Chaos, Christ, and Clarity: Rethinking Spiritual Warfare in an Age of Confusion

Part I

There is no escaping spiritual warfare in the authentic journey of following Jesus. Any honest reading of Scripture, the testimonies of saints through history, and careful pastoral experience confirms the presence and activity of malevolent spiritual powers. Yet in our contemporary moment, confusion around spiritual warfare runs rampant. Popular church culture frequently trivializes, sensationalizes, or entirely misrepresents these matters, with serious consequences for the spiritual and psychological well-being of believers.

Too often, those who stand in positions of influence have been shaped less by rigorous theological reflection and more by trends, slogans, and shallow teaching. Such leaders, lacking depth of formation, presume to speak authoritatively about spiritual warfare. Yet their so-called authority is misplaced, misguided, and at times dangerous. Their assertions rarely stand up under close scriptural and theological scrutiny, and their exegetical errors compound confusion rather than bringing clarity. These interpretive fallacies that are laced with simplistic explanations, selective proof-texting, and sensationalized depictions, are themselves "legion," proliferating rapidly and damaging genuine spiritual discernment.

Precisely because spiritual warfare is real, not imagined, its implications for our lives must be engaged with careful, disciplined theological rigor and psychological wisdom. Simplistic declarations do not serve well; what we desperately need is a nuanced and truthful exploration of the biblical narratives, theologically grounded and integrated with insights from psychological well-being, mental health, and trauma-informed care. If spiritual warfare is truly to be understood, it must first be rescued from those who handle it irresponsibly.

Against this backdrop, we turn carefully and deliberately to Mark’s Gospel, chapter 5. Here we find an extraordinary encounter that vividly portrays the reality and complexities of spiritual warfare in the lived experience of one tormented individual. In these first five verses, Mark invites us to witness firsthand the severity and human cost of spiritual affliction, and prepares us to discover, through careful reflection, the redemptive authority uniquely embodied in Christ.

We begin this narrative exactly where Mark positions us: in the unsettling aftermath of a terrifying storm on the Sea of Galilee. Mark carefully tells us that the storm erupted suddenly, violently enough that experienced fishermen, who knew these waters intimately, feared for their lives (Mark 4:37–38). Jesus, however, lay asleep on a cushion in the stern. The storm could not rouse him, yet the panicked cries of those he loved immediately awakened him to action.

It's essential to grasp that when Jesus announced, "Let us go over to the other side," he was giving more than mere instructions. He was declaring intent. To reach the opposite shore was to cross boundaries, not just physical but spiritual, symbolic, and cosmic. The fierce storm wasn't simply a natural occurrence; it was marked by what Mark refers to as "contrary winds" (Mark 4:39), a phrase suggesting forces of chaos and resistance, anti-Christ powers at work behind natural phenomena. Michael Heiser accurately observes, "The jurisdictional authority of these sons of God has been nullified by the resurrection and ascension of Christ"^[i]. What we witness here, before that ultimate victory, is the fierce attempt by these chaotic powers to resist Christ’s advance. Yet with authoritative simplicity, Jesus rebukes the winds as if silencing an enemy voice: essentially commanding, "Shut up!" To the chaotic sea, he speaks the language of divine peace: "Shalom!" And instantly, everything becomes calm.

Jean Danielou highlights this dynamic vividly when he notes that in these encounters as they are revealed in the Sacred Text:

“…natural and historical disasters are depicted in parallel—on one hand the trembling mountains, the overflowing water, “the depths…roar aloud”; on the other, “the nations adread.” The Lord’s triumphal worldwide progress subjugates empires and elements alike: the former aspect is presented under the image of an army on the march; the latter, as the breaking of a storm.”^[ii]

Jean Danielou’s observation highlights something critical for us as followers of Jesus: chaos is never simply chaos. Natural upheavals—storms, earthquakes, floods—run parallel to the unrest we see in societies and nations. Both realms become battlegrounds where forces opposed to God's intent resist the steady march of divine purpose. This insight helps us make sense of the fierce storm on the Sea of Galilee. The winds and waves were not neutral; they were manifestations of deeper spiritual opposition, a visible confrontation with powers seeking to hinder Christ's determined crossing to "the other side."

