Luke 8:30

Jesus asked him, "What is your name?"

My name is my only possession from the day that I was born. When I die, it will be the one thing I possess that won't be detached from me personally, carved up and distributed. Not to the State, medical research, or even my descendants.
It's not a bad name. Not a particularly fine one, but it's mine, and I'm used to it. So it saddens me hugely when it is used in a context of dislike, distrust, reproof or disrespect.

Luke 8:28

When he saw Jesus he cried out and fell at his feet, shouting at the top of his voice, What do you want with me Jesus, Son of the Most High God? I beg you, don't torture me?

I'm afraid of everyone who opens that door now. Death Row does that to you. You never know if tomorrow morning will be your last, whether you will be pulled roughly from your sleep and dressed in your best clothes, moved to the cell at the end of the corridor and asked what you would like for your last meal. Even the prison chaplain makes me sweat, if he knocks on the door and asks to see you that is a sign, so prison mythology goes, that in the next few days your number is up, it's your turn for the chop.
So when he came, I didn't exactly say I was pleased to see him. He asked how I was feeling, whether I was afraid of the electric chair. "Bugger the electric chair," I told him, "All I'm really afraid of is meeting God."

Luke 8:26-7 The demon-possessed man

They sailed to the region of the Gerasenes, which is across the lake from Galilee. When Jesus stepped ashore, he was met by a demon-possessed man from the town. For a long time this man had not worn clothes or lived in a house, but had lived in the tombs.

They used to call it demonic possession. Now, the word is epilepsy. The effect is the same: I lose myself, for a time, I lie on the floor and shake. If you do not know that it is perfectly normal for me, you are frightened, concerned, rush to help. No need. This is just my way of being alive: frustrating, inconvenient, occasionally painful if I bang my head or bite my tongue: but not of itself unnatural or strange.
If I lived in a country where almost everyone had epilepsy, then the few who did not would be stigmatised, questioned, worried over. There would be a religious meaning attached to my seizures: I might be described as "leaving my body to visit the soulworld" or "overcome by God."
Men and women would compete to have the most impressive, dramatic experiences of seizure: there would be demonstrations, videos, perhaps even competitions. Epilepsy might become the centre of a state faith, spoken of and preached on as a sign of God's pleasure, his special gift to us as a chosen people.
Would the non-epileptic be driven out, expelled for their impurity and presumed sinfulness, driven to the edges of our towns and forced to live in tombs?

Luke 8:26 In fear and amazement....

In fear and amazement they asked each other, who is this? He commands even the winds and the water, and they obey him.

Who are you? I said to him in my mind, as we circled around the steadied boat. No fish had ever seen the like, a silenced storm, turned out as sharply as a candle dropped into our world from above. We knew who had done it, of course. The man who had walked across the water. The man whose still presence at the bottom of the boat had maddened the wind, sent it screaming across the earth as we had rarely heard, even in the depths of winter. And this was summer. Such a strange summer storm.
No one can quiet the wind, we said to each other. And the waters, around him. Quiet like his voice, placid like his steps across the waves. And yet so strong, so steadfast, so steel-like, that even the wind turned tail. Not just the disciples, as their Bible puts it, but all of us, heaven earth and sea, we did not know what to make of it. Or of him.
Is it reasonable to be terrified, as we were, of such a quiet, gentle man?

Luke 8:26 "Where is your faith?" he asked his disciples

I am dumbfounded. Tears streak my eyes. I am fifteen years old and I have been in the Holy Convent of Mary Magdelene since I was twelve, the earliest day they would admit me, my father bringing me to the door and paying dowry in the time-honoured way. I was desperate to be a nun. A surefire way to heaven, I believed. Now, here I am, three years later, and the abbess is mounting a campaign against me, my father is too powerful to have friends in all the right places, he has enemies and those who wish to curb his influence, they have taken a dislike to him and have put pressure on her to refuse his daughter. It should be the day of my vows, but they have been postponed.And the worst of it is that she is right, the question she asks is apt, even if her reasons and motivations are clouded. "Where is your faith?" If I had true faith, I think, this setback would not upset me, I would leave this convent with the same joy with which I entered it three years before. I would know that God was in His heaven, and all was well with His world, and that the minor setbacks that I encountered were nothing besides the glory and heavenly splendour of his world.

Luke 8:25b Jesus Calms the Storm

He got up and rebuked the wind and raging waters: the wind subsided, and all was calm.

It is rare that we notice a storm, from the depths of the lake. Oh, we have our currents and our tides: the waters in which we live and breathe hurl us one way or another, in unexpected directions at times. But the winds which churn up the surfaces rarely trouble us. They are like wrinkles far above.
This storm, though, was strong enough to twist fronds and scatter rocks even on the lake floor. We were rocked, tossed, turned, as though the lake itself was twisting upwards, splaying itself out into the air above our world. As if - I almost wondered - as if it was trying to upend one of the boats that flailed and shivered above.
When it stopped, it stopped suddenly. Not like a natural gale, blowing itself out. No, this was like a performance of an opera, brought to a sudden close by the conductor: so that in the tingling silence afterwards you were aware of the strength and passion of the final note. And the lake waters subsided almost sullenly, as if they had been matched, then outdone in strength.
I always wondered what it was, that could come from beyond the sea and produce such a calm. A calm, a quiet, stronger and more striking than the noise of the storm.

