need to hear these words.


"I am the first and the last," Jesus declares. I've been there. I will be there. I am there. For what you call tomorrow, I can call yesterday.


Don't worry about tomorrow, Jesus says to us in the Sermon on the Mount. Tomorrow has enough of its own worries. What he didn't say is, "I know; because, I've seen it." I've not only got a good idea what's there, I'm well acquainted with all its possibilities. So, if you'll trust me, I think we can navigate those waters together.


Of course, the fact that Jesus has already been there and bought the t-shirt doesn't mean there isn't any trouble ahead. There's nothing in that statement about smoothing out the road or calming the seas beforehand. Some days are like bad storms that blow up out of the west. You see them coming and all you can do is hunker down and ride them out.


But Christ is there. Christ inhabits tomorrow before we do. And when midnight turns today into yesterday, we can always know that whatever lies in the hours ahead will not be faced alone.


Alpha and Omega, thanks for getting to this day before me. My only hope is that you've found a way through this particular stretch of the road. Guide me until I reach tomorrow, where I'll find you there waiting again.