Cast Out Demons

“What have you to do with us, Jesus of Nazareth?
Have you come to destroy us?
I know who you are—the Holy One of God!” (Mk 1:24)

Today, Jesus enters the synagogue and is confronted by fear, anger, and defensiveness.  The man with an unclean spirit cries out – in Greek, anekraxev – an ugly sound, almost a croak, coming forth from a desperate soul.  In spite of the first-person plural, the cry bespeaks isolation, loneliness, alienation.  It verbally rejects the very goodness which could soften its stony heart and bring about communion with everlasting love.

Love is somehow threatening.  How could love destroy?  Perhaps it is the narrowing of horizons, the shrinking in upon oneself for safety, the tense grip and the illusion of control that makes love’s expansiveness seem like death.

Have you ever felt like a demoniac in a holy place?  Perhaps your burden has been heavy, and all your buttons pushed, your resistance to temptation hovering near zero and your self-esteem at rock bottom.  Your respectable self-image is picked apart by minor irritants, and the worst of these is kindness, respect, generosity.  All the cursing Psalms seem to be directed at you, and the name of Jesus feels like a slap in the face.  You are the one who cries out in agony at the approach of searing goodness: Have you come to destroy us?

Have you even been approached at such a moment, and instead of indifference, politeness, or counter-irritation, you are met with a word and a gaze that reaches effortlessly through the confusion?  The words may be simple enough: Is there something wrong?  You seem to be having difficulty.  Would you like to talk about it?  But it is the gaze that matters most.  The gaze reaches to the center and alights upon the person you need to remember you are.  You resist, of course, the setting down of arms, the removal of armor.  An inner convulsion marks your last stand against freedom.  But then there you are, rebuked and released, before the authority of truthful love.

Have you ever stood before one possessed by an unclean spirit and witnessed the cry of agony coming forth from a tortured soul?  This cry can be terrifying.  It rips off the cloak of assumed confidence we wear over our fear and anxiety.  It jangles our nerves and leaves us trembling and utterly undone before the fear or rage or despair of another.  Then, if our own weaknesses are touched and our protective anger kindled, the encounter becomes like the meeting of two demoniacs, each croaking its defense against the one who comes to destroy it. 

Have you ever found the strength to stand before such a one without crumbling?  Perhaps strength is a misleading word.  More important than strength is weakness, the acceptance of weakness, to allow your defenses to be breached and to realize that this is not the end of you.  The knee-jerk reaction of shouting at the one who shouts at you, raging at the one who rages at you, picking at the one who picks at your self-esteem, is interrupted.  It is like finding the solidity of firm rock under your feet, the capacity to let the waves of anger and distress wash over you.  They pass you by, not unnoticed, not unfelt, but without destroying you.  You realize to your amazement that you are not washed away, not destroyed; you stand firm in the authority of truthful love.

Jesus said to Paul: “My grace is sufficient for you, for power is made perfect in weakness,” and Paul responded: “So, I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may dwell in me” (2 Cor 12:8, 9).
We do not need to pretend to be strong.  Freedom lies in coming to know ourselves as weak, fragile, and yet indestructible.  Why?  Because we are known and loved, radically, to the depth of our being.  The Holy One of God has gazed upon us in truth and love, and now he shares his authority with us, so that we may do the same for others.  In his name, we will cast out demons.

Image: Christ Healing the Possessed Man, Magdeburg Ivories