Luke 8:24

The disciples went and woke him, saying, 'Master, master, we're going to drown!'

Sometimes it was awful following Jesus. He lay there in the bottom of the boat and when we shook him, I just knew he was going to open his eyes and say something patronising, like, relax, don't worry, I am the king of the universe. And don't get me wrong, I knew he was the Son of God and all, Messiah dah-dee-dah-dee-dah, I'd left my family and my work and my friends to follow him, but there was just something about the way you knew he was there, he was probably going to have a solution, he'd just fallen asleep to test our courage or something, everything was in God's hands and we were all right, but there's something about watching the waves whip up into a whirlpool and send your boat spinning in circles, half full of water, that makes your legs shake and your teeth chatter, so that you cry out for your mamma in fear, and wait for death to arrive. Even if you don't want to. Even if you believe He's the Son of God.

Luke 8:23

As they sailed, he fell asleep. A squall came down on the lake, so that the boat was being swamped, and they were in great danger.

I saw the boat coming and I rejoiced. Not that I am a cruel wind, but I am a violent one. I rip through houses and send boats and cattle scurrying away from me, into the shelter of the land or bothy. I whip up the sand in the desert so that it rises into the air in great clouds and darkens the world below for days at a time. I am stronger than the fishermen who fear me, stronger than the waves that I beat out of the sea. I am stronger even than the morning sun whose warmth is chilled by my strength and speed.
But I was not stronger than that man, who slept in his boat as if there was nothing wrong, as if I had no power to move him. His companions shouted and gibbered, but he lay there like a child, a child in a crib, sound asleep, and all my whistling and roaring seemed to disturb him no more than the rocking of a mother's hand.
He was a small man, I remember. But heavier than he looked.

Luke 8:22 The other side of the lake

One day Jesus said to his disciples, 'Let's go over to the other side of the lake.'

That's where we live, you know. Us outsiders. We live on the other side of the lake and to be completely honest I've always been suspicious of the other siders. We know they look down on us, and we look down on them. They say we're know-nothing bumpkins and we say they're smarmy city slickers. They say we're so slow you could steal the coat off our back without us noticing, and we say who except one of them would want to go around stealing coats anyway?
Even their fishermen are faster than us, more fish, more time out on the lake. They don't take the same care that we do. It's profit over everything. Even over an approaching storm.
So when I saw the boat on the other side, I worried a little for the men inside it, because they were heading out our way despite what looked like bad sailing weather. And I wondered what it was that drove them towards us, because usually the only time an othersider comes our way is to try to rip us off, or because he's been outcast by his own.

Luke 8.21 "My mothers and brothers are those who hear God's word and put it into practice."

He's right, of course. Obedience to our Father above all, the Holiest of Holies, the one who inhabits the darkened temple, the hushed veiled mystery beyond all our chatter. The Father who created us all and sits in judgement on our children as ourselves, is He not worthy of our sacrifice, our blessing, our awe and holy fear?
Mothers and brothers are important, yes. But only to the young and very old, those who cannot manage by themselves and need help. A man grows up and leaves his family, his wife likewise. This is the Law, the way the world happens, the way responsibility falls from one generation to the next. You cannot stay in your mother's bed all your life. The preacher is right.
And yet, I could not help but feel a pang for the young men with the strong labourers' build who waited so patiently for so long at the edge of the crowd. And I was not sorry to see the way they spoke of their mother, pleaded her case in thick Galilean accents until they saw it was no use. They were politely turned away with the news that the preacher was tired now, perhaps they could come back and visit another time - no one had the gall, or cruelty, to tell them what had actually been said - all was done with tenderness, with the greatest of care - if she wept, she did so quietly, behind her veil, so that we could not see or hear - Sons do grow up and leave home. That is the way of the world.
And although the preacher is of course right I could not be sorry that, one by one, as they took the long road home, I saw these strong young men taking turns to comfort her, whispering in her ear and awkwardly patting her hand.

Luke 8.20 "Your mother and brothers are standing outside, waiting to see you."

I see him a long way off. Addressing a large crowd. My son has no time for me any more. I know I should be grateful that he is so precious, so special, and I am. But sometimes I feel God has granted me a gift that is larger than I wanted.

I tore when I gave birth to him, and now I am torn in pieces again. Even before they come and give me the bad news, that he doesn't want to see me today, I am in pain: not because I am angry, but because I know he is right. We had our years together, I wiped him clean and taught him to count, giggled at his smiles. He has work that is more important than me now.

Luke 8:18b

Whoever has will be given more: whoever does not have, even what he thinks he has will be taken from him.

