Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21
Lent is a time of turning toward God, a time of examining one’s life and planning toward the future. Lent is a journey. A journey that ultimately will take us to Easter. But before we get there, before we get to the celebration, we have to go to the cross. And before the cross, we have to travel in the wilderness for 40 days with Jesus.
What will we find on this journey? We have no answers yet. On Ash Wednesday we can only ask the question.
Part of getting back to God is to become as we all once were: vulnerable and powerless before the almighty. A striping away of all the extras . . . of all the treasures on earth.
Lent is a time for repentance. As Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel wrote, “Repentance is an absolute, spiritual decision made in truthfulness. Its motivations are remorse for the past and responsibility for the future.”
Remorse for the past and responsibility for the future. Could this possibly apply to us?
This lent we find ourselves in unprecedented times. Our whole country is figuring out what it means to live in these financial times: In fact, across the globe, all of those who are accustomed to money and financial power are figuring out what it means to live with less: less money, less security. Those who have always lived in impoverished nations already know what it is to do without, what it means not to rely on financial markets.
There is talk, in our nation, of repentance: of remorse for the past and responsible plans for the future. But there is also much blame, much doubt, much pessimism, and still, much greed. It is still remarkable, nevertheless, to hear criticism of greed and calls for responsibility and accountability in the market place. Many of us are indeed cutting back either because we want to heed the call to live simpler lives or because we can no longer retain the standard of living we once had. Some of us choose to repent, and others of us are forced into this attitude of penance.
Jesus tells us not to store up treasures on earth—not to consume ourselves with consuming material wealth. There’s a great distinction between goods and people. While not all material effects are bad, their purpose is to serve human needs, to give us nourishment, and shelter, even to help us celebrate in joy. But we are not meant to serve them: we are not here to have more “things” to have bigger and better, faster and fancier. Nor is our purpose to work so that others may enjoy the finer things, nor to infringe on the quality of life for others. We must consider the whole human cost of our lifestyes as well as the cost to ourselves.
Our recent downturn has demonstrated more clearly than perhaps ever before, just how interconnected, how interdependent we are with others around the globe. When one system fails, it causes many others to collapse. Perhaps this will cause a blow to our independence, a blow to our individualism, so that we may remember that we are all connected. And maybe we’ll remember that we can be connected in good ways too: in strength, beauty, kindness, grace, peace, love.
For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.
Our treasures must be those things that last: our hearts must live in treasures that cannot be taken from us and things that we cannot take with us. They must also not be the types of things that keep us from this journey of lent: that weigh us down and tether us tightly. We must be able to travel light.
As outlined in our gospel reading: we have three modes of travel for this season: almsgiving, prayer, and fasting. Give of your resources: your money, your time, your abilities, but not so as to earn praise from others, but in secret. Perhaps for us, this means an increase in financial giving, perhaps it means cutting back on one thing to be able to give more to something else. Maybe it means finding what we really need to live, instead of relying on the things that we think we need, and giving the rest to God.
Prayer. Again, not loudly or boastfully, but with humility, in secret. Our prayers this season are for repentance, for God to show us our sins and shortcomings, for God to show us who we are really meant to be, to help us find that way forward.
Fasting, not to receive pity for your piety, and certainly not to loose a few pounds. But fasting that reminds us that we truly hunger for God, that we rely on God for our very sustenance, that we do not live by bread alone, but by the word of God. In a land of abundance that we experience what it feels like to deny ourselves something, to know what it feels like for those who don’t have enough, to be in solidarity with the hungry, and to give praise to God when we have the food to end our fast.
For these things we will find reward on God’s terms. Done for the wrong reasons—for praise or material gain, we will gain nothing, no treasures in heaven, no spiritual depth, no riches for our hearts. For the season of Lent, none of us are forced to repent. We don’t have to go on this journey with Jesus to the cross. We can certainly say no. We can refuse the ashes of mortality and finiteness, humility and dirt.
In the words of Joel:
"Yet even now, says the LORD, return to me with all your heart, with fasting, with weeping, and with mourning; rend your hearts and not your clothing. Return to the LORD, your God, for he is gracious and merciful, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love, and relents from punishing. Spare your people, O LORD, and do not make your heritage a mockery, a byword among the nations. Why should it be said among the peoples, 'Where is their God?'"
Let it not be said of us: where is their God.
