01.08. Chapter 8 The Demoniac Sitting at the Feet of Jesus

Chapter 8 The Demoniac Sitting at the Feet of Jesus

Even the greatest events often make impressions on us, wholly inadequate to their real importance. We do not care to inquire into how they came about—how wonderful they really are—what great results hang upon them. Anathema maranatha. We are struck by some few of the leading features—but we are not concerned to inquire into the minutiae. The crowds who line the streets, and fill the balconies, and cluster on the house-tops, when a victorious army is returning to the capital in triumph, are, perhaps, intoxicated with the pageant; it passes amid a whirl of excitement and storm of applause—but how few think of all that it involves—the patient drills, the working together of so many brains, the union of so many hearts and hands and minds, the forethought, the self-denial, and the skill. And still fewer think of all that hangs upon this success—the political changes, the effects upon national character, the misery or welfare of their fellow-men, as the case may be. And thus exactly is it with regard to the story of the demoniac, who is here presented to us, as sitting at the feet of Jesus. There he is, a sufficiently astonishing object to attract our attention, and excite our wonder; but how few think of all which, as we have seen, happened, before he was brought there; and of all that, for himself and others, hung upon his wondrous change!

We. have seen something of what was involved in the demoniac’s coming to be at the feet of Jesus at all; now let us contemplate him as he is sitting there. The demoniac presents himself to us under three different aspects, he is:

(1) a changed man, (2) a resting man, (3) a satisfied man.

He is, as it were, a ray of light emanating from Jesus. And just as a ray, the moment you pass it through a prism, breaks up into a diversity of beautiful colors, so the work of Christ, when examined, divides itself into component parts, each one distinct—but each harmonizing with the other. The demoniac might easily, as sitting at Christ’s feet, be presented to us in as many aspects as there are colors in the prismatic ray; even then the subject of his change would not have been treated exhaustively—but these three will suffice for the purpose immediately in hand. The demoniac was a CHANGED man indeed. His cure was perfected at once; and so he is presented to our notice, as being a complete and startling contrast to what he had been before. He had been violent—he is now calm; he had been naked—he is now clothed; a few moments before he would have nothing to do with Christ—now he is sitting at His feet. He loved to dwell among the tombs—now he sits at the feet of the One whose voice the dead in their graves shall hear, and live—the spoiler of the sepulcher, the Resurrection and the Life.

We may crouch at the feet of Jesus in abject terror—or sit there in satisfying rest. The man had done the first—and now he does the last. As in many a case, there was a falling—before there came a sitting. It was with him, as it was afterwards with Paul. The reader will observe that we are speaking of the contrast of a completed cure. And we are anxious to state this, because so many say that nothing is done—unless all is done. We have shown how little sympathy we have with this idea, by tracing the preliminary process through which this man went, and the all importance of his debased humanity being brought into contact with the man Christ Jesus, the Son of the Most High God.

Every approach to Christ is precious, every dealing direct with Him is hopeful. We know not what may come out of it; there may, no doubt, be rejection of Him, as by the Gadarenes—but there may be healing from Him, as there was for the dweller among the tombs. The demoniac is a changed man in his whole being—externally and internally; he is clothed as regards the body without; he is in his right mind as regards his intellect within.

These two great points of change have their distinct teachings. As soon as the devils were cast out, the rescued demoniac became the recipient of charitable kindness from those around. From some of those who were present, he doubtless received what was sufficient to clothe his nakedness.

Jesus had wrought, as was His custom, up to the immediate necessity of the case; and just as He commanded that food should be given to the daughter of Jairus when He had raised her from the dead—but did not create any for the purpose; so here He allowed the demoniac to be clothed by the kindness of those who were around. By this act they took him back into the fellowship of rational manhood; and it may be that, in leaving this part of the poor man’s need to them, Jesus meant that there should be some teaching for ourselves. The torn garments of the Gadarene cast from him in his madness—the clothing which, when he would use it, he received from the hands of kindly charity, have their teaching, as well as has that coat without seam, woven throughout from neck to foot, which God, for His own purposes, deemed worthy of being enshrined. The view in which the rescued demoniac presents himself to us here is that of a recipient of charitable kindness.