This matters greatly because it reminds us that resistance and struggle aren't accidental in our own journey either. When we commit ourselves to move toward the purposes of God, we often experience turbulence, opposition, and unexpected difficulty. Relationships become strained, anxieties rise, and sometimes our most careful plans seem threatened by chaos. Danielou invites us to see this clearly: such disruptions are evidence of spiritual resistance against the forward movement of God’s redemptive purposes.

Yet Danielou also emphasizes the Lord’s "triumphal worldwide progress," which subdues all such opposing powers. For Mark’s readers, this is precisely what is unfolding. Christ confronts these chaotic elements head-on, demonstrating authority over them, silencing them decisively with a single word of command. The storm itself, then, is neither ultimate nor decisive. It merely reveals the kind of opposition we must expect—and more importantly, the kind of victory Christ intends to achieve.

Danielou emphasizes something essential for us to grasp about Jesus' deliberate movement toward the other side of the Sea of Galilee: "A missionary’s life is apt to involve risks. No considerations of physical safety may ever deter him from his evangelistic duty…They have, however, a quiet conviction of being in the hands of God, so that nothing whatsoever can befall them but by his permissive will".^[iii] This describes precisely the posture of Christ in Mark’s narrative. Jesus sleeps through a violent storm, utterly at peace, not due to a lack of awareness, but because he lives entirely aware of being in his Father's care. The storm itself does not awaken him; only the desperate cry of those he deeply loves stirs him into immediate action.

Jean Danielou warns us that genuine mission is always more than it appears on the surface. He states clearly: "the third kind of peril that an apostle has to face is the most formidable of all,” precisely because it involves confrontation with realities far beyond human strength or visible opposition. The missionary’s struggle, Danielou emphasizes, “for his combat is not only with flesh and blood, but with the powers of darkness and disincarnate forces of evil”. Danielou’s point is deeply important for us to grasp, when Jesus intentionally crosses the Sea of Galilee, he is not simply traveling geographically; he is deliberately advancing into territory occupied by unseen forces hostile to God’s redemptive intent. Danielou underscores this further by clarifying that the real aim of the one who is sent: “is the conversion of souls; he operates in the darkness where his quarry lies captive"^[iv].

This darkness isn’t merely metaphorical. Danielou is telling us explicitly that spiritual darkness involves actual oppression, human souls bound by malevolent spiritual powers, entrapped by despair, confusion, and torment. This describes precisely what Jesus is moving toward. The sudden violence of the storm Jesus encountered was no coincidence, nor was it merely a natural disturbance. It revealed a deliberate effort by spiritual opposition, what Danielou vividly describes as "the hostility of princes," referring to powerful spiritual forces. Yet Danielou sharpens this reality even further, pointing to a deeper opposition that Jesus faced: worse than all…the enmity of him whom the Scripture calls 'the prince of this world'"^[v].

Here Danielou identifies the ultimate source of resistance: the direct hostility of Satan himself. What this means for us as readers of Mark’s Gospel is clear and powerful. The fierce storm on the Sea of Galilee wasn’t simply a moment of weather-related crisis; it represented a direct, hostile attempt by the enemy to stop Christ’s purposeful advance. Jesus is stepping directly into a spiritual battlefield, prepared to face head-on the forces that bind and torment human lives.

It is crucial that we recognize this. To follow Christ, to participate in his mission, is to face similar resistance and opposition. Danielou reminds us of how deeply aware the missionary must be: "He is perfectly aware of the ghastly danger of his enterprise, knowing full well that the Enemy will exert his power to the utmost to hinder and frustrate the spread of the Gospel"^[vi]. Such realities are not fanciful or distant; they are immediate and personal. We must remain alert, knowing that opposition often confirms that we are aligned with Christ’s intent. But Danielou’s assurance offers courage and clarity: "Consequently, he is never afraid, let the powers of darkness do their worst; for he knows he is in God’s hands, and that Christ has conquered them all beforehand in his passion and in his rising again"^[vii].

This insight should not simply intrigue us; it should decidedly sober us. Following Jesus means recognizing that resistance, confusion, and disruption are inevitable parts of a mission whose ultimate aim is liberation. Whenever the Kingdom of God moves forward in our lives or communities, spiritual opposition inevitably arises. But Danielou’s words also offer reassurance: Christ’s decisive action reveals that the powers of darkness, though real and formidable, are ultimately limited and subject to his sovereign authority. Just as the storm was silenced, so too will the chaos that awaits on the other side yield to Christ’s commanding presence.

