A Sermon by Sydney V. (Skip) Jackson — June 27, 2010
Indianola Presbyterian Church, Columbus, Ohio
Text:  Luke 8:26-39

The man from whom the demons had gone begged that

the city how much Jesus had done for him. — Luke 8:38-39

I’ve spoken any number of times about how questions are an essential element of life in general and the church in particular.  Certainly this congregation declares just how much it values questions by referring to itself as a “community of inquiry, prayer, and action.”  When the Session asks new members what led them to join, many say something about finding this church, unlike some other churches they’ve encountered, to be a safe place to ask questions of faith.  So this Sunday as we prepare to ask questions to ordain and install church officers, I chose to build the worship service around questions.  I selected the three hymns because each is made up entirely of questions.  The first, “God of the Sparrow,” asks about our experiences of God, here in this world as created beings.  The second, “How Shall We Find You,” is a bit more explicitly theological, asking how we are to relate to God when all the human terms and concepts we use for the divine end up putting God in a box.  Finally our closing hymn, “If the War Goes On” by John Bell of the Iona Community, raises some of those uncomfortable, difficult questions we are led to ask in the world outside these walls as we begin to live out the shalom that lies at the heart of the kingdom of God.

Questions lie at the heart of how I approach any scripture, especially this morning’s story of the Geresene demoniac.  In nearly 18 years as a pastor, I’ve studied this story many times, but never preached on it.  So I came to it with my usual questions like: What grabs my attention? What puzzles me?  What do I shy away from hearing here?  What do I like hearing?  There are more detailed questions.  What are the demons, really?  Why is their name a Roman military term?  What’s with the swine?  Why raise pigs—Mark says there were 2000 of them—when Jews don’t eat pork?  Gradually a nagging question surfaced.  Why this man with demons?  Not why did Jesus heal him, but why, afterwards, did he tell him to go home and tell everyone what had happened?

 

You see, there’s this idea called the Messianic secret that I learned about in my New Testament classes in seminary.  Perhaps you’ve heard of it.  It’s a theory from a German scholar a century ago about why Jesus keeps ordering people not to tell what they know about him.  Right after this story, Jesus will raise the 12-year-old daughter of a synagogue leader named Jairus from the dead, and he will order the girl’s parents “to tell no one what happened.”  The idea of the Messianic secret is that the true identity of Jesus is to be kept secret until the very end.  That way, no one will know until he dies and is raised that he was the Messiah—precisely because he’s not the Messiah everyone was looking for and expecting.  He won’t fight and win for us.  He will suffer and die for us.  To be saved you need to be in on this secret.  So why does this demoniac—or should I say former demoniac—get to tell?  And what’s with the secret, anyway?  The demons already know who Jesus is?  Incidentally, so do the crowds.  If nothing else, they overhear the demons call him “Jesus, Son of the Most High God.”  Doesn’t that blow any secret?  Jairus isn’t to tell, but Jesus sends this madman off to tell everything.  What’s going on?

Maybe this Messianic secret thing isn’t about what to tell or when to tell it, but who gets to tell.  Here in the church, we preachers are the ones who have the power to speak.  In the academy, it’s the professors and scholars.  But in scripture, the one who has the power to speak is not always the leader of the synagogue or the scholars of the law.  Often it’s the marginal person, the prophet who is on the outs with the powers-that-be (like Elijah or Jeremiah or Jesus) or sometimes even on the outs with God (think Jonah).  And here it’s a madman afflicted by demons, the one we and everyone else are most likely to avoid at all costs because… Well doesn’t the church have enough difficulty getting taken seriously in today’s world?  Rational, well-respected, scholarly spokespeople with sterling reputations are what are needed to build up the church’s acceptance and get a hearing?

