“And they began to beg Jesus to depart from their region.” — Mark 5:17
Like the Garasenes, we cling to our madness, fearing the light of Christ more than the darkness that destroys us. —D.
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Men kill for paper—thin, crumpled bills, as if wealth could hold the weight of a soul. Children, still fresh in years, slip into the dark by their own hands. Mothers are led to end the lives they’ve not yet held. And all the while, the great machine grinds on, feeding itself on our swollen wants. It cannot be stopped. It will not be troubled. It roars forward, undisturbed, and we let it, afraid of what might happen if we were to break stride. Like the Garasenes, we cling to our madness, fearing what might come if we let Christ step into the fray.
Remember the story. A man, wild, untamed, living among the tombs, slashing at his own flesh, lost to himself. Christ steps onto the shore, speaks the word, and the demons flee—rushing into a herd of swine, plunging headlong into the sea. And the man, the one who had been bound by chains and his own broken mind, sits at the feet of Christ, clothed, whole. And the people? They see him sane, and they are afraid. They beg Christ to leave.
Why? Because He had shattered their uneasy peace, unsettled the madness they had made their own. They had learned to live with the disorder, to walk in step with the wrongness of things. It was easier than facing the truth. And so it is now. We welcome madness, let it feed at the table, let it drink from the wells of our own making. We cradle it, raise it up, call it wisdom, call it right. The world has taken madness as its heir, the sick offspring of an age that no longer knows its own name.
We’d rather walk in the dark than let Christ strike the match. We’d rather hold tight to the chaos than let Him disturb the rhythm of our ruin. And yet, the choice is there—the same as it was on that shore, when the Garasenes saw the power of Christ and turned Him away. Will we do the same? Or will we stand, at last, in the light, no longer afraid to be made whole?