Amen.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
If You Choose
Mark 1:40-45
2 Kings 5:1-14
Welcome to the ongoing story of Jesus in the book of Mark. Let me orient you for a moment: up to this point, Jesus has been baptized, tempted in the wilderness and has begun his ministry. He has gathered four disciples and is preaching, healing diseases, and casting out demons, in synagogues and in people’s homes. While he is garnering a reputation for being both a great teacher and healer, it’s not evident that anyone has really figured out who he is. While interest and crowds surround him, he has yet to cause major trouble . . . he’s still inconspicuous. He’s still safe.
In comes a man with leprosy. Though it’s easily treated today, leprosy is still a serious condition, especially in areas of deep poverty. It can cause permanent damage to the skin, nerves, eyes, and even necessitate the amputation of limbs. In Jesus’ time if one had it or touched someone who had it, this would make them ritually unclean or untouchable. Lepers were seen to exist between life and death: in a state of limbo, but they were also ritually separated from everyday existence. As an unclean person, you couldn’t hang out with other people, couldn’t enter many of the cities, and certainly could not set foot in a synagogue and these are all the things Jesus has been doing up to this point.
Let’s assume this man is a Jew who knows his religion’s stories. Jesus and his followers would certainly remember the story of Naaman that we heard earlier in 2nd Kings.
This story of healing also involves a leper, kings, and a prophet. It is also a story full of political implications. The King of Israel is suspicious. Rather than believing that this is a request for healing, he suspects a trick. Kings had near divine status, and for these two: the King of Syria and the King of Israel, their relationship was already one of conflict. So for the King of Israel to attempt to perform a healing miracle, it might seem that he would claim to be God, and thus more powerful than the King of Syria. The king of Israel says: “Am I God, to give death or life . . . Just look and see how he is trying to pick a quarrel with me.” The king of Israel takes this as a challenge and tears his clothes in anguish.
When the leper approaches Jesus, this story is already in the background. Jesus hasn’t yet been revealed as the true King of Israel or as God. But his ability to heal the leper, answers the old king’s question: “am I God, to give death or life?” Well, yes. The political implications are still in place: Jesus is a new authority, with divine claims, which will be a problem, both for the current religious leaders and the Roman authorities as well.
When the leper leaves him, Jesus issues a “stern warning” for the leper not to tell anyone—he wants no credit for this miracle. One of the things I enjoy about preparing a sermon, is digging into a text to find details that seem enlightening or even unusual. An alternative Greek reading for “stern warning” suggest that Jesus was also “disturbed” or “snorting.” Imagine Jesus so much more emotional than the calm warning—not just serious, but also upset, and perhaps so angry that some incoherent snort escaped his body. Jesus’ reaction indicates just how much trouble this news could cause him. We see at the end of the passage that he can no longer enter into the town, because of the widespread news, and people have to come out to the countryside to find him.
Another interesting possibility is that Jesus was angry at the very request. The NRSV says Jesus was moved by “pity” but the footnote says that “other ancient authorities say: anger” which may be more likely. Then the text would read, “moved by anger, Jesus stretched out his hand.” Anger leaves us with more questions: why was Jesus angry? Was he mad at the man? Mad at the disease itself? Or something else? What does it then mean for us, to ask Jesus healing, cleansing forgiveness, if it’s possible that Jesus may react to us out of anger. Same questions then: is Jesus mad at us? Mad at our sin? Or something else?
For this instance with the leper, it’s possible that Jesus is experiencing anger for all three reasons. He’s on a clear mission, to enter into towns and synagogues to spread his message. This man interrupts him, and in his healing does two things to Jesus: also makes Jesus ritually unclean and then results in widespread proclamation of Jesus’ miracles. So, Jesus, being human, could be ticked at the reason that his plans have changed. But being God, this seems a little too petulant.
In reason 2, Jesus certainly could be upset at the leprosy itself. Perhaps he sees this man-- his condition and his life of suffering and is angry that such a thing exists in God’s world. God certainly desires better for the world and is never pleased to see suffering in any form: whether it’s leprosy in India or AIDS in Africa.
Or maybe it’s reason 3: something else. The leper doesn’t really ask to be healed, he says to Jesus “If you choose, you can make me clean.” The leper assumes, correctly, that Jesus has the power to cleanse him. Is that a challenge? A humble submission? As in: if it be your will, you can heal me. . . . is it possible for Jesus to choose not to? Could he really refuse—and allowing the suffering to continue? And could the suggestion that he might not choose to heal this man actually cause him to be angry?
