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Luke 8: 26–39
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May the words of my mouth and the meditations of our hearts be
acceptable in your sight, O Lord our strength and our redeemer. Amen
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Long ago and far away, as the Lord God created the heavens and the
earth, the writers of the Book of Genesis say he brought order out of
chaos. In Hebrew that phrase “order from chaos” is
tohu va boho. And ever since that time a sense of order has
been associated with wholeness and wellbeing, with civility in social
relations and peaceful sanity in personal affairs. Chaos, on the
other hand, is associated with things that are broken and unwell, a
sense of self–will instead of good government and personal
disturbance rather than sanity. So God is credited with good
order – and what is not from God with disorder and chaos.
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In the territory of the Geresenes, which Luke says was across the Sea of
Galilee – on the Gentile side of the Sea, in other words — a
whole lot of chaos prevailed, especially in the life of a certain man
the locals claimed was demon-possessed. And there’s no
doubt that something had gotten into him that wasn’t to his
benefit. For his life was totally out of order. He wore no
clothes. He lived in the wilds. He was civil and
well–mannered with no one. When the local authorities
tried to contain him, he simply broke whatever chains or restraints
they had put on him – and escaped back to a wild state. But
he was not alone. Far from it; for by his own account many
demons had taken up residence within him. And when Jesus asked
him his name, he replied, “Legion” – to indicate
that it wasn’t he who responded but the many demons inside him.
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Nowadays, it isn’t politically correct to think that anyone is
demon’possessed. They might be “mentally
ill.” Their lives might be “chaotic.” But
nowadays we modern, enlightened ones like to think that every difficult
person can be managed with appropriate drugs and therapies. Only,
that’s not the way Jesus saw things, or treated difficult
people. He healed them, or he sent their demons packing. And
his response to this man was no different.
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Many years ago, when Walt and I were living in Austin, Texas, I had just
come to a new awareness of my faith and I had this persistent sense
that I wanted to give something back to God. I wanted somehow to
serve him instead of daily presenting him with a list of my
demands – so he could serve me. So one day I signed
up with a local volunteer service bureau, and someone suggested I help
out at the Austin State School for the Mentally
Handicapped. Thinking there must be some kind of volunteer
program there – with training available – I drove over
there one morning to look into it. It was a pleasant enough campus
with big shade trees and red brick buildings – but no one seemed
to know anything about a volunteer visitor program. After a couple
more inquiries I was sent to an office where two well–dressed
young women were working busily at their well–appointed
desks. Once more I explained what I wanted. One of the women
rolled her eyes and said, “I think she should start out at Lilly,
don’t you?” The other girl nodded and the first
girl picked up a large ring of keys. “Come with
me,” she said.
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We walked outside and across the lawn to a red brick building with bars
at the windows. She unlocked the door and motioned me in. I
took one step inside the door and stopped in shock and
disbelief. Inside that large room was a scene from
Bedlam. Some of the women – or girls, it was hard to
say – were wearing no clothes and were walking in circles at
the center of the room, moaning and crying. Several others, at
the edge of the room were knocking their heads rhythmically against
the wall. Two or three others were crouched motionless on the
floor in a fetal position. Cries and screams echoed all around
me. It was a scene of such utter chaos I simply didn’t know
what to make of it. Seeing the shock on my face, the young woman
who had brought me over said, “Maybe Lanier House would be a
better place for you to start.” I didn’t argue with
her. I wanted to get out of there.
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Eventually, in that second house, I was introduced to a
15–year–old girl name Lupe, a girl I did befriend and
did visit for years. But I’ve never forgotten the chaotic
scene I first saw at Lilly House. Today it helps me picture
the chaotic scene Luke presents when he tells us about the
demon–possessed man in the land of the Geresenes.
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Fast forward now some twenty years. Walt and I have moved to
Atlanta, Georgia, where I’ve been ordained a priest. Food
for the Poor, which is a non–profit organization that operates
essentially in the Caribbean and Central America, has invited me to
go on a clergy retreat, all expenses paid, to Jamaica. Only
this is no luxury trip. This is an opportunity to see how some
of our poorest neighbors really live – because Food for the
Poor knows that once we see how it is with them we will take the
news of their profound need back to our parishes. They are
right. But profound need is not the only thing I witness in
Jamaica. Profound learning is something else I pick up. Let
me tell you how that happened.
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One afternoon in Kingston our guide, a Catholic priest, rounds us up
for a trip to a housing project in the heart of one of Kingston’s
poorest neighborhoods. There, he says, he especially wants us to
see an asylum for children with birth defects and mental
retardation – children whose families would have let them
die – at birth – if someone hadn’t intervened. I
steel myself for what I think I’m going to see. But I
couldn’t be more surprised.
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Here, too, were mentally retarded and physically disabled children
and adults. Some are in wheelchairs and some are in bed. But
every one of them is clean, quiet and content as they play with small
toys in their laps or on their beds. One child is simply watching
the sunlight stream through her hands. But there is no head
banging, no cries or screams, no frantic behavior, and no one seems
heavily drugged. What is going on here?
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As if in response to my unspoken question, the Catholic sister in
charge of the asylum leads us to a small chapel at the back of the
facility. It᾿s only a small, dark room, really, with a
lovely altar, specially lighted at one end. Behind the altar
there’s a wooden cross, covered in gold leaf. But on the
altar there’s only a simple golden monstrance displaying a
consecrated host – just like the large host I will break at
our altar in a few moments. Only, in Catholic churches they
believe that once that host is consecrated, it is the actual body
of Jesus Christ. One child, in a wheelchair, sits quietly before
the altar.
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“This chapel,” the sister explains, “was the first
room we constructed here. And from the very first day we arrived
every staff member and every patient has spent twenty minutes a day in
prayer and meditation in this room. Sometimes that’s not
easy – because we get busy around here – but we try to be
sure that each child gets his or her own time with the Lord every
day.”
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I wanted to ask her how they taught the younger children to pray. I
wanted to ask her how they recruited their nurses and aides. But
I didn’t. Somehow the peaceful authority that flowed from
her was itself the answer to my questions. She knew what was
crucial to the smooth operation of her asylum and the peaceful
wellbeing of its residents. And she made sure that every staff
member, every patient understood that too.
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If ever I’d encountered a real–life illustration of the
phrase we use so often in our final benediction – “The
peace of God that passes all understanding” – I encountered
it at that asylum in Kingston, Jamaica. The peace of God pervaded
that place. . . and not just the place, but
the children and adults who lived there, too. Each one of those
children, despite his or her physical or mental limitations, knew they
were loved and accepted by God. Though the “least of
these” in the eyes of their families and the larger society
around them, they knew they were valued by God. And in that
knowledge they were peaceful. In that knowledge they were content.
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No less than the unfortunate man Jesus encountered in the region of
the Geresenes, these children, these adults had encountered the living
Christ. And I couldn’t help thinking, as we left the
place –
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We should all be so lucky. We should all be so blessed.
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Amen
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