Читать книгу My First Exorcism - Harold Ristau - Страница 11

But Jesus rebuked him, saying, “Be silent and come out of him!” And when the demon had thrown him down in their midst, he came out of him, having done him no harm. (Luke 4:35)

My first successful exorcism occurred while I was a parish pastor in an inner city church. Several of our members struggled with special impairments to their mental faculties, reflective of the surrounding neighbourhood. A healthy church ought to be a cross-section of the local population—whatever “healthy” happens to mean.

A lady who had a long history of sexual licentiousness and substance abuse randomly looked up our church in a phonebook. Because the name of our church started with an “A,” we were naturally one of the first churches to be contacted by unchurched people looking for religious or spiritual services, whether it be funerals, weddings or, in this case, an exorcism. The individual, whom I have named “Debby,” telephoned the parish office as a final desperate cry for help before deciding to terminate her life. She was spurred on by the aggressive advice of a multitude of unceasing voices in her head diminishing her ability to think clearly and choose responsibly. However, an entirely unfamiliar voice inclined her to seek out another opinion. I asked her if she had at all dabbled in the occult. With some hesitancy, and after an awkward silent pause, she answered in the affirmative. After she was convinced to choose life, I read some Scriptures to her and spoke some prayers. She thirsted for more. This oppressed soul had never been baptized and knew very little about the Christian faith.

Debby invited me to visit her at a government housing project located in a rundown neighbourhood of the city. The following day I visited her dingy apartment. The entrance reminded me slightly of the narthex of an orthodox church by the cloud of residual smoke that welcomed me. Yet, instead of the sweet-smelling aroma of incense, I was fumigated by the pungent odour of cheap cigarettes. The whole place reeked of death, depression and sadness. The bachelor unit was tiny, but functional. It was littered with ash-trays, drug paraphernalia, junk mail and coupons extracted from trashy magazines. Debby, an unkempt and very obese woman, ensconcing a ghastly pale face and bleak and fatigued eyes, appeared somewhat ashamed of the sepulchral tone of her living conditions. At the same time, there was a complacent aura about her while, accented by a flickering hopeless sigh, she guided me through the labyrinth of fast-food wrappers and busted furniture, escorting me to a place prepared on a foldout chair in the middle of the room.

After a short discussion, it became clear to me that, although she wanted me to stay, I was not welcome—by someone, or rather, by something else. As I continued to express God’s word of forgiveness and tender compassion to her, sharing with her the Gospel story of the prodigal son and the heavenly Father’s unconditional love even for the most sinful of individuals, she displayed an increasing difficulty in gazing me in the eyes. There was a sly, malicious twinkling in her eye. It glared at me with a frankness and confidence as from one superior to suspicion. The eyes, after all, are the window of the soul. At first, I assumed that she was resisting the Good News as some new converts do when they are utterly astonished by the superabundance of God’s grace, and before they ecstatically devour the happy fact that they are accepted by a merciful Maker and are offered a new life with no further requirements on their part. Lamentably, others become fixated on their sins, and their shame prevents them from embracing the wonderful message. One task of the pastor is to decipher the difference.

Eventually Debby broke down in tears of exhilarating joy, or so I thought. Today I wonder if they were mixed with disingenuous drops of intimidation and even terror—and whether or not all of those tears were even Debby’s! I gave her a Bible and some other Christian material, offered her a fatherly embrace with promises of ongoing support and an upcoming discussion on baptismal preparation. Although she said very little, she was genuinely sad to see me go.

A few days later, I received a phone call from Debby. It was another cry for aid. However, this time, I initially thought that I was a victim of a prank call. My senses detected only a heavy breathing, followed by deep nebulous moans and groans. Yet this was no sick joke. Suddenly, Debby whimpered something. It was unrecognizable; her natural voice was repeatedly interrupted by dark unnatural noises, bordering on growls, making it extremely difficult to determine what she was saying. Seconds later, something prohibited her from talking altogether. Although she remained on the phone listening intently, she said nothing. I continued to hear only a beastly breathing in the background, a memory that will likely follow me to my grave. As I read to her God’s Word interjected by earnest supplications, the moans became more intense and defined. Finally, her own voice resurrected in a weak utterance: “help me.” She hung up the receiver with a jerk. At that moment I realized that Debby was in danger. I was well aware of what those ungodly creatures are capable of doing, or rather, persuading us to do since, after all, I have all too often entertained them in the dark recesses of my own life. “God, be merciful to me, a sinner” (Luke 18:13b). But this time, it was not about me.

I immediately gathered my briefcase containing a stole, crucifix, communion kit, and anointing oil. I also grabbed my Rites and Resources for Pastoral Care from the Australian Lutheran Church which included some invaluable liturgical resources on dealing with spiritual oppression. On route, I called a clerical colleague and left a voicemail asking him—no, begging him—to accompany me on this visit by meeting me at her address. Feeling ill-equipped and inadequate, I hoped to God that I wouldn’t have to face this disaster alone! The pastoral ministry is already marked by enough disappointment. But I was terrified of the irremediable consequences if this event followed suit. Lives were potentially at stake. Terror is an understatement. It was all horror and doom. I was a mediocre spiritual soldier, and an even less competent exorcist. My past exposure to the subject did not prepare me for this!