This could possibly be a reflection of the man’s faith. Or a character test for Jesus—I believe you have the power, I’m just not sure you have the decency. We hear similar sentiments around us, if God were really good, these things wouldn’t happen . . . our loved ones wouldn’t be sick, strangers wouldn’t go hungry, children wouldn’t die, planes wouldn’t fall out of the sky . . .
Jesus doesn’t choose to be loving and compassionate, because he embodies those things, he couldn’t choose NOT to be. We don’t ask Jesus to forgive us, as he chooses, but absolutely.
Jesus chooses to save us, to heal us, to forgive us,
Salvation is a type of healing: whether it’s from a disease or our human condition—whether or not it’s in the way that we expect.
Naaman expects Elisha to come to see him, to wave his arms around, and perform a great magic trick. He’s angry when Elisha tells him to go take a bath. Like the ruby slippers in the Wizard of Oz: It’s too simple, too obvious. Jesus heals the leper, but in anger, snorting out a warning not to tell anybody—but will later tell his disciples to tell the whole world about him.
Maybe some of us expect God will always heal us, always give us what we want because we believe, because we’re good, because we’re special. God doesn’t heal us of every physical ailment. We all get sick, we all suffer, we all eventually die. Jesus doesn’t change any of that.
The miracles that Jesus performs in the gospel, are largely temporary. The people that he heals, eventually get sick again, they eventually die. The fed get hungry again. The lasting effect is not the healing, but the motivation behind it.
Jesus will not choose not to save us in the way he wants to—from our own desires and expectations—from our own comfort—from our own sin—from our own selves.
Jesus will not choose not to reach out to us—
But will we choose to reach out to him?
God offers grace—in communion—Jesus invites everyone to the table, to see and taste his goodness—but we can choose not to come.
2 Kings 5:1-14
Welcome to the ongoing story of Jesus in the book of Mark. Let me orient you for a moment: up to this point, Jesus has been baptized, tempted in the wilderness and has begun his ministry. He has gathered four disciples and is preaching, healing diseases, and casting out demons, in synagogues and in people’s homes. While he is garnering a reputation for being both a great teacher and healer, it’s not evident that anyone has really figured out who he is. While interest and crowds surround him, he has yet to cause major trouble . . . he’s still inconspicuous. He’s still safe.
In comes a man with leprosy. Though it’s easily treated today, leprosy is still a serious condition, especially in areas of deep poverty. It can cause permanent damage to the skin, nerves, eyes, and even necessitate the amputation of limbs. In Jesus’ time if one had it or touched someone who had it, this would make them ritually unclean or untouchable. Lepers were seen to exist between life and death: in a state of limbo, but they were also ritually separated from everyday existence. As an unclean person, you couldn’t hang out with other people, couldn’t enter many of the cities, and certainly could not set foot in a synagogue and these are all the things Jesus has been doing up to this point.
Let’s assume this man is a Jew who knows his religion’s stories. Jesus and his followers would certainly remember the story of Naaman that we heard earlier in 2nd Kings.
This story of healing also involves a leper, kings, and a prophet. It is also a story full of political implications. The King of Israel is suspicious. Rather than believing that this is a request for healing, he suspects a trick. Kings had near divine status, and for these two: the King of Syria and the King of Israel, their relationship was already one of conflict. So for the King of Israel to attempt to perform a healing miracle, it might seem that he would claim to be God, and thus more powerful than the King of Syria. The king of Israel says: “Am I God, to give death or life . . . Just look and see how he is trying to pick a quarrel with me.” The king of Israel takes this as a challenge and tears his clothes in anguish.
When the leper approaches Jesus, this story is already in the background. Jesus hasn’t yet been revealed as the true King of Israel or as God. But his ability to heal the leper, answers the old king’s question: “am I God, to give death or life?” Well, yes. The political implications are still in place: Jesus is a new authority, with divine claims, which will be a problem, both for the current religious leaders and the Roman authorities as well.
When the leper leaves him, Jesus issues a “stern warning” for the leper not to tell anyone—he wants no credit for this miracle. One of the things I enjoy about preparing a sermon, is digging into a text to find details that seem enlightening or even unusual. An alternative Greek reading for “stern warning” suggest that Jesus was also “disturbed” or “snorting.” Imagine Jesus so much more emotional than the calm warning—not just serious, but also upset, and perhaps so angry that some incoherent snort escaped his body. Jesus’ reaction indicates just how much trouble this news could cause him. We see at the end of the passage that he can no longer enter into the town, because of the widespread news, and people have to come out to the countryside to find him.
