casting out demons | Janie B. Cheaney

On the next day, when they had come down from the mountain, a great crowd met him. And behold, a man from the crowd cried out, “Teacher, I beg you to look at my son, for he is my only child . . .” Luke 9:37-38

Another day, another demon. From the heights of clarity into the thicket of confusion. Mark gives a lot more detail: as Jesus returns from the mountaintop he observes a crowd and a disturbance. There’s an argument going on between scribes and disciples—who, when they see him coming, break off the dispute and run toward him. They’ve attempted a healing and it failed. The argument was probably about authority, and who has it (remember that Jesus had given them authority to cast out demons in 9:1, but this one defies them, giving the scribes an opportunity to say Aha!) So apparently an act of mercy had degenerated to a theological dispute, with this boy and his poor father forgotten in the flying fur.

That may be why the father doesn’t wait his turn to speak, but blurts out an explanation: “A spirit seizes my child, and he suddenly cries out. It convulses him to that he foams at the mouth, and shatters him—and I begged your disciples to cast it out, but they could not–” Imagine his relief, after dealing with ineffectual disciples, to see the Master himself approaching. Now he can finally get some action! But that sense of euphoria comes crashing down—

“Oh unbelieving and rebellious generation! How long must I put up with you?” These are the harshest words Jesus ever said to a layman. Mark indicates that a qualifier from the dad (“If you can do anything”) provokes this outburst.

Does the father deserve this? His only child is getting worse—how many times will the boy be “shattered” by this demon before he falls apart? Hearing that Jesus is nearby, the man packs up his son and hits the road–a daunting prospect in itself, since a major challenge posed by the demon-possessed is keeping them out of sight–only to find the Master is not available! Not to worry, his followers say: He gave power to us; we can cast out demons as well. An excruciating scene follows. One by one, Andrew, Philip, Thomas, Judas—the boy’s father loses track of these names and turns out it doesn’t matter. One by one, they give it a shot: “I command you to come out of him!” But the evil spirit just laughs in their faces, that horrible, growling laugh coming out of his boy, more unnerving than the destructive fits.

The repeated attempts and failures draw attention, and now father and son are subjected to a doctrinal dispute, of which they are the object lesson but no longer the concern. The boy sits in the middle of it all, twitchy and drooling, while his father would like the ground to just open up and swallow them, please. For a moment his heart lifts when he hears the Master is coming. In his eagerness and relief, he stammers out an explanation, and the master explodes. Over three little words: If you can. Really? What did I say, and what’s touched him off, and how can I salvage this mess?

Unbelieving generation—faithless—rebellious—“Don’t you know all things are possible for him who believes?”

At this, the fear and frustration and failure of a hundred unbelieving generations burst out: “I do believe! But please . . . help my unbelief!”

It would be nice to read that Jesus’ heart was moved and he looked on this poor father with compassion. Maybe he did, but we don’t see that; only a curt, “Bring him here.”

The boy was left behind in all the excitement. The demon within him, having enjoyed a very interesting morning, may be taking a break. But as they drag the boy forward, the demon recognizes his worst nightmare and throws one last hurrah, writhing and convulsing at the Master’s feet. One sharp command is all it takes: screeching, the evil presence departs for good. After a long pause the boy sits up, in a crowded silence of unspoken echoes.

If you can—If—I asked them but—can’t do anything—If—If—

Faithless generation! is God’s own cry. Remember the fury of Moses when he came down from his mountain? This is a difference in degree, but not in essence. The same skepticism that prompted a nation of ex-slaves to worship a golden calf is showing up in their descendants: why won’t they (why won’t we) just believe what God says? Jesus has been talking with ancients on the mountain about what awaits him in Jerusalem. That is because of this: the refusal of all generations to believe. Oh yes, they can show faith when it benefits them, when there’s something in it for them. But what will happen to their faith when the miracle worker obviously needs a miracle?

The boys are asking questions: Why? Why couldn’t we cast it out? Because this kind of demon, he patiently (or not-so-patiently) explains, can only be driven out with prayer. Did you pray for power, or just assume you had it? Thought so. News flash: the power is not yours but God’s. Can you remember that in the future?

Listen: things are going to get very complicated. In fact, the Son of Man will soon be betrayed by sinners like you and delivered to the mercy of other sinners. Get it?

No. They did not understand. It was hidden from them. They couldn’t grasp it (9:45).

