The Demon Is Done

This sermon was written for my sister Lynne and her family following her twin daughter Brooke's death of a drug overdose. The sermon wasn't preached anywhere, but the tragedy demanded a word. And it's what I do. Thanks to Lynne for her gracious permission to share it here. (If you're reading it, say a prayer of thanks for Brooke and bid God comfort her family.)

Mark 7:24-30

[Jesus] set out and went away to the region of Tyre. He entered a house and did not want anyone to know he was there. Yet he could not escape notice, but a woman whose little daughter had an unclean spirit immediately heard about him, and she came and bowed down at his feet. Now the woman was a Gentile, of Syrophoenician origin. She begged him to cast the demon out of her daughter. He said to her, “Let the children be fed first, for it is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.” But she answered him, “Sir, even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.” Then he said to her, “For saying that, you may go — the demon has left your daughter.” So she went home, found the child lying on the bed, and the demon gone.

What an amazing woman this feisty mother was. She knew she had no business with someone like Jesus. No first century female in her right mind would approach a man and speak to him, much less make demands of him. But what else was she to do? Her daughter was in a bad way, possessed by a power bigger than the girl was. The whole situation was out of control, and life no longer worked. She’d heard of this Jewish teacher from Galilee and, though her religion and his had clashed for a long, long time, if her daughter was going to survive she was going to have to screw her courage to the sticking place and risk getting in Jesus’ face.

And this Jesus was just as determined. He’d been hounded by the crowds demanding divine power from him and by religious leaders trying to trap him into betraying their laws. He just needed a break. This business of being the Son of God and the long-awaited king of the Jews was draining. What’s a messiah to do when he’s tired but get away for a little recharging time? He’d set his face to a comfy memory foam mattress in an upstairs bedroom of this house and a good, long nap.

The Syrophoenician woman wouldn’t let it happen. Her daughter was too important for that. She barged right into a stranger’s house, stood in front of him and said, “Please free my daughter from the demon that controls her.” It had to have been a shock to Jesus. Not only had he set his sights on that bed, he was also determined to save his fellow Jews. This woman and her plea were getting in the way of both goals. So Jesus’ first response was to dismiss her as intruding on his mission. He basically said, “What I’ve got is pretty significant stuff. It’s for the Jews, not people like you who’ve never done things the way the Jews say religion needs to be done.”

Ah, but there was that daughter back home, trapped by a demon and as good as dead. The woman had heard of Jesus’ dealings with demons and diseases. He’d been doling out divine favor right and left. He’d been extravagant with his largesse. It wasn’t just the holy rollers who got something from him. It was the outcasts, lepers, and out-and-out sinners. This mother was so desperate that she was willing to take even the smallest portion of what Jesus had. A wink of an eye, maybe. A flick of his little finger. A crumb from the banquet he’d served up to the Jews. When a possessed daughter is at stake, a mother can’t take no for an answer.

On this day, when there are so few answers, such great tragedy, and so little hope, this desperate woman from the wrong side of the tracks shows us exactly what to do. There’s a daughter who’s a stake today. She’s been possessed by a power bigger than she was. Brooke’s situation was so out of control that she’s even beyond where the woman’s daughter in the story was. Here we are facing the hard, cold fact that Brooke has died at a demon’s hands – hands with a capital H. There’s nowhere we can look to turn back time, to rescue her, or to fix this ultimate brokenness. We’ve heard that Jesus has power to fix things. Isn’t that what we learned in Sunday school? Oh, I know there have been prayers lifted up for Brooke these past years, and this funeral is the answer we get? Today it seems like Jesus has secluded himself in some inaccessible place. What’s a mom and dad, a sister and brother, and a passel of mourners to do?

The only thing to do is get right into Jesus’ face, eyeball to eyeball, and remind him what he came to do, and beg him for the crumbs. Isn’t freedom from addiction for one twenty-something twin a tiny thing in the vast scope of the cosmos and the salvation of humanity? The only thing to do is to step into the divine house, hold out a hand, and say, “Please, Jesus, give me something. I can’t stand this hopelessness. I can’t live in a world empty of Brooke. I can’t move forward.” If Jesus gave that Syrophoenician mother a crumb of the grand table of God’s power by releasing her daughter from a demon, then Jesus replies to our fresh mouths and incessant begging by giving us that – and more.

The first thing he gives us is a certain end to Brooke’s demons. There’s not a single drug that can threaten her ever again. She’s been released as fully as that uppity mother’s girl was. The first thing most of us ever knew about Brooke’s death was Alyssa’s post on Facebook: “RIP my beautiful twin sister. I love you.” So many others have also said RIP, rest in peace. There’s no place more peaceful than where the dead lie. Lynne has made sure her hair was done right. Such a small last thing from a mother’s big heart, such an act of love and readying Brooke to lie peacefully.

Of course, we hear Jesus say he’s giving Brooke peace, but our reply has to be, “That’s not enough. You gave that Syrophoenician daughter her life back. Pony up, dude.” To which our Lord says, “And what was that life she got? I’ve given Brooke something more. Did I not promise that with the water and the word? Did I not say I will be with you always? And like the highway between Lebanon and Gettysburg, that road goes both ways: You, Brooke, will be with me where I am.”

What that desperate mother taught Jesus is that the scope of his mission was far too narrow. He had to set his sights on everyone hounded by demons, from first century Palestine to twenty-first century PA. That gutsy woman wouldn’t quit until she had wrung a yes out of Jesus’ no, until she forced him to give life where there was only death and despair. She broke Jesus open when she begged for crumbs. She pulled him so far from his original path that he wound up descending to the dead to grab them and raise them up with him — our dear Brooke included.

If Brooke’s now safely held in Jesus’ risen hand, that leaves one more place where Jesus has to cast out demons. It’s here today where we face the gnawing demon of grief. Oh, it’s an empty, gaping maw where Brooke belongs. The waves of sorrow feel more like a tsunami, drowning us again and again.  So I make my impudent plea that he would free you from grief. Not freedom from memories, for those are a gift to anyone who knew Brooke. But freedom from having to bear this load day after day. And to a begging uncle and preacher, Jesus responds, “I’m already making it happen. I’ve got those broken hearts in hand. Look at all these people who loved Brooke gathered today to hold hands, to cling together, to love and care for each other even as Brooke loved them. Didn’t I promise I would be there in your midst?”

Our plea for hope and help is itself a sign of his presence. The power of heroin has met its match in Christ’s own eternal power. The grave has become not a bitter end but a gate to new life. Brooke already has it. Jesus already has said, “You may go. The demon has left your daughter.” And now today he says to you, “Go and live, rejoicing in who Brooke has been and anticipating a day when I also whisper a getting-up word to you: ‘Psst. Time to rise. She’s been waiting for you. That empty Brooke-sized hole in you is about to be filled. Let’s go.” Amen.