Another interesting possibility is that Jesus was angry at the very request. The NRSV says Jesus was moved by “pity” but the footnote says that “other ancient authorities say: anger” which may be more likely. Then the text would read, “moved by anger, Jesus stretched out his hand.” Anger leaves us with more questions: why was Jesus angry? Was he mad at the man? Mad at the disease itself? Or something else? What does it then mean for us, to ask Jesus healing, cleansing forgiveness, if it’s possible that Jesus may react to us out of anger. Same questions then: is Jesus mad at us? Mad at our sin? Or something else?
For this instance with the leper, it’s possible that Jesus is experiencing anger for all three reasons. He’s on a clear mission, to enter into towns and synagogues to spread his message. This man interrupts him, and in his healing does two things to Jesus: also makes Jesus ritually unclean and then results in widespread proclamation of Jesus’ miracles. So, Jesus, being human, could be ticked at the reason that his plans have changed. But being God, this seems a little too petulant.
In reason 2, Jesus certainly could be upset at the leprosy itself. Perhaps he sees this man-- his condition and his life of suffering and is angry that such a thing exists in God’s world. God certainly desires better for the world and is never pleased to see suffering in any form: whether it’s leprosy in India or AIDS in Africa.
Or maybe it’s reason 3: something else. The leper doesn’t really ask to be healed, he says to Jesus “If you choose, you can make me clean.” The leper assumes, correctly, that Jesus has the power to cleanse him. Is that a challenge? A humble submission? As in: if it be your will, you can heal me. . . . is it possible for Jesus to choose not to? Could he really refuse—and allowing the suffering to continue? And could the suggestion that he might not choose to heal this man actually cause him to be angry?
This could possibly be a reflection of the man’s faith. Or a character test for Jesus—I believe you have the power, I’m just not sure you have the decency. We hear similar sentiments around us, if God were really good, these things wouldn’t happen . . . our loved ones wouldn’t be sick, strangers wouldn’t go hungry, children wouldn’t die, planes wouldn’t fall out of the sky . . .
Jesus doesn’t choose to be loving and compassionate, because he embodies those things, he couldn’t choose NOT to be. We don’t ask Jesus to forgive us, as he chooses, but absolutely.
Jesus chooses to save us, to heal us, to forgive us,
Salvation is a type of healing: whether it’s from a disease or our human condition—whether or not it’s in the way that we expect.
Naaman expects Elisha to come to see him, to wave his arms around, and perform a great magic trick. He’s angry when Elisha tells him to go take a bath. Like the ruby slippers in the Wizard of Oz: It’s too simple, too obvious. Jesus heals the leper, but in anger, snorting out a warning not to tell anybody—but will later tell his disciples to tell the whole world about him.
Maybe some of us expect God will always heal us, always give us what we want because we believe, because we’re good, because we’re special. God doesn’t heal us of every physical ailment. We all get sick, we all suffer, we all eventually die. Jesus doesn’t change any of that.
The miracles that Jesus performs in the gospel, are largely temporary. The people that he heals, eventually get sick again, they eventually die. The fed get hungry again. The lasting effect is not the healing, but the motivation behind it.
Jesus will not choose not to save us in the way he wants to—from our own desires and expectations—from our own comfort—from our own sin—from our own selves.
Jesus will not choose not to reach out to us—
But will we choose to reach out to him?
God offers grace—in communion—Jesus invites everyone to the table, to see and taste his goodness—but we can choose not to come.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Authority
Mark 1: 21-28
Jesus has just left Zebedee, with James and John, and they’ve gone to the synagogue: Mark portrays Jesus as a great teacher: a rabbi who’s students don’t yet know that he’s not like any other rabbi.
We learn that Jesus is both a really good teacher: with authority that surpasses others, and who also has the power to back up his teachings. He speaks both for himself and for God.
Mark doesn’t tell us exactly what Jesus is teaching, but it’s quite possible that it’s the same message from Mark chapter 1: 14-15: The good news of God: “The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good news.”
Immediately after Jesus begins teaching, he is challenged: a man with an unclean spirit goes after him.
It’s ironic that we find this unclean spirit in the synagogue: it’s a sign that there’s already trouble. This demon that Jesus finds is in temple, a church. Not on a street corner or in a bar, but in a sacred place: a reminder that evil can lurk anywhere, that the doors of a temple do not bless you as you walk in . . . we have unholiness in a holy place.