Yet there was profound comfort in my knowledge that a Christian’s power over the unholy trinity of sin, death and the devil is not based on the strength of his or her personal faith. Rather the victory was already founded on God’s concrete, holy and solid Word, embodied in the Christ event. We are assured in the Epistle to the Romans: “The God of peace will soon crush Satan under your feet. The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you” (Rom 16:20). We have the choice to walk the bridge between man and God—a chasm overcome by the wood of the cross—in confidence or by testing each and every step. While both get us across, one offers a more peaceful trip. But in the end, it is the bridge itself, and not our ability to walk, that preserves us. Even the spiritual hypochondriac makes it across. The size of our faith is often overvalued.

Even the alleged faith-healers must admit that their belief is publicly exposed as smaller than a mustard seed, since they have yet to move a mountain or even heal their own flu bugs for that matter. “Physician, heal yourself!” After all, the wages of sin is death, and we all die—even the showmen. At the same time, some of them are legitimate, which is why one must be careful judging a faith by its fruits (Matt 7:15–20). Even the unfaithful cast out demons in Jesus’ name (Matt 7:22). Besides, the juiciest fruits are nourishing Christian doctrines. Televangelist Oral Roberts’ instruction that viewers seeking a quick cure to their illness place a cup of water on the television box and drink it afterwards is more in tune with mediumistic healing than anything Biblical.26 Just because something works doesn’t mean that it is good. Christian evangelists may not even be aware that they are instruments of the devil. The Anti-Christ of the Apocalypse is a pretend Christian and his servants perform legitimate miracles (Rev 16:14). Demoniacs frequently possess unusual, even superhuman, strength (Mark 5:3). Clearly the devil is able to cause healing and injury and not just mimic them. The magicians competing with Moses did not just perform alleged tricks (Ex 7–8). There are even rumours of the devil raising the dead—temporarily. One Christian missionary records a famous Shaman of an Inuit tribe who was able to raise the heathen from the dead, although he lost this power after his conversion to Christianity.27 Modern magicians claim these abilities as well. If they are real, it is certainly due to occult influence. Those who experience such healings are sure to endure enormous burdens as well.28 In 2013, the well-known magician, Criss Angel, publicized a controversial magic trick which entailed attaching a corpse to a breathing apparatus which apparently resuscitated the deceased. He simultaneously placed a volunteer in a hypnotic state who then communicated with the dead. It was a compelling video. Youtube wouldn’t lie—would it?

Without any callous intention to crush hopes, it needs to be stated that there is not much value in the power of one’s faith in one’s faith. I, on the other hand, was well aware that this fight belonged to Christ and that a positive outcome was already assured—eventually. I was simply a humble instrument in its achievement. Intellectually I was convinced. But the heart often contradicts the mind. “Is God’s Word really that efficacious?” I mused, astonished by my own doubts. I was, after all, an ordained minister of God’s Church. A higher standard was expected.

Yet from there on, a dreadful downward spiral of disbelief was ignited and with what unmerciful truculence it burned. Scripture passages began popping into my head. But they were all accusatory ones, with the effect of casting doubt upon my ability to carry out my vocational responsibilities. The most troubling was that puzzling text about the disciples unable to cast out some species of demons because they had not prayed or fasted enough, recorded in the seventeenth chapter of St. Matthew’s Gospel. I had been praying non-stop. But I had also just had lunch. Was I disqualified? I suppose fasting is a method of reminding oneself of one’s weaknesses; that Christian piety is not a celebration of one’s inherent strength or spiritual achievements, but an unceasing confession that we are simply empty broken vessels which God chooses to use regardless. We are not friendlier, happier or stronger when we are hungry. Fasting exposes our true nature, demonstrating not our capabilities, but our incapabilities. Because we ate of the fruit in the Garden, Jesus fasts for forty days in the wilderness. He achieves a unique victory by Himself when all of humankind sits in defeat. The solitude and asceticism of fasting does not reveal our virtues. It is not an invitation to look inside of ourselves for spiritual assistance.29 Rather, it unmasks our sinfulness. Praise God for this, for Christ came not for the righteous, but for sinners. In any case I still regretted eating lunch, for a more practical reason: I felt that it might just make its way up again.

