01.07. Chapter 7 The Demoniac

Chapter 7 THE DEMONIAC How the demoniac came to be at the feet of Jesus

"When the demons came out of the man, they went into the pigs, and the herd rushed down the steep bank into the lake and was drowned. When those tending the pigs saw what had happened, they ran off and reported this in the town and countryside, and the people went out to see what had happened. When they came to Jesus, they found the man from whom the demons had gone out, sitting at Jesus’ feet, dressed and in his right mind; and they were afraid!" Luke 8:33-35

It is a skillful hand which can produce a perfect picture with masses of clouds above, and with darkness in the foreground as well as in the background; the whole of the picture’s light being concentrated on two figures with dazzling brilliancy. This Luke has accomplished here; and he could not have done it had not the material been supplied to him direct from heaven.

Everything here is black—the demons, the swine, the conduct of the Gadarene people—but, lit up with an intense light, is to be seen Jesus, and the man out of whom the devils were departed, sitting at His feet. This man is to be our study now—

(1) how the man came to be at those feet;

(2) the man as he was there;

(3) the man as he was seen there; and (4) the man as he was sent away from there. And in inquiring into how this man, known as "the demon-possessed man," both far and near, came to be found at such a place as "the feet of Jesus," and under such altered circumstances as, "sitting," "clothed," and "in his right mind"—our minds revert to the figures in the picture, with which the chapter opens.

It is by no chance, by no hasty and unskilled manipulation of the brush, that such figures could be produced. There are inherent difficulties which present a resistance to the artist. We might say, there is a preliminary resistance to be overcome, and a preliminary process to be gone through. Both these we find here. Let us, so far as we can, trace the working in of the immediate background, which by its darkness throws out the figures of Jesus and the demoniac sitting at His feet. We shall confine ourselves to this; and, it may be, as we proceed, the reader will find that some of the dark colors which are mixed are those with which he is, from sad experience, only too familiar himself. This man did not come into his sitting posture at Jesus’ feet without preliminary resistance, and that resistance presents us with three important characteristics. It was the resistance of darkness, of effort, and of debased intelligence. We have these three ingredients well defined. The man was in a state of utter darkness as regards Jesus; not as regards who He was, for Mark tells us that, "when he saw Jesus afar off, he ran and worshiped Him, and cried with a loud voice, and said, What have I to do with you, Jesus, Son of the most high God!" But as regards His character and mission; his only idea of Jesus was that of His being a tormentor. That the man had an awfully debased idea of Jesus—we shall see presently; but, co-existent with that, was his profound darkness. When it is put in so many plain words, we are startled at the idea of a man calling Jesus a "tormentor." From our youth up, we have always heard of His sweetness and tenderness, and of His invitations to the weary and the heavy-laden to come to Him, and He will give them rest. And there is scarcely anyone professing to be a Christian, who would not shrink horror-stricken from the blasphemy of calling Him in plain terms so fearful a name; but underneath the thin gilding of nominal Christianity, we soon come to the debased metal of the natural heart; the only real idea of many a one is—that He is his tormentor. This is one of the hard speeches which the hearts of ungodly sinners have spoken against Him; and concerning which He will execute judgment, when He comes with ten thousands of His saints.

It may seem hard to some that, they should be held accountable for speech which they have never uttered with their lips. They say, ’Human laws do not take note of any but overt acts.’ But the law which has to do with your souls, takes note of the libels of the heart; it hears a voice out of the depth of the darkness of our inner feelings and desires say of Jesus, as the crucifying crowd said, "Away with Him," or, as the demoniac howled out, "Do not torment me!" The pressing home of the truth, the immediate and undeniable presence of Christ, the feeling that a man has to do, not with what he has read or heard of Christ—but with His very self, brings out what he really thinks of Him by nature—that He is a tormentor, "do not torment me!"

