Several weeks ago I looked to see what the readings would be for today, my last Sunday to preach as your priest. My first thought when I read today’s gospel (Luke 8:26-39) was, Aw, come on God, really? The Gerasene demonic? An exorcism for my last Sunday?
My second thought was, Am I the one being cast out? Don’t laugh. That pretty quickly gave way to my third thought, Maybe it’s them being cast out. Just kidding (kind of).
Those thoughts, however, give way too much emphasis to the demons. That’s easy to do and often what we do with texts like this. Demons tend to grab our attention. But this isn’t a story about demons. It’s a story about a man who finds oneness within himself, with his community, and with Jesus. It’s a story about becoming more whole and complete. It’s a story about stepping into a larger and deeper life.
That’s my experience of life with you the past twenty years. My life today, as a priest and as a human being, is so much more whole and complete, larger and deeper, than it was when I first got here. You have changed me and helped me become more than I was twenty years ago.
I hope that’s true for you too. I hope your life has grown and you’ve become more whole and complete during our time together. That’s always been my prayer for you as individuals, for the community of St. Philip’s, and for the city of Uvalde.
I can’t say exactly when or how this change, this transformation, happened. I only know that somehow it did. It happened day by day, Sunday after Sunday, year after year. It wasn’t the result of only one thing or one person. It was all of us together and a multitude of things. That seems to be how God works.
It happened through our prayers and the breaking of bread, reading and learning together, and a lot of unanswered Sunday School questions. It happened through shared laughter and tears; in our celebrations, joys, and thanksgivings; and in our losses, hurts, and sorrows. It happened in the midst of our struggles and disagreements, and our willingness to stick together.
It happened in the best and the worst of times, in offering one another peace, and in the renewing of our baptismal vows. It happened when we reached out to the needs of Uvalde and offered ourselves as a public face of Christ. It happened in private conversations of trust, honesty, and vulnerability, and in the shared silence that let us be still and know God. It was happening even when we didn’t know it was happening.
That oneness within us, between us, and with Jesus is still happening, even today. It’s what makes this day one of celebration and thanksgiving. And it’s what makes this day so difficult, one of sadness and tears. I have a lot of mixed feelings about today. I’ve heard some of you say the same thing.
I feel like the man formerly known as Legion (a reference to the six thousand soldiers that formed a Roman legion). I’ve got six thousand different thoughts, feelings, memories, questions, and thanksgivings running through me today. Maybe you do too.
How could I ever leave the place and the ones with whom I found life, and life abundant? I can easily imagine that’s the question the man in today’s gospel was asking himself when he begged to go with Jesus. “But Jesus sent him away.”
It sounds harsh and it must have been painful. But what if that sending away is less about breaking up and more about growing up? Every growing up at some point involves a leaving for what is next. Sometimes we leave a place or people, old habits or patterns, what is familiar and comfortable, our usual ways of thinking and behaving.
Growing up, at any age, at every age, is hard but no matter who or what we leave there will be a next. I trust that for you, and for Cyndy and me. I hope you will too.
What if in sending the man away Jesus is saying to him, “‘Life is changed, not ended,’ and you already have everything you need”? And what if that’s true for us as well?
What happened between this man and Jesus isn’t just a moment now lost in time. It is a life changing experience that now lives in the bones, memory, and very being of the man to serve and guide the life to come. (Hollis, The Middle Passage, 107). And it is larger than a place, a single person, or, I dare say, Jesus himself. I trust that for you, and for Cyndy and me. I hope you will too.
“Return to your home,” Jesus tells the man, “and declare how much God has done for you.”
Lucky for you I don’t read the scriptures literally; otherwise, we’d be here another twenty years. I have a lot to declare and I would begin with each of your names, the names of those I’ve baptized, married, and buried, the names of those who came to or passed through this place the past twenty years, the names of those who asked for a hug or a prayer, the names of those who trusted me enough to ask for help or tell me something they had never told another, the names of those whose names I never knew. You are how much God has done for me.
I don’t think Jesus is telling the man to simply broadcast news or share information. He is asking him to remember and soak in how much God has done for him, to take it all in, to integrate it more deeply, to fully realize it, and make it a part of who he is. That will take some time; for the man, for you, and for Cyndy and me. God has done much for us.
It’s not simply a recollection of past events, it is a re-collecting of our life and God’s faithfulness. It is an ongoing part of becoming more whole and complete, and the next step into an even larger and deeper life. I wonder what that means for and looks like in your life today.
In declaring how much God has done for us in the past we hear the promise of God’s faithfulness and how much God will do for us in the future. I trust that for you, St. Philip’s, and for Cyndy and me. I hope you will too.
Now comes the hard part, the ending. I don’t know how to end this sermon and part of the difficulty is I don’t want to. So I won’t. Instead, I will, for the rest of my life, declare how much God has done for me through you at St. Philip’s Episcopal Church, Uvalde.
I will declare what you’ve taught me and how you’ve shaped my life and priesthood. I will declare how you supported and guided me into becoming more than I was. I will declare how you loved Cyndy and me into our future. And I will declare what a privilege it has been to be your priest.
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Image Credit: Michael K. Marsh, St. Philip’s Episcopal Church.
Interrupting the Silence 
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