Of Demons and Pigs

This Sunday's Gospel reading was Luke, chapter 8, verses 26-39. As a refresher, this is the one where Jesus  meets the man who is possessed by demons, who beg Jesus for mercy (not to torment them; to not send them into the abyss). Jesus agrees to let the demons go into a herd of pigs, and when they do, the pigs all run off a steep hill into the lake and drown. The townspeople get freaked out and ask Jesus to leave.

The priest's sermon on this talked about the different kinds of demons, and how we all have them; internal and external demons. As he talked about the internal demons, how they can cause you to speak with a voice that is not your own (as they did in the reading, answering Jesus's questions), I couldn't help but remember The Bloggess's admonition: depression lies (probably at least in part because whenever I think of depression, I think of her wonderful mantra). I had never thought of the lies being in the form of things you say that aren't you - that the lies depression tells aren't  just  "you're not good enough" or whatever version of that you hear, but that it steals your own voice to tell others lies, too.

I love it that this particular priest quotes long-dead saints. Today he quoted (among another) Athanasius as saying (I paraphrase) that demons have no power, even over swine. That goes very well with the Islamic image of the devil as the Whisperer, unable to enact real evil, but who plants evil thoughts in our heads. The Islamic concept of the devil is one I really appreciate. It's much more relatable than the large, evil beast of Hell: We all hear evil whispers now and again.

And that goes right into the next point that this priest made that I loved: That Evil has no real home in God's universe. The demon(s) begged Jesus not be to sent back to the abyss, the void. Any home Evil finds is only a false home - one from which it can be expelled.

So, I have more weapons to add to my arsenal.
Depression lies.
Demons don't belong here.
Demons have no power here (so long as I remember not to give them any).

My Dream Is Not A Poem

We were on a barge in the bay on a gray day.

I looked out at the deck of the barge, through the window in the cabin, and sipped my tea.

My son was reading a book on the wrap-around white leather sofa, the sun breaking through the clouds.

A lion got up on the sofa and laid with his head in his lap. My daughter came in (out?) and sat next to my son at a right-angle to him, where the sofa turned a corner. She had my son's Ginger kitty on her lap.

Ginger and the lion shared a slow blink, and a female Cardinal landed on the lion. Her mate wasn't far away.

And they just sat.

For the record, I know that what I saw in my dream was a yacht, not a barge. I don't think barges come with the leather package, or go out in the sea, for that matter (but maybe they do?). But the word my head used in the dream was "barge," hence it was a luxury barge we were on. On the seas. In my dream.

My Dream Is a Poem

Saturday morning, I woke up and said most of this to my son, who woke me up. I was thinking it needed to be drawings or paintings, but then I thought about all those stripes and oddly-shaped legs and got discouraged.

The Zebras were doing Yoga
Their matching stripes in matching poses
With matching pink Yoga mats
In the down-dog position

There was a singular Hippopotamus
Taking a deep-water aerobics class
From an absent instructor
Madly waving her Styrofoam dumb-bells

The snakes were practicing gymnastics
Threading themselves through the rings
Hanging out on the un-parallel bars
Springing from the trampoline

There were Leopards on the indoor track
and Sharks spinning in the bicycle room
The Dogs didn't show up,
The lazy things