Imagining demon-possession seems unwise, so I start with the tombs. Mark’s demoniac lived among the tombs (Mark 5:1-20). Clenching my lashes together, I fight off the brightness diffusing through my eyelids. Imprints of my cherry wood desk and the crape myrtle beyond it float in my brain. The fan hums overhead and sweet air wafts over me. Not very tomb-like.
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I try to imagine gathering bones for pillows, screaming just to hear my own voice, and gashing my chest with rocks. But I can’t, because I’m used to reading the Bible from the sidelines.
I sit on my couch and watch pigs drown, townspeople fidget, and a psychopath find his mind again. The story pads my doctrine about Jesus, but fails to penetrate me. Why should it? No demons here.
But…
What about those shadows lurking in the corners of my brain–that legion of anxieties, self-consciousness, and pride? Often, they riot, seize control of my mind, and cast me into a fire of lies.
Maybe I, too, live among the tombs.
Maybe I should read that story again.