So I left the bitch, and moved in with my new girlfriend. Love, at last. After fifteen years of pretending to enjoy life I suddenly had the real thing, a loving kiss, great company, a warm bed at night. And after a few months some of the sheen had worn off, I'd found she did her hair with highlights and was a bit older than she'd made out, but still, she was a better bet than the other one. And it lasted that way, her saying that she loved me and me like a fool believing her, until the details of the divorce settlement came out and she discovered that my ex-wife was keeping most of the cash. She hadn't bargained for that, she'd wanted to give up work.

She didn't leave much in the flat, when she moved out. Not even a sofa. I had to start all over again, a third time. But, as it happens, I still have her shoes. Old-fashioned things, stilettos with super-high heels. Six inches, like women used to wear when I was young. "You fool," said my mother when she saw them. "Only prostitutes and gold-diggers wear that kind of thing now."

Luke 8:18 "Therefore consider carefully how you listen."

I'm sitting in a classroom, and my hands are dangling over the edge of the old-fashioned wooden desk. From somewhere outside the noise comes of laughter, cheers, a thudding ball. Sports time.
At the front of the class our teacher, small nose, glasses, slightly furrowed forehead. I think of him as old, but he's probably quite young. The chalk squawks slightly as he demonstrates a quadratic equation on the chalk board.
He tells us once how he wasn't always a teacher, how when he left university he went to work for a few years on an oil rig. It's good work for boys, not for girls, he tells us. You get paid for the whole month, but only work two weeks. It's hard, long shifts and no outside time, alcohol is forbidden. But people pay off their houses in a few years that way. Work's not as easy to come by as it used to be, he adds. When I was up there in Aberdeen they were crying out for young men.

Funny. I never excelled at maths. I was in his class for two or three years, but of all the serious lessons I listened to, that is the one that I remember most vividly. The idea that this dull, respectable, prematurely elderly young man could once have been so daring as to work on an oil rig. And that women couldn't do it. That stung.

Perhaps he wasn't all that dull after all, I remember thinking. Now I look back, and wonder if I confused the dullness of the subject with the man. Whether he was probably quite fun, quite dry and witty. And I wonder too what my oil rig is, what when I look back and tell tales to my children will be the wildest, craziest story of my youth. It will probably be something quite mundane. Like bothering to continue with the walk to ordination.

Luke 8:16 A Lamp on a Stand

No one lights a lamp and hides it in a jar or puts it under a bed. Instead, he puts it on a stand, so that those who come in can see the light. For there is nothing hidden that will not be disclosed, and nothing concealed that will not be known or brought out into the open.

I run, I hide. The men behind me are chasing me. Their faces are dark, like the night. I wake up, shaking. It is just a dream.
How often do I dream this same dream, and why does it haunt me? My wife is still asleep. I reach for the bedside lamp. It is out of oil. I stumble to the door of my room, and open it. A little starlight trickles in. Not much, but at least I can see where I am.
Since hearing that man's teaching I have been haunted by the night. I never used to mind it, but now the thought of darkness fills me with fear. A jar, a bed, who would put a lamp there? But they took him and killed him, the men of darkness in my dream, and although I have heard wild rumours since of a mistake - many claim to have seen him since his death. Some say he was never crucified at all, others talk of a resurrection. But I don't believe that twaddle. So I am left with the nightmares, the thought of a lamp snuffed out in the darkness, hidden under my bed. I dream that the men will come for me, that they have already come and that I am dead, buried in a tomb in the ground. Some nights, my wife tells me, I scream in my sleep. Other times I wake up in tears.
It never used to bother me before, this darkness. The place where everything hides that does not wish to be found, wish to be seen. I look at the lamp on my stand, but without oil and flame it is nothing, puny and small. The shadows crowd around. I wish I'd never heard of this man, this preacher who came promising that there would be light.

Mark 6: 45-52 Jesus Walks On Water

I see the feet above me. I have seen human feet before, but they have been different. Splashing on the edges of the world, where the water becomes so thin it is hard to breathe, great trunks moving through the water. Sometimes a hand reaches down and takes a fish. We never see it again.
Other times we see human feet on a drowned man. They cannot survive in this world, they come down from the heavens above us where they live and gasp, choke, turn blue and mottled. After a while they fall to the bottom. Then they are eaten. A gift from the heavens to us, perhaps. So the sight of a human foot was not a surprise to me. But what was surprising was how strong and soft it was. A child’s foot is soft, if you nibble at it it feels like seaweed. A man’s foot is hard and calloused. It is like eating mollusc shells.
But this foot walked across the water, stronger than any man I had ever seen, and yet I saw it was soft and white like a child’s. And I wondered how tender that man was, whether he had ever truly stepped on the hard ground of the heavens where humans live, or whether he came from somewhere else entirely. But that was impossible, of course, because there are only two worlds, heaven of the humans, and the real world, the ocean one.
I was puzzled by him. Not frightened, puzzled. He was only there for a few moments, you see, he ran across the water and climbed into the boat. There, from heaven, we heard his friends shouting. They seemed afraid, although I could not imagine why. No reason to be afraid of any creature with such pale tender feet. All a great mystery. I never saw it’s like again. And the fact that he strode across the sky of our world without falling in? Yes, now you ask, that puzzled me too.