The man is one of those listening to Jesus, and maybe it’s this moment, of beholding the “holy one of God’ that he sees the change he needs to make—but the uncleanliness, part of his will isn’t going to let go, isn’t going to let him follow Jesus like James and John. Jesus is quick to recognize it and drive it out: he performs healing and liberation for this man, right under the nose of those he criticizes.
What if I told you that today, we’re also going to cast out demons. Would you all be up for an exorcism today?
According to ABC news, exorcisms are more popular in the US than they used to be. The Catholic church now has 10 official exorcists: 9 more than they had a decade ago . . . but it’s certainly not something they cover in seminary. The most I really know is from the movie, and I haven’t even seen all of it. I think of people convulsing and turning green. But it’s here, in Mark, and we’d do well to remember the existence of unclean spirits in whatever form they take.
One of the Desert Fathers—Abba Poemen lived the life of an ascetic, in the Egyptian desert, in the 3rd century. When asked if demons attack us he replied: “our own wills become the demons and it is these which attack us.” He thought that as long as we do our own will we are fine, but when we strive for that which is better, when we questions ourselves and what God wants of us, and turn towards God, that is when our struggles begin. This man might have seemed normal—he could slip into the temple unnoticed, but the message of Jesus calls to this man and the spirit isn’t pleased with the change.
There have been times when I have had to choose God over myself. These have been times that I believed in God’s existence: but doubted God’s goodness: thought that maybe God had set me up, was having a good laugh at my pathetic expense. I was getting closer to God: and further from my own will: and I felt my very being being ripped in two. The part of me that it’s charge of self-preservation was not pleased: it slid me into doubt. That part is getting weaker in me: the part that thinks God is really leading me to some lonesome valley of death, instead of carrying me through it. I still worry that God will cost me more than I’m willing to live without.
I met with a woman in a hospital in Atlanta, who had voices in her head that wanted her to kill her husband and she had tried. She was in agony, because she loved her husband and said he was such a good man. I don’t know what her diagnosis was or her treatment, but her brain was doing things to her, that were beyond her control. It seems like it’d almost be easier if someone could perform a ritual and relieve her, instead of the years of treatment she will likely endure.
A member of my family has a long complicated history of mental illness. She’s been diagnosed with different things, in and out of clinics, several suicide attempts: some that she remembers and some that she doesn’t . . . She’s been completely out of it, quiet and daydreaming, or sitting and acting like a child, but with the right combination of medicines she can be alert and happy.
I don’t mean to say that people with mental illnesses are possessed, just that perhaps that’s the kind of thing Mark is describing: the way that an addiction or chemical imbalance in the brain seems to hold a power and sway over us.
It’s irresponsible to say to someone that they just need an exorcism. We wouldn’t need 12 step programs if a simple prayer could do it. I think the ritual for an exorcism would still be in our hymnal.
Regardless, I know I’ve had experience with people who seemed: almost evil? Who had a certain gleam to their eye, who were doing terrible things: ruining lives, tearing apart families, and seemed not to care, seemed almost pleased with themselves . . . there is a reason we call these “the spiritual forces of wickedness” a reason we personify them in the form of demons. Because how else could people be so awful? And maybe it’s their experience, personality, or past, maybe it’s an addiction or compulsion, or maybe something more, far more sinister . . .
The point is: that in Mark: Jesus spends a great deal of time healing and casting out unclean spirits: he heals the sick, the lame: things like leprosy and blindness, diseases that affect the body, mostly. And then he casts out the unclean spirits: diseases that affect the mind: things like depression and addiction: things that keep our spirits from being whole and good, things that stand between us and God.
Whatever it is, Jesus is taking it on.
The first of his miracles:
The first of his healings:
Is to take on the spiritual type of healing.
Jesus has authority: when we follow Jesus, there’s trouble: there’s parts of us that may shriek with disdain for the light of God—parts of us that we have to test and question and overcome and cast out: or ask Jesus to cast out: We all have limitations, I’ll leave that up to you whether or not you call them demons.
Jesus has just left Zebedee, with James and John, and they’ve gone to the synagogue: Mark portrays Jesus as a great teacher: a rabbi who’s students don’t yet know that he’s not like any other rabbi.
We learn that Jesus is both a really good teacher: with authority that surpasses others, and who also has the power to back up his teachings. He speaks both for himself and for God.
Mark doesn’t tell us exactly what Jesus is teaching, but it’s quite possible that it’s the same message from Mark chapter 1: 14-15: The good news of God: “The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good news.”