Often, after the great work of Christ upon the soul—he who has experienced it needs much charitable help. It may be that this has its place in the deep providence of God. For while none but Jesus can do the great work, He wills that we, in our measure and place, should be fellow-workers together with Him. When He raises Lazarus from the dead, He says, "Loose him, and let him go!" When He multiplies the bread, He delivers it to His disciples, and through them to the hungry crowd. When He will pay the tribute money, He sends Peter to cast a hook. When He will give them a multitude of fishes, they must cast at the right side of the ship. In the work of our salvation—the great sacrifice upon the cross—Jesus stands alone; but in other things He is continually drawing His people into fellowship of work with Himself. It may be that, these are some of the bonds which are destined forever to bind together that great family of which Jesus Himself is Head.

There is meaning in what the Lord leaves undone—as well as in what He does.

Often then, as we have said, immediately after Christ’s great work, there is need of charitable help. The man upon whom He has wrought is alive to what he so recently was—and he needs kindness, sympathy, the reception into fellowship, the covering over of that recent shame, at which, indeed, he is so much abashed himself.

It is we, such of us as are with Christ, who are to do this for him. We must not want to get him to sit at our feet. Alas! how many in a spirit of partisanship, or patronizing, would do this. His place is at the feet of Jesus! But we are to accept and endorse that restoration of him to true manhood which Jesus has wrought. The casting out of the old evil spirit leaves a man with many necessities; perhaps if we knew how many—we would try to supply him so far as we are able. This is one of the teachings suggested to us here. And as this comes to those who are with Christ, His followers and friends, when He does His great work, so the next comes to the person on whom such a work is wrought. As soon as ever Jesus casts out the evil spirit—a new set of claims arise. The claims which the demons made—were those of violence, and shame, and outragings of humanity in every form; the claims of the man’s restored being—were those of decency and order.

We are now only speaking of the demoniac in his external aspect. There is an outward decency, as well as an inward change, belonging to the spiritual life. Would that it were always more enforced in preaching, more carried out in practice. This history of the demoniac speaks to two opposite sets of preachers—those who on the one hand urge the all-importance of an inward change—but tarrying there, take no heed to inculcate the necessity of a decidedly holy life. On the other hand, there are those who inculcate all preciseness of outward living—but leave untouched the conversion of the heart.

Exorcized by Christ, and sitting clothed at His feet, we have, in a figure, the whole truth—both without and within; and without because within, the blessed change is wrought. The man did not complain of any irksomeness or hard restraint in wearing the unaccustomed clothing: so far from it, he would not have been contented without it; his condition of nakedness would have been uncomfortable, and out of harmony with his new life; for very shame’s sake he would probably have rushed away to the tombs again, no longer, indeed, to delight himself in them—but there to be hidden. But such an end would have ill-befitted this great work of Christ. The man’s destiny was to be something very different from that; he was to sit clothed for awhile at Jesus’ feet, and then to go forth clothed into the haunts of men—a robed preacher among his own kin of the wonderworking power of Christ.

Now what has been our experience? What do we feel within ourselves? What aspect do we present to the world? Is it possible that after Christ’s great transformation of us, we can be content to feel and act as we used to do? Surely not! New cravings, new desires, new necessities, have sprung up. As the apostle’s converts were his epistle, known and read of all men—so we must be the epistle of Christ’s work, read and known of all. The world ought to be able to read Christians even externally. When the Gadarenes came to see what was done—and see him who was possessed with the legion of devils, and had the legion, sitting and clothed, and in his right mind—the evidences of their senses showed that he was a changed man. And that very evidence we should distinctly seek to give to the world. We must give them something to see. Wherever we were known as bad, there let us seek to be known as changed. We may have many failures—but our very effort amid failures will be an undeniable testimony. The external and the internal change were necessarily conjoined. They were so in the case of the prodigal—when he came to himself, (and in truth he had been beside himself,) before he returned, just as he was, with his shoeless feet and tattered rags, and his father brought forth the best robe, and put shoes on the way-worn feet. The demoniac was now in his right mind—this clothing was with his full consent; he adopted it. The Gadarenes recognized him as in his right mind, and in truth he was, and that much more than they knew—much more, indeed, if we push the matter to its furthest, than they were themselves.