It's worth pausing here to reflect personally and pastorally. How often do we, like the disciples, experience chaos that seems overwhelming, even terrifying? How often do we feel the destabilizing push and pull of powers that are contrary to Christ’s redemptive intent for our lives? We can be seasoned in the life of faith and still feel fear grip us suddenly and intensely. Perhaps we also wonder, in our honest humanity, if the One we trust most deeply is somehow asleep or inattentive to our plight. Anthony Bloom invites us into the scene vividly, helping us understand the disciples' inner experience with remarkable clarity. He writes:

"Christ asleep in the boat and the storm raging around. At first the apostles work hard and hopefully in order to survive. Then at a certain moment they lose heart, and the storm that outside came inside—the storm is within them too. Anguish, death no longer simply circle round, they come inside. And then they turn to Christ and do what we very often do with God: we look at God in time of stress and tragedy, and we are indignant that He is so peaceful. The story in the Gospel underlines it by saying that Christ was sleeping with His head on a pillow—the final insult."^[viii]

Bloom’s observation is deeply perceptive. We recognize this pattern in ourselves as well. Initially, when we encounter trouble or chaos, we react with all our strength, doing everything we can to manage and endure. Yet, there often comes a critical moment when the external chaos crosses the boundary into our hearts, shaking our trust and filling us with panic. We suddenly find ourselves wrestling not just with external circumstances, but also with internal fears. The kind of fears that threaten to overwhelm our faith.

Bloom speaks candidly about our reaction toward God in those moments. Like the disciples, we look toward God and grow frustrated that He seems so calm, so unmoved by our circumstances. Christ, asleep on a cushion, symbolizes the apparent disconnect we feel between our anxiety and God's tranquility. Yet, the Gospel story, and Bloom’s reflection upon it, reveals something important: it is precisely this gap, between Christ's peace and our turmoil, that exposes how deeply we need to rediscover our trust in Him.

What the disciples perceive as indifference, Jesus calmly sleeping, is, in reality, absolute confidence in His Father's purpose and care. This same confidence, Bloom suggests, is available to us. Christ remains at rest until the disciples, overcome by fear and panic, finally cry out authentically. Only then does He rise and swiftly act.

Perhaps it is this authentic cry, an honest admission of our desperate need, that God lovingly awaits. This is precisely not because He is unaware or indifferent, but because He knows how vital it is for us to face honestly the storm within. Christ’s stillness in the boat is not a refusal to engage; it’s a call for us to discover again the depth and reliability of His presence, even amid our fiercest trials.

Yet notice their reaction once Jesus stills the storm. They were initially terrified by the threat of drowning, but after witnessing Christ's command over chaos itself, Mark tells us they were even more fearful: "What manner of man is this…?" (Mark 4:41). Suddenly, they encounter the numinous; God himself present, cloaked mysteriously in human flesh. This is no ordinary man, not merely Mary's boy; he is the very Lord of creation, present among them in ways they did not anticipate.

And so it is that Mark transitions immediately from this encounter with chaos at sea to an even more vivid confrontation of chaos embodied in human form. As soon as the boat lands on Gentile territory, we enter a scene marked by torment, death, and demonic devastation:

Mark 5 They came to the other side of the lake, to the country of the Gerasenes. 2 And when he had stepped out of the boat, immediately a man out of the tombs with an unclean spirit met him. 3 He lived among the tombs; and no one could restrain him anymore, even with a chain; 4 for he had often been restrained with shackles and chains, but the chains he wrenched apart, and the shackles he broke in pieces; and no one had the strength to subdue him. 5 Night and day among the tombs and on the mountains he was always howling and bruising himself with stones.

Following Jesus' astonishing control over the chaotic forces of wind and water, Mark leads us into an encounter that intensifies what we have already seen. R.T. France notes that in this episode, we encounter Jesus' "equally remarkable control over the untamable force of a man possessed not just by one demon but by a whole army of them."^[ix] France continues, "Mark’s most spectacular exorcism narrative"^[x] unfolds now in Gentile territory, vividly portraying the tragic and severe condition of this man who is under siege by demonic powers.

