Sermon for Proper 7 C
Sermon for Proper 7 C / Lectionary 12 C
June 23, 2013
Michael Coffey
In every time and place,
there
are people who live on the fringe,
who
are damaged beyond normal life,
who
no longer fit in,
and
are often no longer welcomed in.
The Gerasene man living out in the
tombs
is
just such a man,
but
he is not unique or so spectacular that we can’t listen
to
his story and find our lives in it today.
No doubt, it is an odd story for us
to hear.
A
man living naked out on the edge of town
where
bodies are buried.
He
seems to be possessed by demons
and
has long awaited healing and restoration to life.
There are several valid ways of
hearing this story.
We
could hear it on a literal level,
and
hear the message that Jesus has power
even
over unclean spirits and evil powers.
In
that sense, it affirms Jesus’ identity and authority
and
enacts the kingdom of healing and peace
that
Jesus is proclaiming and creating.
But, we don’t know much what to do
with demon possession
stories these days,
although
we do often talk about our dark side and our struggles
as a kind of demon that we have.
I imagine another hearing of this
story,
one
that is faithful to the text
but
not at first obvious or something we can prove.
So permit me to bring some
imagination to the story.
It is not uncommon to interpret this
text
as
a story of a man suffering from some mental disease.
It’s hard to say with any certainty what
that disease is,
whether
schizophrenia or bipolar or something else.
I’m going with something else.
And
my clue to interpreting this text comes from the text itself:
When
Jesus confronts this man he asks him his name,
he asks him who he is,
and the man answers: legion.
Legion
is a Roman military term for a large battle unit of over 6,000 men.
It’s
like he answered: My name is brigade.
So in my thinking and imaging about
this text,
here’s
where I am led:
Who
would answer a question like that with an answer like that
except a soldier?
So
hear the story like this: This man is a
former solider.
He
served in the Roman army , probably conscripted to fight
in one of the emperor’s many wars of
conquest
to create Roman peace.
He
is suffering an extreme form of what we would now call
post-traumatic stress disorder, or
PTSD.
He
probably saw and enacted all kinds of violence and suffering,
and when he was no longer useful to
the Roman war effort,
he was tossed aside, and put in
chains.
His
mental health and behavior have led to his rejection
by his community and family,
and he is as good as dead,
which
is why he escapes the guard and chains
and lives in the tombs,
a
powerful symbolic act of what has happened to him.
Now, if you make this interpretive
move with me,
you
can immediately see how this story is relevant today:
We have never known what to do
with our soldiers returning from war
who are damaged and spiritually
wounded
by
the extreme stress and moral tension
of
fighting in war.
I
do not pretend to know about such things personally,
but I have listened to numerous war
veterans tell their stories,
and I do pay attention to the
growing number
of returning soliders,
whose
lives have fallen apart,
whose
families have fallen apart,
whose
minds are tormented,
not
to mention whose bodies are permanently damaged.
You probably have heard the news
stories
about
the growing number of cases of PTSD,
and
depression, and suicide,
and drug addiction, and
homelessness,
among
our veterans.
This
is not new, of course,
be we are perhaps beginning to
understand it better,
even if we don’t know how to handle
it much better,
because
the cost on lives from war is enormous,
and
we would have to admit that fully
in order to address it fully.
But let’s return to the story
and
hear what the good news of Jesus has to do with this.
Jesus sees this suffering man
who
has been sent to the fringe of community and society,
has
been rejected by everyone,
and frankly, scared everyone away
from him.
Jesus
probably sees him for what he is:
A man whose mental, physical, and
spiritual life
has
been wounded in one way or another
by
an empire that uses people up for its own sake
and tosses them aside.
He calls himself legion, and he might
as well be saying:
It isn’t just me, it’s a whole
bridage of my brothers
whose
lives and suffering simmer and boil inside me.
So, what Jesus brings to him is
healing,
healing
that comes from an authority that isn’t Rome,
healing
that comes from a different reign on earth
that doesn’t come through warfare
and violence,
healing
that comes from knowing someone’s story
and not running away from it,
healing
that comes from being treated with lovingkindness
not as a disease, or fear, or a
shameful history,
but as a man in need of mercy and
healing.