Outward change was all they could understand—but that they saw. He himself had that which was peculiarly his own; he had received from Jesus something so individual and personal that, like the name in the white stone, none could know it save he who had received it; but there, in his own person, he furnished his countrymen with such evidence of change, as they could receive.

We are bound to do the same. No one on earth ever knew, or could know the secret which was between that man’s soul and Christ; but there was that in him which they who ran might read.

Christ wills that we should have secrets between us and Him. What love could there be without secrets? Secrets to be told, and to be heard—involving the delightful consciousness, that no one knows them but ourselves.

There will probably be such secrets even throughout eternity—secrets, if for no other reason—yet because they could not be put into words; they belong to that particular heart; and I can imagine its having a holy jealousy in parting with them; they are witnesses of the individuality of Christ’s love with the individuality of our love—perhaps a witness of the personal bond by which we are held to Him. The demoniac a RESTING man! There he sat at the feet of Jesus, with, in all likelihood, no elaborate feelings—but just simply with consciousness of blessing and enjoyment of rest—a something, the like of which he had never felt before. No doubt if we set ourselves to seek for them, we should find the germs of all sorts of blessed feelings; but the one thing which probably filled his mind was the thankful consciousness of blessing. For well he knew, that it was but a very little while ago since he had been not only unblest himself—but one who hurt everyone on whom he could lay his hands.

Now he had a quiet consciousness that he had entered upon a new phase of existence; and there was a great honoring of Jesus in that calm sitting at His feet.

There are many excellent people who despise, or at any rate do not make very much of a quiet meditation—a calm enjoyment of Christ, like this.

They would drive the man about vehemently again. It is true they would do it with the best motives—but they do not know the value of a quiet resting-time at the feet of Jesus—that every moment there, is, in truth—a laying up of fresh energy, which will develop itself with power by-and-by. But the demoniac could appreciate this rest; he had but to compare it with previous unrest; and bare rest, even with nothing else, was sweet. It had the charm of a new state, of new feelings; the tempest was over—and this was calm.

It was, indeed, something very new. The devil-possessed man had known of but one acceptable rest, and he had cried aloud for it—it was to be let alone by Christ; but Jesus has another rest for him—it is at His feet. He knew of that, for him, which he could not know or guess of for himself—and He led him to it. This is how the Lord acts. He hears us bid Him away in our madness—but triumphing over us, makes us love what we but a little time before both hated and dreaded—great closeness to Himself, a place at His very feet.

We do not suppose that there was anything speculative going on in that poor man’s mind, that he had much thought at all; the sense of deliverance, of blessing, of what had happened to him, perhaps some vague sense of a relationship between himself and Christ, was all he had—but what an "all" was that!

We often misjudge, and make great mistakes about people who are not out in any open ministry for Christ. We think they are bringing Him no glory and honor. In many cases it may be so—but assuredly not in all. The demoniac, as he sat there, was a glorious spectacle to men and angels; he was a witness to Christ’s power; his satisfaction in being at those feet at rest, was a great testimony to Christ’s might. For here was displayed the triumph of the immaterial over the material. Material bonds never could have kept the man there—but immaterial did; human restraints, such as cords and chains, could do no more—but Jesus had done all.

Jesus, no doubt, could have restrained the brute force of the man, and caused him henceforth only to gnash his teeth in impotent fury among the tombs; but He went higher, He acted on the outward through the inward; He touched the fountain-head of the evil—and thus brought the afflicted one to tarry willingly at His feet. In truth, there are many who will be held in by neither bit nor bridle, who will be bound neither with cords nor chains; but there is something stronger than all outward restraint. They know what they can resist—but they do not know what they cannot resist. If Jesus comes indeed, they will be overcome. There may be tearing and rending—but the dealing with the inward will conquer.

