The memories stick like black tar. The man stumbles desperately across the rocky soil, trying to anchor his eyes on the mountain ahead, but all he can see are the nightmares.
Two years old: the first attack. His wife woke him up in a panic. She was holding their son who writhed and thrashed in her arms. The fear was debilitating.
Six years old: by this time, the attacks were normal, as terrible as they were. So, when he saw his boy’s eyes roll back in his head, he was immediately running. And when the child slammed into the ground and rolled into the fire, the fear was overwhelmingly tainted with the flavor of despair.
Seven years old: he was playing in the sea when the demon took him under. A few fisherman rushed to him and when he came up in their hands he wasn’t breathing.
Eleven years old: it lasted longer than ever before and when it was finished, his son was bleeding profusely.
The nightmares keep coming as the father looks beside him at the boy. Nothing in this wasteland offers any hint of hope. The mountain ahead looks empty and bleak. The sun is merciless.
“I believe,” he whispers.
Ahead of them, a crowd is gathered and when they reach the people the father chokes out a name. Is he here? My son. Please. A demon. Help.
A man comes toward him and his son and suddenly the questions are incessant and the crowd oppressive. Men are arguing and a woman begins wailing. His son is sobbing softly and the father again speaks the name. Where is he? This time, the man interrogating him has no time to reply because a shout goes up from within the crowd.
A light is descending the mountain. Indeed, it has already been coming for a long while, although no one in the crowd has looked up, preoccupied as they are with theology and miracles.
But now the crowd moves closer to the mountain in wonder.
“I believe,” the man says again.
He picks up his son and pushes toward the front. He trips and falls, crashing in a heap in the dirt. But, when he looks up, he sees the radiant light and the face of compassion emerging.
Yet again, the crowd begins to murmur and the great men of the town ask great, complicated questions of the teacher.
However, the rabbi looks down and kneels in the dirt beside the man and his boy, reaching out his hand to pull them up. The son tries to rise from the dust when, suddenly, he begins to choke. The father chokes too, on hope and despair and pleas for help. Wails go up and men jump back as the demon takes the boy into the darkness.
And he hears this teacher of light speaking. All things. Believe. And he feels himself being lifted up by hands accustomed to hard work, but incredibly gentle. Have faith. And he clings to the man holding him and to his son shaking in the dust.
All things go quiet.
Hand in hand in hand.
The father whispers, “I believe. Help my unbelief.”
The eyes of the teacher blaze with love afire.
Mark 9:14-29