But do we really want to preach a gospel of secrets and special knowledge?  That’s a pretty dangerous path to go down these days—where some of us are in on a secret and others aren’t, where those with superior knowledge have power and authority while others don’t.  That’s a fearsome path that all too easily leads to the abuse of power.  Ask your Roman Catholic friends about the relationship between secrets and power in their church.  Ask them also how repeated questioning brought about increased openness.  Secrecy is a powerful threat wherever it rears its head—in religion, in politics and government, in economics and banking, in the military (eg., don’t ask, don’t tell) and in intelligence gathering.  If what the church is about is preserving secrets and cultivating special, superior knowledge to preserve its authority in the world, then we are lost.  For we fail to walk the way of love that Jesus showed us and called us to follow.

But look who gets to share the Good News in the country of the Gerasenes—a naked madman with demons—that is, formerly naked madman who used to have demons.  He didn’t ask Jesus to heal him, and the demons didn’t want him to do anything.  There he was living in his very own graveyard in the company of the voices in his head.  We don’t know how much he was suffering, but one thing we do know from the story—no one could make him do anything.  There’s a certain attraction to this.  When the neighbors tried to restrain him, he broke all bonds.  No one could subdue him.  So Jesus shows up, and here’s this crazy guy in the graveyard.  It’s an opportunity for Jesus to do a public healing.  So he goes right ahead, with no regard at all for any secret.  People are sure to notice there’s something different in the neighborhood.

 

And then there’s this thing with the herd of swine.  If we’re supposed to think Jesus is some sort of apolitical Messiah who isn’t involved in any kind of resistance against the injustices of Rome, the storyteller has different ideas.  Jesus drives out “Legion,” the technical term for the Roman heavy infantry—a comparable modern equivalent with similar resonance would be naming the demons “Marines” or “U.S. Army Special Forces” or “Green Berets.”  Oh yes, Roman occupation is definitely in play here.  And the swine?  The primary market for a large herd of pigs in Roman occupied territory would be the Roman Legion itself.  Large herds of swine were the traveling source of meat for Roman soldiers. 

So now the problems develop.  The man with demons is now sane—clothed and in his right mind—and a strategic Roman food supply is gone.  But people don’t always like to see change in their neighborhood.  “You mean to say you are taking away our crazy person?  Who will we blame our problems on now?”  It can be handy to have an unrestrainable lunatic around.  No one goes looking for other issues to reform.  No one asks who else might have too much unrestrained power.  Jesus has taken away the neighborhood’s favorite scapegoat.  And he has angered the fat-cat, pig farmers who live off their military contracts, profiting off the misery of their neighbors, and he has also ticked off the Roman authorities who no longer can serve pork chops and bacon to hungry soldiers.  It’s just all too scary to even think about.  So get out of here, Jesus.

They’re more afraid of change than of the man formerly possessed by demons.  He, on the other hand, begs to come along with Jesus.  But Jesus refuses.  Here’s what he says:  “Return to your home and declare how much God has done for you.”  Nothing at all about any kind of Messianic secret.  “Go home,” says Jesus.  Does the man still have a home other than the graveyard where he has lived for years?  No matter.  “Tell everyone what God has done.”  Will people want to hear his story?  Will anyone believe him?  That doesn’t matter either.  Jesus wants him to go and tell, precisely because people will only believe him because of what Jesus has done.  Jairus, on the other hand, is a synagogue leader—a respectable, reputable, educated public figure.  People might listen and believe because of who Jairus is, not because of Jesus.  But no one will believe this crazy man because of his reputation.  On the face of it, he’s unbelievable, except he’s got such a great story, a story of what Jesus has done for him, a story whose truth is affirmed by seeing him changed, transformed, now clothed and in his right mind.

“Go and tell,” says Jesus.  Tell them what the Lord did for you before you ever knew to ask—did for you even as you were resisting his efforts.  Tell them that he showed you mercy before you had any idea at all what it was.  That’s what you know.  That’s what you saw.  That’s your story.  So tell them.  Once I lived in a tomb and was possessed by demons.  Now I live in freedom and am possessed by grace.

Amazing grace, how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost but now am found, was blind but now I see.

It’s a good story.  At some level it’s each of our story—yours, mine, everyone who has encountered or been encountered by Jesus Christ.  So tell it.  No secrets.  No special knowledge.  No complicated theology.  Just your ongoing story.  So tell it.  Go declare how much God has done for you.

Amen and Amen.