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.
For the original post in this series, go here.
Next>