It is the work of the prince of darkness; it is the great lie of darkness; there, in darkness and ignorance about who Jesus is—does the evil one like to keep the soul; and such is the utterance he delights to hear it make. Indeed, this heavy dull resistance of darkness, and ignorance, is the first great impediment to Christ’s true work upon the soul. No wonder that people do not want to have any close dealing with Him, when they think of torment and discomfort! No wonder that so many young people will have nothing to do with Him, saying, ’If I become what people call a Christian, I shall lose all my pleasures!’ And so many older ones say, ’I shall not be able to devote myself so thoroughly to my business, making it all in all to me as it is now. If I answer this claim of a higher love, those who now have my affections cannot have them as thoroughly as they had before. Jesus, we adjure you, do not torment us! We will not do anything openly against you, only do not torment us!’ This poor demoniac did not know, that Jesus never took—but to give; never emptied—but to fill. He had no idea of there being anything beside wandering in the tombs; and thought that to lose even that wretched existence, would be, perhaps, to go out into the deep. He was like many now, who think there can be no change from what they have or are, to what is better; but that the loss of these is the loss of all. This was one point of resistance which had to be overcome, before the demoniac could be brought to the feet of Jesus. As might naturally be expected, the passive resistance of opinion—issued in the active one of effort. What strength this man had, and indeed it was terrible, he put into his rejection of Jesus—he "cried with a loud voice."

It may seem to us that, there is nothing astonishing in this, seeing the man was a demoniac—that the loud cry is what was to be expected from him. And just because it was what was to be expected, is it likely to escape our notice in the teaching which it has for ourselves. He was under demon rule; and it is the law of demon nature that it should put forth all its strength against Christ. In this case, the cry was outward and audible; but such cries are now often to be heard in the spiritual world, though, as far as mere human hearing is concerned, all is silent; or there may be even a passive endurance of the presence of Christ. The ears of Him who can hear the heart’s real voice are smitten with the cry, "Have you come to torment me?" "What have I to do with you?" Though men know not what they are saying, they are in truth crying out, ’Leave me as I am! I prefer to be torn and to cut myself with stones, to range the mountains in nakedness, and to dwell among the tombs—to having anything to say to You.’

There is One who judges not after the seeing of the eye, nor after the hearing of the ear; and He hears voices which appear to join in family worship, and to mingle with the psalmody of His Church, crying out from the heart’s real depths, "What have I to do with you—Son of the living God?—have you come to torment me?"

There is something very dreadful in the energies of a man’s nature being gathered up in resisting Christ—in the loud voice so ready to rise against Jesus; especially when compared with the feebleness of the voices which rise for good. And in the day of great account, when the history of the soul’s transactions with Jesus shall be disclosed, how many will there be who will then for the first time discover, to their horror—the amount of energy they had put into their rejection of Jesus—how loudly they repudiated—how loudly they cried out against Him! That loud voice of the demoniac, however startling to others, was not so to himself—he was accustomed to "crying;" and so it may be with man now; he may cry long and loud, and yet unabashed, against Jesus. Satisfied with his own state, a man may all the while be crying out against the Son of God, and pouring the blasphemies of the heart into listening ears in the other world. The resistance offered by the demoniac to Christ was not, however, one of simple violence. The evil spirits, when they entered into the swine, acting in a manner suitable to the nature of the creatures in which they were lodged, impelled them violently down a steep place into the deep; but when in the man, they wrought through a debased mind.

He recognized the existence of distinct and widely divergent paths for himself and Jesus; and embodied the thought energetically in the loudness of his cry. Of all the cries with which that man made the solitude of the graves ring again—there was not one, into which he more terribly put his whole being than this. And although it is not accompanied with loud cries, or is shouted out to the world; yes, even though on the other hand, the spiritual demoniac is a cunning man, rather than a violent man, and tries to hide his principle of action from the world, still he who stands out in opposition to Christ, does so upon a like foundation with the demoniac here. The foundation of all rejection of Jesus—is the deep inward feeling that we have nothing in common with Him; and, moreover, that we wish to have nothing in common with Him. A man sees that Christ’s ways are not as his ways; and that for him and Christ to come together—is like the meeting of fire and water.

There are numbers of men who would be content to have Christ—if they could keep their sin and old selves also; but they know enough to feel they cannot; and so they bid Him to leave. This man took up a demoniacal standpoint, from which he viewed himself; putting himself as a demon-possessed, out of the common family of manhood, and denying that he had anything to do with Jesus the Son of the Most High God.