However
we understand Jesus’ own ability
to bring the healing power of God,
he brings this man healing through
reconnection
to
human community, through divine mercy,
and
through a message of a kingdom coming
that does not require war for there
to be peace.
So
this man has healing, hope, reconnection to people and community,
and a name that is not a military
term for a large fighting group,
but
the name his mother and father gave him
when he was born as a beloved child.
And just to send the point him,
the
legion is sent off into the pigs who run off a cliff and die,
something
scholars say is a clear ironic insult to the Roman military,
especially for a Jewish audience
that knows that pigs are not a
complement.
In every time and place,
there
are people who live on the fringe,
who
are damaged beyond normal life,
who
can no longer fit in,
and
are often no longer welcomed in.
Except, the community of Jesus knows
the healing power of Jesus
and
shares it with all those on the fringe,
all
those damaged by war and drugs and abuse and failure,
all
those pushed out of human community,
all
those who internalize all the of the external messages
our own empires of power and wealth
put on us:
you are only valued if you can be a
means to an end.
No,
the Jesus community lives in a different kingdom,
a different empire,
where there is so much room at the
table
for all the people pushed to the
fringe of life,
that
there is real, palpable, edible good news.
When I was growing up in Galesburg,
Illinois
in
the 70’s and 80’s,
there
was a well-known citizen of the town
whom we all called Crazy Tony.
As a boy walking around town going to
school or a friend’s house,
if
you saw Crazy Tony walking down the street,
you got scared, you crossed the
street,
you wondered what he would do as he
passed by.
He might be talking to himself.
He might swear at you.
He might just say “hi.”
We
were taught that Tony was in the war
and
was “shell shocked” as it was called.
I was thinking about him as I read
this text,
and
I googled him.
Yes,
I googled “crazy tony” and “Galesburg” and I found him.
He died two years ago.
As
often happens now,
there
was an online obituary with comments.
There were dozens of people saying
how good a man he was,
how misunderstood he was,
how much they valued talking to him
over a cup of coffee at McDonald’s,
how sad it was that he had served
his country
and become so disabled without ever
really healing.
I was heartened to read that so many
had shown compassion to him
and
understood that his demons were not who he was.
He wasn’t Crazy Tony, he was Anthony
Rodich,
beloved
child of his mother and father, and of God.
We have a group of people in our
community
who
are in their own way shell shocked,
suffering
from dark demons,
and
living on the fringe of human community.
The street youth that hang out around
Guadalupe and the campus area
are
likely suffering from a different type of PTSD,
maybe due to childhood trauma or
abuse
or troubled families or their own naïve
and bad choices.
They
are mostly ignored except when they get in your face
to try to get some attention and
some money or food.
They are not unique to this area,
either.
They
are all over our country:
Troubled and tossed out young
adults,
who
likely never had any decent chance at a decent life.
I
was surprised to see in Santa Fe, NM a few weeks ago
a similar group of young adults,
whom I had never seen there before.
There are likely no easy or quick
solutions to bring healing and hope
to
these tragic young lives.
But at least we are part of a
ministry of hope and healing:
we
join with other churches in providing them a Sunday evening meal,
a
place of rest and peace,
warm
and welcoming people that care,
acceptance
of who they are whatever their story might be.
Your church council hosted this
weekly meal a few weeks ago,
and
we have a chance every other month to provide a meal for them.
I don’t know how or when or why the healing
power of Jesus comes
and
sends away the dark demons that trouble so many lives,
but
I do not doubt that the Sunday evening drop-in shelter
is showing the way to a peaceful
kingdom
that puts an end to the warring ways
of our lives.
We are always a community of damaged
people
who
are living out of our own healing and hope
that comes to us from God in the
good news of Christ.
We have somehow come to accept each
other
for
our own crazy ways and our wounded souls.
We gather to share bread and wine in
the name of the Lord Jesus
who
was himself sent out to the edge of town
and
rejected by an empire that had no use for him.
His very name and presence among us
is healing
and
peace and balm for our wounded souls.
Any wounded soul looking to be set
free from chains,
looking
to return from the tombs,
and
be among the living and the loving
looking
for new life in community and love and mercy
is welcome here among us in Jesus
name.
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