Always believe that there is an ’inward’ on which to deal—a something in man to which Christ, and he who goes in the name of Christ, can speak.

Jesus would not recognize this man as wholly a devil; and no matter how much a man will, perhaps in reality, or perhaps in bravado, make himself out devilish, he has, nevertheless, that which can be appealed to in the name of Christ. And this power of Christ to deal with what is altogether beyond our reach, must be our great hope—our hope as regards ourselves and others. It must be the mainstay of ministers in their dealings with souls; of teachers with their pupils; of parents with their children. It is from the heart there proceed all the evils which defile and disgrace a man; and it is Christ’s spiritual influence alone—which can get at the heart. Christ works from that which is within, to that which is without.

We have said that the demoniac had probably no elaborate or well-defined feelings while thus, during this brief period, at the feet of Jesus; just the consciousness and enjoyment of deliverance— calm, peace, quiet—these were the main ingredients of his happiness.

Let us not hurry new-born souls, by trying to force a multitude of well-defined, and, perhaps, advanced truths into their minds. In trying to give them more than they can take in, you may deprive them of what they have. Rest affords elements of growth. And we may remark that, in the spiritual life, it is possible to commit an error in attempting to make every feeling or sensation take a particular and definite shape.

Some feelings are not destined to shape themselves for a season—some are, perhaps, never intended to do so. There is beauty and power, too, in the undefined things of God. Let us respect them; let us not be coarse in meddling with them. No doubt, there are men who would like never to have anything but a dreamy and undefined religion. But it is not because of that error that we should ignore this truth.

It is very possible that this man had some vague sense of relationship between Christ and himself; there was, at least, that of the healer and the healed; it possibly helped to bind him there to the feet, and we may be sure it energized him when he went to testify to those of his house.

Relationship to Christ!—let us establish that: and who can tell what it will do?

We must add a line upon the aspect of the once demoniac, as a SATISFIED man.

There are two interesting points in which he might be thus contemplated—as satisfied, though he had to part with an entire past; and though there lay before him an unknown future. Looked at in a mere natural point of view, these were calculated to be elements of disquiet; but we must view them from the standpoint of the work of Christ.

He who is truly acted on by Christ—is willing to have the past a past indeed. He judges, he condemns it. He acknowledges that it was his—alas! too surely his sin. But now, at the feet of Jesus, he has to do with it no more. No fruit has he now in those things whereof he is ashamed; the time past suffices in which to have wrought such wickedness. He is not judged only of others, he has judged himself. The separation he wills to be complete; he wishes it to be entirely past. His only remembrance of it he desires to be with horror. He takes up the confession which says, "The remembrance of them is grievous."

Many people cannot understand the willingness of Christ-acted-on men, to part with a whole past—they urge as an objection to receiving Christ that they will have to give up so much; they say, how can I give up this or that? But such as have felt the power of Christ, are satisfied—their will goes with His will.

There lay an unknown future before that man sitting so restingly and quiet at Jesus’ feet; but it troubled him not; he sat and was at peace.

It may be that in after days he had to bear persecution, like the blind man whom the Jews reviled; in all probability he did not give that testimony which he was commissioned by Jesus to give, without some hazard to himself; but the future, all unknown and new as it must be, was no concern to him, as he sat at the feet of Jesus. Nor need it be to us. He who has parted with the past by the power of Christ—shall by that power be preserved in the future. The hand which has cut him off from a past of the evil ones, will bind him to a future of His own.

Therefore, dear reader, do not let the future trouble you with fears. You can meet with no enemy worse than the one over whom Jesus has already given you the victory. He sends you out into the future with great tokens, and pledges of His power. You have received no spirit of bondage—but a spirit of adoption, wherein you cry out, ’Abba, Father!’

We need have no fears of that future into which we go at Jesus’ command, and straight from sitting at His feet.