The Exorcist's Bestiary

“I need you to do this without me in their garden. I need their view of me to stay intact and not be warped.” My heart raced as the Holy Spirit seemed to sleeptalk these instructions to me out of my participant during our session.

They then woke up and looked at me, confused. “Did I fall asleep?”

“Uh… sort of?” I stuttered. “You know how I usually have you meet with Jesus in that garden in your dreamscape? Can I have you return there for a moment to test something?”

They closed their eyes and tried to return, and then almost threw up. The message was loud and clear. Though Jesus was obviously not gone whatsoever, we were going to have to work through the trauma while feeling an absence of him in their dreamscape. The participant knew God was still with them as they could feel and sense his presence in many ways. But for whatever reason, our usual dreamscape method of exorcism completely shut down. (I’ve seen this happen to others, too, when they’ve had to face significant trauma.)

I’ve puzzled over this moment a lot over the last two years. What followed the termination of the dreamscape technique was pure chaos. The demons raged. The pain was intense. It felt like Hell. But my participant’s good and loving understanding of God would generally “stay intact and not be warped” as I tried to be God’s visible hands and feet for them.

But may I suggest that the reason our omnipresent God sometimes feels more absent is because the pain we’re experiencing is so counter to who he is that he must fake his absence. As odd as it sounds, I wonder if it is sometimes better to experience great pain and feel like God is not there than to experience great pain and feel like God is right next to us, not doing anything to help. Indeed, many people have left Christianity over this latter impression.

Is it possible that our correct theology of omnipresence damages our psyche in such moments and that God almost prefers an emotional response to an orthodox one? Isn’t the emotional response the one Jesus chose on the cross, crying out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” In a time when Jesus could have chosen to model orthodox thinking, God-in-flesh allowed some of his last words to communicate a deep lament on the absence of God. This is the same kind of absence Job feels in his pain. This is the same kind of absence the woman feels for her lover in the Song of Songs. This is the same kind of absence the authors of Psalm 88 felt. This is the same kind of absence that rape victims feel in the Bible, for as Leah Rediger Schulte’s shows in her book, The Absence of God in Biblical Rape Narratives, 

The deity is absent in divine name, speech, or deed in Judges 19, 2 Samuel 13, and Genesis 34. The absences are an intentional part of the text, since the deity appears in the chapters immediately surrounding the rape chapters in each book. (141)

Of course, God’s absence is a theological paradox. It’s not that he’s not with us in these incredibly dark moments. I think it’s partially that these dark moments are so counter to who God is that we find a sense of absence to be helpful in processing them.

But even in the deep absence, he’s there. For example, when my participant was most desperate during their season of no dreamscaping, God showed up in the most miraculous way, reminding them that they were not alone at all. Though he did not speak as constantly as desired in that season, he occasionally spoke powerfully to bolster them and inspire them forward.

I’ve often reflected on these words to help me remember that God is good even when he seems far away during great difficulty. He sees it all, and he’s always there, even when he feels absently present.