My First Exorcism. Harold Ristau
war see Harold Ristau’s Understanding Martin Luther’s Demonological Rhetoric in His Treatise Against the Heavenly Prophets (1525): How What Luther Speaks Is Essential to What Luther Says.
20. Unlike the juncture between a created body and soul held within Christian anthropology, which necessitates kinds of physical means of grace to affect the spirit, the Gnostics either radically pitted the body and soul against each other or they collapsed them together: the body was either of utmost importance or maintained very little importance.
21. i.e. God’s rule through secular authorities by the law to God’s rule through His Church by His means of grace—the Gospel.
22. LSB 533.
23. AE 54:50.
24. At the same time, contracts with the devil can be broken. One Christian youngster was healed of her illness after a satanic pact was made and inscribed on a piece of paper that she carried around her neck in an amulet. After repentance, she was delivered from the demonic oppression even though her illness returned. She held no regrets. See Koch, Occult Bondage and Deliverance, 116.
25. TLH 103.
The Art of Exorcising
But Jesus rebuked him, saying, “Be silent and come out of him!” And when the demon had thrown him down in their midst, he came out of him, having done him no harm. (Luke 4:35)
My first successful exorcism occurred while I was a parish pastor in an inner city church. Several of our members struggled with special impairments to their mental faculties, reflective of the surrounding neighbourhood. A healthy church ought to be a cross-section of the local population—whatever “healthy” happens to mean.
A lady who had a long history of sexual licentiousness and substance abuse randomly looked up our church in a phonebook. Because the name of our church started with an “A,” we were naturally one of the first churches to be contacted by unchurched people looking for religious or spiritual services, whether it be funerals, weddings or, in this case, an exorcism. The individual, whom I have named “Debby,” telephoned the parish office as a final desperate cry for help before deciding to terminate her life. She was spurred on by the aggressive advice of a multitude of unceasing voices in her head diminishing her ability to think clearly and choose responsibly. However, an entirely unfamiliar voice inclined her to seek out another opinion. I asked her if she had at all dabbled in the occult. With some hesitancy, and after an awkward silent pause, she answered in the affirmative. After she was convinced to choose life, I read some Scriptures to her and spoke some prayers. She thirsted for more. This oppressed soul had never been baptized and knew very little about the Christian faith.
Debby invited me to visit her at a government housing project located in a rundown neighbourhood of the city. The following day I visited her dingy apartment. The entrance reminded me slightly of the narthex of an orthodox church by the cloud of residual smoke that welcomed me. Yet, instead of the sweet-smelling aroma of incense, I was fumigated by the pungent odour of cheap cigarettes. The whole place reeked of death, depression and sadness. The bachelor unit was tiny, but functional. It was littered with ash-trays, drug paraphernalia, junk mail and coupons extracted from trashy magazines. Debby, an unkempt and very obese woman, ensconcing a ghastly pale face and bleak and fatigued eyes, appeared somewhat ashamed of the sepulchral tone of her living conditions. At the same time, there was a complacent aura about her while, accented by a flickering hopeless sigh, she guided me through the labyrinth of fast-food wrappers and busted furniture, escorting me to a place prepared on a foldout chair in the middle of the room.
After a short discussion, it became clear to me that, although she wanted me to stay, I was not welcome—by someone, or rather, by something else. As I continued to express God’s word of forgiveness and tender compassion to her, sharing with her the Gospel story of the prodigal son and the heavenly Father’s unconditional love even for the most sinful of individuals, she displayed an increasing difficulty in gazing me in the eyes. There was a sly, malicious twinkling in her eye. It glared at me with a frankness and confidence as from one superior to suspicion. The eyes, after all, are the window of the soul. At first, I assumed that she was resisting the Good News as some new converts do when they are utterly astonished by the superabundance of God’s grace, and before they ecstatically devour the happy fact that they are accepted by a merciful Maker and are offered a new life with no further requirements on their part. Lamentably, others become fixated on their sins, and their shame prevents them from embracing the wonderful message. One task of the pastor is to decipher the difference.
Eventually Debby broke down in tears of exhilarating joy, or so I thought. Today I wonder if they were mixed with disingenuous drops of intimidation and even terror—and whether or not all of those tears were even Debby’s! I gave her a Bible and some other Christian material, offered her a fatherly embrace with promises of ongoing support and an upcoming discussion on baptismal preparation. Although she said very little, she was genuinely sad to see me go.
A few days later, I received a phone call from Debby. It was another cry for aid. However, this time, I initially thought that I was a victim of a prank call. My senses detected only a heavy breathing, followed by deep nebulous moans and groans. Yet this was no sick joke. Suddenly, Debby whimpered something. It was unrecognizable; her natural voice was repeatedly interrupted by dark unnatural noises, bordering on growls, making it extremely difficult to determine what she was saying. Seconds later, something prohibited her from talking altogether. Although she remained on the phone listening intently, she said nothing. I continued to hear only a beastly breathing in the background, a memory that will likely follow me to my grave. As I read to her God’s Word interjected by earnest supplications, the moans became more intense and defined. Finally, her own voice resurrected in a weak utterance: “help me.” She hung up the receiver with a jerk. At that moment I realized that Debby was in danger. I was well aware of what those ungodly creatures are capable of doing, or rather, persuading us to do since, after all, I have all too often entertained them in the dark recesses of my own life. “God, be merciful to me, a sinner” (Luke 18:13b). But this time, it was not about me.
I immediately gathered my briefcase containing a stole, crucifix, communion kit, and anointing oil. I also grabbed my Rites and Resources for Pastoral Care from the Australian Lutheran Church which included some invaluable liturgical resources on dealing with spiritual oppression. On route, I called a clerical colleague and left a voicemail asking him—no, begging him—to accompany me on this visit by meeting me at her address. Feeling ill-equipped and inadequate, I hoped to God that I wouldn’t have to face this disaster alone! The pastoral ministry is already marked by enough disappointment. But I was terrified of the irremediable consequences if this event followed suit. Lives were potentially at stake. Terror is an understatement. It was all horror and doom. I was a mediocre spiritual soldier, and an even less competent exorcist. My past exposure to the subject did not prepare me for this!
Yet there was profound comfort in my knowledge that a Christian’s power over the unholy trinity of sin, death and the devil is not based on the strength of his or her personal faith. Rather the victory was already founded on God’s concrete, holy and solid Word, embodied in the Christ event. We are assured in the Epistle to the Romans: “The God of peace will soon crush Satan under your feet. The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you” (Rom 16:20). We have the choice to walk the bridge between man and God—a chasm overcome by the wood of the cross—in confidence or by testing each and every step. While both get us across, one offers a more peaceful trip. But in the end, it is the bridge itself, and not our ability to walk, that preserves us. Even the spiritual hypochondriac makes it across. The size of our faith is often overvalued.
Even the alleged faith-healers must admit that their belief is publicly