Mark emphasizes this man's desperate plight, the vivid depiction of his torment, and the haunting reality of multiple demonic possession ("Legion"), all highlighting the seriousness of what Jesus will confront. The setting is the region of the Gerasenes, the eastern shore of the Sea of Galilee, marked explicitly as Gentile territory by the presence of pigs, animals deemed unclean by Jewish law. A.T. Robertson helps clarify this scene: the region around "the ruins of the village Khersa (Gerasa)" provides a fitting geographical context, where steep cliffs overlook the shoreline, offering vivid imagery for the subsequent narrative events. Immediately upon Jesus stepping out of the boat, "the demoniac greeted Jesus at once," dramatically highlighting the immediacy of spiritual conflict.^[xi]

Mark vividly portrays the intensity of the demoniac’s suffering and alienation. "No man could any more bind him, no, not with a chain," Robertson translates, highlighting that the demoniac "snapped a handcuff as if a string" (Mk 5:3)^[xii]. Earl Radmacher and his colleagues similarly emphasize the severe isolation and despair marking the man’s life. They point out that "the man's natural strength was no doubt enhanced by the demon within," allowing him to tear chains apart with ease and live dangerously isolated in cave-like tombs. Such caves were regarded as unclean, appropriate to demonic presences.^[xiii]

Werner Franzmann adds that the community around this man would see him with "abhorrence,"believing him "beyond all help," violently tormented by powers that made his condition seemingly incurable. "Night and day among the tombs and in the hills he would cry out and cut himself with stones," portraying his deep and ongoing agony vividly to the surrounding people.^[xiv]

In reflecting upon this tormented man, it's helpful to consider a modern psychological insight without diminishing the seriousness of genuine demonic oppression. James Hollis introduces the notion of a "complex," where the psyche fragments and dissociates under extreme stress or trauma, manifesting disruptive behaviors that feel autonomous and beyond control.

Hollis's careful work reminds us that such internal divisions and torments do not always arise spontaneously or merely from external oppression, but from "dissociated parts of our own psyche" that "exercise a measure of autonomy and expression" under stress and trauma.^[xv]

When considering the extreme state of this suffering man, we might wonder what internal realities, what hidden personal histories or traumas, could have made him vulnerable to such extreme spiritual bondage. This again, is not to diminish the real presence and destructive power of the demonic, but rather to appreciate the human complexity involved when a person's life becomes a battleground between inner brokenness and malevolent spiritual influences. The extreme physical strength, self-destructive behavior, and unrelenting anguish described suggest layers of pain, dissociation, and fragmentation within the man's psyche, providing fertile ground for the destructive activity of malevolent spirits.

Robert Sokolowski’s insights also help us deepen our understanding of this tormented man's condition. Sokolowski writes, "If we have done things we are deeply ashamed of, or if we were caught up in traumatic incidents, we may be unable to rid ourselves of the experiences in question…no matter how far away we travel, we take them with us. We are glued to them"^[xvi]. His observation is crucial here. It points directly to the reality that traumatic or shameful experiences do not easily vanish; instead, they become woven into our sense of identity, often causing continual internal disruption.

While Mark does not share details of this man’s past, the severity of his torment implies experiences or memories that anchor deep suffering within him. Sokolowski helps us recognize that such memories become part of us, haunting us persistently. The torment we witness is not random or superficial; it arises from experiences that remain alive, bound to the man’s inner world, inescapably present in his consciousness. Understanding this allows us greater compassion and clearer insight into the depth of his torment, and how intensely he is haunted by inner chaos he cannot escape.

Memory can become a prison, constantly replaying past events, deepening isolation, pain, and despair. Such torment is not merely symbolic or theoretical; it takes root in actual lived experience, becoming inseparable from one's sense of self. The demoniac’s endless screaming and self-harm thus suggest more than mere possession, they suggest a heart-wrenching internal agony that is simultaneously spiritual, psychological, and existential.

Mark is carefully and methodically showing us the condition of a man utterly trapped in darkness. The account’s vivid description helps us understand that the chaos Jesus confronted in the storm at sea mirrors this deeper, more troubling chaos of the demoniac’s human suffering. This man, tormented by memories and traumas unknown to us, experiences a fragmentation so severe that malevolent spiritual powers find a hospitable environment. Yet Mark is leading us intentionally toward a revelation: no matter how severe or complex the torment, no matter how strong or numerous the forces that bind a human life, none of this is beyond the reach or authority of Jesus.

As the narrative inches forward, it will cause us to remain mindful of the depth of human pain depicted, and the seriousness of Christ's deliberate confrontation with it. The man’s agony is real and layered, yet Mark insists there is hope precisely because Jesus has stepped ashore.

