Legion

Legion was terrified. He was terrified of the next outburst of uncontrolled, demon fuelled rage. Terrified of the injuries he would wake up with, terrified of the injuries to others that he would cause. He was terrified of the isolation his problems created, terrified of the fear he saw in the eyes of others, terrified of the loneliness that lay ahead.

And right now, he could feel the terror of the demons that inhabited him. They were terrified of the one who they sensed was coming and their terror radiated through him. But worse than the terror they felt at Jesus coming was the unspeakable terror he had that he might not come. That somehow, the demons would prevent it, that he would turn away from the danger of being near him, that he would realise how unworthy he was of the risk and turn the boat around.

The storm howled out of nowhere, the sound ripping at his mind, the wind tearing at the last vestiges of sanity, the screams of the demons a backdrop to the deep-throated rhythm of the lashing rain. He saw it tear across the hillside, rushing across the lake to engulf the tiny craft that bobbed on its surface. He couldn’t see from the distance, but he could taste the fear that those poor fishermen must surely be feeling. This wasn’t a meteorological event, this was a hate filled, terror induced demonic assault of catastrophic proportions. It hit the boat, utterly swamping it. It was there and then it was gone, swallowed by the maelstrom. And as the boat disappeared, as those on board were drowned, so too were his hopes.

Silence. 

Miraculous, outrageous, unutterable, silence. 

The storm was gone, but the boat remained. And a man stood in the centre. He stood. Where no man could have stood, he stood. His arms outstretched, hugging his terrified and awestruck friends. And across the calm waves he heard laughter and for the briefest moment, something of that peace swept over him too.

Then another storm hit him. Not a physical, weather borne storm, but a demonic storm of terror and rage, pummeling his body, his soul, his spirit. And one more time, he lashed out at the stones as the chains that bound him cut deep into his flesh. Time became lost as he lashed out again and again, until he heard that same voice commanding peace. A voice that spoke a thousand words, even though it was the briefest sentence. 

“What is your name?” he asked and even as he asked, Legion knew that he knew. Knew that he knew not only his name, but all that his name meant. The horror filled past, the terrified presence, the blackness of the future. Not a theoretical knowing, but the knowledge that only comes from having experienced the same. He knew how it felt to be bound, to be feared. Knew how it felt to have your hands and feet tied, with metal and leather cutting into your skin. Knew what it was like to be in agony for your soul. Knew what it was like to have no love, to be rejected.

And so he answered, “Legion” he whispered. Jesus shook his head gently as if to say “No, that’s not who you are, you are not defined by the demons.” He tried to speak again, to plead, but the demons spoke through him as so often they had, stealing his voice to plead for themselves. "Don't send us into the abyss, let us go into the pigs." And Jesus, with a smile, commanded them to go.

With one final act of violence, they threw Legion to the ground and fled into the swine, seeking to control them as their new victim. With a howl, they discovered too late, that they couldn’t and demented by their presence, the pigs began to run chaotically around the hillside. As the mist lifted from his mind, as physical and spiritual sight returned, Legion watched as the demons that had sought to drown Jesus, rushed into the waves in the pigs and were themselves drowned.

Suddenly there was peace. He heard the friends of Jesus begin to laugh - with relief and at the irony of what they had just witnessed. He felt laughter return to his own soul and as he felt the touch of Jesus hand on his shoulder, he realised that he too was a friend. He felt Jesus touch him. Nobody had touched him with affection for as long as he could remember. He touched him, not to bind him as others had done, but to free him. Somehow the chains were off, somehow his skin was healed, somehow, there was joy in his soul.

Now there was a crowd, looking with amazement, their hesitancy broken by Jesus' calm friendship. One by one they came up to him, clapped him on the back, hugged him. And as the sun dispelled the last of the clouds, he understood that he was home. Home in his own body, home in his own mind, home in the knowledge of himself.  And Jesus, wherever he was physically, would always be with him - home.

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