Now from what standpoint did Jesus view this man? He took him, we conceive, in the twofold power of His being the Son of God and Son of man. This demoniac, when he cried, "What have I to do with you?" put a question to which he thought there could be but the one answer—namely, "nothing," but to which Jesus knew there was another; and in that other lay the man’s deliverance and life. The one thus possessed of devils, and directly challenging Christ with this question, was a man, and Jesus was ’Son of man,’ as well as Son of God. As horrible as was the condition of the devil-possessed, there was a point of common humanity between him and Christ. The human nature thus degraded, was the same as that which sinlessly belonged to Jesus himself. And Jesus recognized the humanity of the man. He said, (Mark 5:8,) "Come out of the man." The man’s identification of himself with the devils, "My name is Legion—for we are many"—that, coupling together and intermingling of the "I" and "we," is not recognized by Jesus; He severs the man from the spirits, and sets him free as a man again. "You unclean spirit, come out of him!"

It is well—yes, it is essential to our spiritual life, even to our salvation, to be strong on the subject of the Godhead of Jesus; it is equally necessary that we should be strong on that of His manhood. Nothing is to be gained by our impairing in the slightest degree the perfect humanity, and the completeness of the humanity—of Jesus. On the other hand, there is great loss; for if Jesus is not fully man—human sinfulness apart, the key to infinite treasure is lost. Where is our Sympathizer? Where is our experienced Friend? Where is our very sin-atoning Sacrifice? To detract from the fullness of Christ’s manhood, is as much to disturb the harmony and full proportion of His being, and to wrong and misunderstand Him, as to detract from His Godhead. Touch His perfect Godhead, or His perfect manhood—and you have no longer the Christ of the Bible; nor, we may add, the Christ of your own need. And descending from Jesus to ourselves, we may repeat a portion of this observation. There is nothing to be gained by impairing the dignity of manhood; even as, on the other hand, nothing is to be had by exaggerating it. There are opposite schools of thought by which each of these errors are taken up. He who would know what man really is, must hold part of what is held by each.

One practical point, however, is suggested to us here by Christ’s recognition of the man, and His refusal to acknowledge the obliteration of humanity by the indwelling of the devils. It is this— As man, with all the great possibilities of manhood, with all its privileges, with all His own community with it, His own interest in it—you are before the Lord. He is predisposed to look favorably upon you. Your very humanity goes for much with Him; it is important in His eyes. Jesus does not acknowledge the right of evil beings or propensities to have possession of you. How completely then have all who would struggle against evil—the sympathies of Jesus on their side! How is He willing that the nature which He Himself bears in all sinlessness should be rescued from evil in every way! How have we with us the Son of God, and Son of man! And then, forasmuch as our eyes must be kept closely upon Jesus, mark how this man was saved by what was in that Holy One, and not by anything in himself. He was so clouded as to his state, so overridden with evil, that all which came forth from him was the cry of repudiation of any oneness with the Lord. But the clear eye of Jesus saw all; and out of the love and pity of His own heart, He acted, and called back the man to true manhood, yes, and to His own feet. It was Jesus’ view of the man’s necessity, and not his own, that did it all. And thus there came an end to the terrible "often" of which we read—the binding with fetters and chains, the plucking asunder and breaking in pieces of those bonds, the futile efforts of man to tame him. All the man’s sufferings, his double woe, from the tyranny of the devils, from the discipline of his fellow-men, were ended. From all suffering there is a voice of comfort, if we are skilled to catch its tones; and they are to be found here.

We know perhaps the meaning of the word "often," sadly know it, in our own history, and in that of dear ones, whom over and over again we have attempted to control—but all in vain. This "often" is found more or less in the history of every soul; how terribly in that of some! Perhaps, how terribly in our own! But Jesus can deal with our "oftens" as well as with our "seldoms," the latter frequently as bad as the former.

We mention them as embracing all our need, our omissions and commissions, our violence and our apathy, our all of evil, whatever it may be; therefore, let us take courage.

Man has failed. We have failed with others. We have failed with ourselves. The remembrance of the "often" is overwhelming us. We have expended all known means—fetters and chains—for binding up evil. Let us remember this demoniac’s "often," the "often" of his friends, and where we found him at last—at the feet of Jesus.