From a pastoral perspective, how many among us are similarly chained by isolation, trauma, and despair—experiences compounded by forces beyond our understanding? The iron chains of refined legalism and popular theology often come as quick fixes, shallow spirituality, and self-help programs that consistently fail to deliver genuine freedom. As my dear precious friend, pastor, and Psalmist extraordinaire, the late Donn Thomas, sang in one of his many songs, "We don't need our shackles polished, we want them removed, for we are real people too!" (I will indeed see you on the other side, Donn! Memory Eternal.)

The destructive behaviors exhibited by the demoniac are tragic symptoms of a life overwhelmed by spiritual and psychological forces intertwined with one another. These realities are not new. Already in the early centuries of the Church, Irenaeus, speaking directly to Justin Martyr about the debt he owed him, declared with clarity that Christ came explicitly "for the overthrow of the demons," emphasizing to Justin how vividly evident this was in their shared experiences: "For many possessed of demons, in the world generally and in your own city, have been healed and are still being healed by many of our men, the Christians, who exorcise them by the name of Jesus Christ, crucified under Pontius Pilate, though they could not be healed by all the rest of the exorcists"^[xvii].

The failures of superficial attempts at liberation thus point Justin, and by extension, all of us, clearly and decisively toward the one authentic source of freedom: Christ himself. And what Mark does so masterfully here in the pericope is to introduce us to this tragic, demonized human being, who serves as the living embodiment of the chaos Jesus just faced at sea. The man’s internal torment parallels the external storm. Just as Christ commanded the chaotic waters into shalom, Mark now invites us to watch closely as Jesus confronts a deeper, human chaos, one in desperate need of divine order, healing, and peace.

What we witness in these opening verses is not distant history or abstract theology. It is an encounter that invites each of us to ask:

"Where do I see chaos, torment, isolation, or destructive patterns within my own life or the lives of those around me?

Do I truly believe that Christ can still command ‘shalom’ into these areas, just as vividly as he did in Galilee and in Gerasa?"

This narrative is far more than a remarkable ancient tale. It speaks directly to our contemporary experience of brokenness, disorder, and confusion, revealing Christ as the One who sees, hears, and moves swiftly toward us in love, ready to deliver and restore.

We will further explore these depths next week in Part II.

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^[i] Michael S. Heiser, Demons: What the Bible Really Says about the Powers of Darkness (Bellingham, WA: Lexham Press, 2020), 258.

^[ii] Daniélou, Jean. The Lord of History: An Essay on the Mystery of History, Cluny Media Ebook Edition, republication of the 1958, p. 139, Kindle Edition.

^[iii] Ibid., p. 266.

^[iv] Ibid., p. 267.

^[v] Ibid., p. 267.

^[vi] Ibid., p. 267.

^[vii] Ibid., p. 267.

^[viii] Anthony Bloom. Beginning To Pray, New York: Paulist Press, 1970, pp. 57-58.

^[ix] R. T. France, The Gospel of Mark: A Commentary on the Greek Text, New International Greek Testament Commentary (Grand Rapids, MI; Carlisle: W.B. Eerdmans; Paternoster Press, 2002), 226-227.

^[x] Ibid.

^[xi] A.T. Robertson, Word Pictures in the New Testament (Nashville, TN: Broadman Press, 1933), Mk 5:1–4.

^[xii] Ibid.

^[xiii] Earl D. Radmacher, Ronald Barclay Allen, and H. Wayne House, Nelson’s New Illustrated Bible Commentary (Nashville: T. Nelson Publishers, 1999), 1214–1215.

^[xiv] Werner Herman Franzmann, Bible History Commentary: New Testament, electronic ed. (Milwaukee, WI: WELS Board for Parish Education, 1998), 203–204.

^[xv] Hollis, James. Hauntings: Dispelling the Ghosts Who Run Our Lives, Asheville: Chiron Publications, 2013, pp. 59-60, Kindle Edition.

^[xvi] Robert Sokołowski, Introduction To Phenomenology, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000, pp. 70-71, Kindle Edition.

^[xvii] St. Irenæus, The Demonstration of the Apostolic Preaching, ed. W. J. Sparrow Simpson and W. K. Lowther Clarke, trans. J. Armitage Robinson, Translations of Christian Literature. Series IV, Oriental Texts (London; New York: Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge; The Macmillan Co., 1920), 18.