Gerasene

We meet in the back room

of the synagogue.

Not the main hall,

too clean.

Too many eyes.

Here it’s dim,

fold-out chairs in a circle,

figs and flatbread in the corner.

No wine, just water.

No titles.

No robes.

No one pretending.

We go round—

name,

story,

silence.

Some are addicted to power,

others to bitterness,

one guy keeps dreaming

of the blood on his hands

from a war he can’t explain.

When it gets to me,

I take a breath,

feel my wrists,

and speak.

"My name’s Simeon.

And I used to live among the tombs."

There’s a pause.

No one flinches.

They’ve heard worse.

Hell, some of them are worse.

"I was the naked guy.

The one who howled at the moon.

Cut myself with stones.

Slept with bones.

Used to scream at the farmers' kids

until they stopped coming near.

They tried to chain me—

and I broke the chains.

But I couldn’t break the silence inside.

The voices were many.

And they hated me.

Called me Legion.

Made me believe I was unlovable.

Unreachable.

Unhealable."

Someone coughs.

Another nods.

"Then…

he came.

The rabbi from Nazareth.

The penniless preacher

proclaiming

the reign of God.

He crossed a storm to get to me.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t run.

Didn’t cast stones.

Just asked my name.

Spoke like he knew me

from before the pain,

before the torment,

before the split."

I look down.

My hands are shaking.

I keep going.

"They went into pigs,

the voices.

Ran off cliffs.

I stayed.

For the first time—

I stayed.

Clothed.

In my right mind.

Held.

Whole.

Holy.

And I wanted to go with him,

be his disciple,

sit at his feet,

but he told me to go home.

Tell my people.

Show them what mercy looks like

in human skin."

There’s a silence,

and then someone says:

"Thank you, Simeon."

Another adds:

"I never knew it was you.

I used to be scared of you."

I smile.

"Me too."

We break bread.

We weep.

We laugh a bit.

We pray for one another

like it matters.

Because it does.

And when we leave,

we leave limping

but loved.

Each of us

a little less chained

than when we walked in.

- Rev’d Jon Swales