The Mad Dance We’ve Known So Long
by Donavon L Riley

Men murder each other for crumpled bits of paper, scraps of currency that we’ve convinced ourselves hold the key to survival. Children, barely aware of life’s full reach, take their own lives, falling prey to a culture that pours lies into their ears. And mothers—those meant to nurture and cradle new life—are deceived into ending the lives of their unborn, told it’s a choice, a freedom. Yet this machine—this ravenous, all-consuming machine—rages on. It rumbles deep within us and ripples through every corner of society, demanding that our desires be fed, demanding that nothing interrupt its ceaseless grind. We live in a time that cannot tolerate disturbance. Anything that disrupts the flow of consumption, that shakes the foundations of comfort, is quickly pushed aside.

We’ve become like the people of the Garasenes, afraid of healing, afraid of sanity. You remember the story: Christ stepped into their land, and there was a man—wild, untamed, living among the tombs, possessed by forces beyond his control. The people had grown used to him, the way he tore at his skin, screamed into the night, and roamed the hills like a beast. Madness had become their backdrop. But Christ, with a word, cast the demons out of the man and sent them into a herd of swine. The pigs, now possessed, rushed headlong into the sea, drowning in their madness. And when the herdsmen saw it, they ran, terrified. The townspeople gathered, not to rejoice at the healing, but to beg Christ to leave. They saw the man—calm, clothed, sitting at the feet of Christ—and they were afraid. They couldn’t handle it. The sight of sanity, of purity, of love disturbed them more than the wildness and madness they had grown accustomed to.

And isn’t that us? Isn’t that exactly where we stand today? We embrace the madness, welcome it, nurture it as if it were our own child. We’ve taken insanity into our homes, let it sit at our tables, and feed off our energy. Post-modern life has made madness its inheritance, its heir apparent. The culture wraps it in a blanket, cradles it, and watches it grow fat on our indifference. And all the while, the machine—the one that fuels our desires for more, for constant distraction, for endless consumption—roars on. We don’t want Christ in the mix. We don’t want Him to disturb the cycle, to stop the machine. To let Christ in would be to let the madness die, to let go of the demons that drive us. And like the Garasenes, we stand trembling at the edge, begging Him to leave. We’d rather live with the insanity, with the familiar darkness, than face the Light.

We see it every day—people clutching their screens, their possessions, their endless distractions. They cling to their madness, afraid of what they might find if they step away. They’d rather drown with the swine, drown in the noise, than be healed. Our society cradles this madness like a precious thing, afraid to let it go, afraid to disturb the flow. We are the Garasenes, terrified not of the demons, but of their absence. Terrified of what might fill the void if the noise and chaos were to cease. And so, we beg Christ to leave, to let us stay with our demons, our distractions, our endless striving. We have made a pact with madness, and we call it progress. We have embraced our demons, and we call it freedom. All the while, the sea waits, deep and dark, ready to swallow us whole. But Christ stands at the edge, offering something different—peace, sanity, healing. And all we need to do is let go. But will we? Or will we, like the Garasenes, beg Him to leave, so we can continue the mad dance we’ve known so long?

By Donovan Riley

Donavon Riley is a Lutheran pastor, conference speaker, author, and contributing writer for 1517. He is also a co-host of Banned Books and Warrior Priest podcasts. He is the author of the book, "Crucifying Religion” and “The Withertongue Emails.” He is also a contributing author to "The Sinner/Saint Devotional: 60 Days in the Psalms" and "Theology of the Cross".

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