Immediately after Jesus begins teaching, he is challenged: a man with an unclean spirit goes after him.
It’s ironic that we find this unclean spirit in the synagogue: it’s a sign that there’s already trouble. This demon that Jesus finds is in temple, a church. Not on a street corner or in a bar, but in a sacred place: a reminder that evil can lurk anywhere, that the doors of a temple do not bless you as you walk in . . . we have unholiness in a holy place.
The man is one of those listening to Jesus, and maybe it’s this moment, of beholding the “holy one of God’ that he sees the change he needs to make—but the uncleanliness, part of his will isn’t going to let go, isn’t going to let him follow Jesus like James and John. Jesus is quick to recognize it and drive it out: he performs healing and liberation for this man, right under the nose of those he criticizes.
What if I told you that today, we’re also going to cast out demons. Would you all be up for an exorcism today?
According to ABC news, exorcisms are more popular in the US than they used to be. The Catholic church now has 10 official exorcists: 9 more than they had a decade ago . . . but it’s certainly not something they cover in seminary. The most I really know is from the movie, and I haven’t even seen all of it. I think of people convulsing and turning green. But it’s here, in Mark, and we’d do well to remember the existence of unclean spirits in whatever form they take.
One of the Desert Fathers—Abba Poemen lived the life of an ascetic, in the Egyptian desert, in the 3rd century. When asked if demons attack us he replied: “our own wills become the demons and it is these which attack us.” He thought that as long as we do our own will we are fine, but when we strive for that which is better, when we questions ourselves and what God wants of us, and turn towards God, that is when our struggles begin. This man might have seemed normal—he could slip into the temple unnoticed, but the message of Jesus calls to this man and the spirit isn’t pleased with the change.
There have been times when I have had to choose God over myself. These have been times that I believed in God’s existence: but doubted God’s goodness: thought that maybe God had set me up, was having a good laugh at my pathetic expense. I was getting closer to God: and further from my own will: and I felt my very being being ripped in two. The part of me that it’s charge of self-preservation was not pleased: it slid me into doubt. That part is getting weaker in me: the part that thinks God is really leading me to some lonesome valley of death, instead of carrying me through it. I still worry that God will cost me more than I’m willing to live without.
I met with a woman in a hospital in Atlanta, who had voices in her head that wanted her to kill her husband and she had tried. She was in agony, because she loved her husband and said he was such a good man. I don’t know what her diagnosis was or her treatment, but her brain was doing things to her, that were beyond her control. It seems like it’d almost be easier if someone could perform a ritual and relieve her, instead of the years of treatment she will likely endure.
A member of my family has a long complicated history of mental illness. She’s been diagnosed with different things, in and out of clinics, several suicide attempts: some that she remembers and some that she doesn’t . . . She’s been completely out of it, quiet and daydreaming, or sitting and acting like a child, but with the right combination of medicines she can be alert and happy.
I don’t mean to say that people with mental illnesses are possessed, just that perhaps that’s the kind of thing Mark is describing: the way that an addiction or chemical imbalance in the brain seems to hold a power and sway over us.
It’s irresponsible to say to someone that they just need an exorcism. We wouldn’t need 12 step programs if a simple prayer could do it. I think the ritual for an exorcism would still be in our hymnal.
Regardless, I know I’ve had experience with people who seemed: almost evil? Who had a certain gleam to their eye, who were doing terrible things: ruining lives, tearing apart families, and seemed not to care, seemed almost pleased with themselves . . . there is a reason we call these “the spiritual forces of wickedness” a reason we personify them in the form of demons. Because how else could people be so awful? And maybe it’s their experience, personality, or past, maybe it’s an addiction or compulsion, or maybe something more, far more sinister . . .
The point is: that in Mark: Jesus spends a great deal of time healing and casting out unclean spirits: he heals the sick, the lame: things like leprosy and blindness, diseases that affect the body, mostly. And then he casts out the unclean spirits: diseases that affect the mind: things like depression and addiction: things that keep our spirits from being whole and good, things that stand between us and God.
Whatever it is, Jesus is taking it on.
The first of his miracles:
The first of his healings:
Is to take on the spiritual type of healing.
Jesus has authority: when we follow Jesus, there’s trouble: there’s parts of us that may shriek with disdain for the light of God—parts of us that we have to test and question and overcome and cast out: or ask Jesus to cast out: We all have limitations, I’ll leave that up to you whether or not you call them demons.
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