Another unnerving doubt crept into the compromised lucidity of my racing thoughts. I was harassed by the Biblical account of people trying to cast out demons in Jesus’ name but failing. The evil spirit retorted with, “Jesus I know, and Paul I recognize, but who are you?” (Acts 19:15) before he pounced on those disciples and beat them up so terribly that they tore out of the house naked and bleeding. What if the same happened to me? Or what about demonic transference—when the demon targets a victim in close proximity to the possessed?30 This was definitely not what I had signed up for when I consented to become a pastor. Didn’t the Holy Spirit and I have some kind of agreement? What about employee rights? Funeral requests from Masonic Lodge members I could handle, wedding requests by fornicating lovers I could deal with, emotionally-charged church council meetings I could survive, but this? This was totally absurd. Let’s be sensible. Maybe I could turn around and refer it to some else. Why hadn’t my faithful pastor friend, who assured me that “we are a team,” ever called me back? I resented him, blamed him, and even—with a little help from the devil—hated him. I wasn’t ready. Is humility still a virtue? Was this even humility or was it pride? There is, after all, a fine line between arrogance and self-confidence. Exorcism can be dangerous and humiliating. For this reason, humility is of paramount importance for exorcists. Saint Teresa explained how, when an exorcist abhors everything about oneself and clings only to the cross, the devil is deprived of all of his weapons. Otherwise, we allow the demons to fight against us with our own tools; handing over to them what we need for our defense.31 Anyways, besides my lack of piety, the book said that these sorts of matters were supposed to be handled by a bishop or ecclesiastical supervisor. “Perhaps I should turn around and call him right now!” My mind was plagued with all sorts of doubts, subtle forces dissuading me from completing the quest. In a hyperventilating state of panic and speechlessness, the Jesus Prayer, mumbled from my failing lips: “Lord, have mercy on me.” When we hit rock bottom, tormented by doubt, and have nothing else to offer, the Holy Spirit intercedes. No wonder our prayers sound like His. In fact, in those scattered yet prized moments of life, we realize that we never have anything to offer. The best prayers are Scriptures “prayed back” to God, so to speak.

I parked the car. I rang the bell. Debby opened the door without vocalizing a word, her haggard head hanging low, swiftly turning away while knocking over a chair in the process and partially tripping over it on her way back to her place. There she sat, in silence, head down, eyes low, groaning and moaning. Although I kept my eyes open and fixed on her, I prayed inside. I recited hymn stanzas in my heart, such as Jesus, Priceless Treasure:

In Thine arms I rest me;Foes who would molest me Cannot reach me here.Though the earth be shaking,Every heart be quaking,Jesus calms my fear.Lightnings flash

And thunders crash;Yet, though sin and hell assail me,Jesus will not fail me.32

I kissed my stole. I placed it around my neck. I hung my crucifix in plain sight of whatever was lurking in that smoky room of blighted hopes. I began timidly, “In the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.” Ideally a private confession followed by holy absolution precedes the rite. In this case, there was no point. Debby was not all there. This was the devil’s jurisdiction, and he knew it. Like a beast before it pounces upon its prey lays still and surreptitious, yet ready and conscientious, the demon did not appear perturbed by my presence. Even though I prayed to be filled with courage in fighting this dragon laying waste to God’s vineyard and that he, instead of me, would be struck with terror, this reprobate beast seemed to burst with a raging glee—without any observable motion. It was in control, and did not appear at all alarmed or deterred by me. With a mixture of scornful indignation tempered by a cool appreciation that a Christian was present, the demon appeared unshaken—until I started to speak some more, and with confidence.

As I professed the Apostles’ Creed and spoke the Lord’s Prayer, her head was raised a tad, and the moans changed their pitch. After all, the Our Father is the paragon of prayers, and the Creeds are, predominantly, an explanation of the name of our Trinitarian Lord. Debby’s head began waving from side to side in an apparent effort to avoid the sound of my voice while expressing its disapproval. The tables had turned. I read aloud various texts from the Holy Scriptures concerning Jesus and the apostles casting out demons. The bodily thrusts intensified with more exaggerated jerks of her head. Indiscernible words were lazily offered by a beastly tongue. At first they sounded annoyed. Then, mad. Without warning, a series of embittered low-pitched voices ejaculated short phrases of anguish such as “No,” “Go away,” “Shut up,” and “Leave me alone.” Yet they no longer conveyed a threatening tone. Instead, they were pathetic cries, like a whiney kid in the playground who is irritated that he hadn’t gotten his way. An eerily hostile feeling of a contentious and inimical nimbus penetrated the relatively stable ambiance when I finally built up the courage to speak directly to the dreadful thing. Reading from my book I stated sternly: “Depart from Debby, you unclean spirit, and make way for the Holy Spirit, in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.” The entity became angry. It was fierce, militant. A glass of juice was whipped at me. I continued with vehemence, “In the name of the Lord Jesus, I command you to leave Debby.” For the first time, the boisterous thing looked up at me and stared me straight in the eyes. It was the same empty dark eyes that I had witnessed in the other demoniac, Lisa, 12 years earlier. It was all hate. I preferred to circumvent any further eye contact. In the months that followed, I would dread those rare, but unforgettable glances by those penetrating and bewitching eyes. I emphatically repeated the rebuke in the name of the Holy One. She pushed at me and began throwing arbitrary items across the room, screeching clamorously. This went on for a while.