Oh, faithless generation! If there was any other way to fix you, I would do it, but the very best among you is a child, driven by self-interest and operating on instinct. I could drive out demons all day and still be left with unbelieving hearts. What you need is a new heart: like a child’s in the best way, completely believing and trusting. We can do that, but if you only knew the cost . . .

“Teacher, which of us is the greatest?”

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Then they sailed to the country of the Gerasenes, which is opposite Galilee. When Jesus had stepped out on land, there met him a man from the city who had demons. For a long time he had worn no clothes, and he had not lived in a house but among the tombs. Luke 8:26-27

It was his intention, remember, to go to “the other side,” where the Gentiles live—why? No one appears to ask him. They may still be a little shaken up after the storm; perhaps in their confusion they imagine themselves to be blown off-course. But with Jesus one is never off-course. They have an appointment, and as soon as their boat runs aground the appointment runs to meet them. Screaming.

You have to feel some sympathy for the disciples (who remain strangely silent throughout this dramatic episode): barely recovered from the worst scare of their lives, they now encounter a human nightmare. Or rather, an inhuman nightmare. Demons have been running loose in Palestine, and they’ve seen how Jesus deals with them, but this is a special case. It’s a whole welcoming party in one body. For all they know, this is how the Gentiles do demon-possession: in multiples.

Try to see it as the demons do. For years, they have possessed their host. We don’t know how these things begin–perhaps he left an opening for evil spirit, and after it had kicked aside his normal affections for family and friends, there was room for more. By now they’ve driven him from all human company and made him an object of terror and loathing, even to himself. He lives among the tombs but they won’t let him join the company of the dead; he cuts himself, but is prevented from cutting too deep. In a twilight world they carouse and brawl and gleefully fight off any attempt to restrain them. Their host has the strength of ten, because they are Legion.

Then the Man arrives. They see his boat approaching, and somehow know who is on it. They raise such an unbearable clamor that their hapless host tries to silence them by slashing at himself with a flint-sharpened rock (which never works). They hurl him, tripping and stumbling, onto the rocky beach where the boat has scraped ground.

How easy it is to provoke terror in humans! That’s a primary demonic pleasure, though at the moment pleasure is the last thing on their many manic minds. He’s standing up, steadying himself with one hand on the mast (like any ordinary man!)—God with us, God against us—how can this be?? His eyes search them out. He knows them, knows their origin all way back to the moment he threw them out of the Presence, but they never expected to encounter him here.

Come out, he says, with his eyes only.

Don’t torment me! they cry out through the raw vocal chords of their host. It’s Jesus, they tell themselves—remember, we got the word?—Jesus, the one who—the one that—

“What have you to do with me, Jesus, Son of the Most High God?”

The other men are standing around, slack-jawed, keeping their distance. It’s the kind of situation the demons crave: men approaching stealthily with chains or ropes, trying to sneak up and capture and restrain them. The demons would have attacked by now, as so many times before—

But the Lord is climbing out of the boat (as awkwardly as any man; they can’t get over it!) with a depthless assurance beyond their experience of humanity. They throw their host on the ground. Stampeding over each other, they spin and thrash, screeching in multiple voices.

“What is your name?” he sternly asks.

Their voices come together long enough to scream, “Legion!”—before tumbling into incoherence again, each voice shrieking its own terror. The abyss is on their collective mind, the pit that waits for all of them where there will be no human meat to feed on; only themselves and the Wrath, forever and ever and ever—

Not yet! they cry. Hold off! Not now! In the clamor, one of them mentions the pigs. Yes, yes—the pigs. Send us there! The chaos of voices gradually comes together: The pigs! Let us go into the pigs!

Their host has become their prison. He is standing right in front of them, doing what no man or number of men could do before. They claw and scratch and strain—Will he let us out? Let us out! Out of this—piece of—this pile of—

“Go,” he says.

They nearly tear their host apart, getting out. With one final scream they leave him, panting and bloody, on the beach.

The fiery air cools. One sweet breath, then another. The horizon comes together for him, a clean line separating water and sky. Blood pounds in his ears, the sound of his heart. His own heart. He wills his fingers to move, and they do—his own will. Knees, legs, arms respond to his timid desire to sit up. Above his head, that voice says, “Someone get him some clothes.”

The voice seems to cascade around him like the soft, barely-remembered folds of a worn linen tunic. It gives him back to himself; piece by piece, it puts him together.

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