Sermon for Pentecost V (Proper 7)
Redeemer, Cairo--Luke 8:26-39
We have a really interesting gospel story this
week—interesting as in “strange.” Jesus and his disciples make their way by
boat to the eastern shore of the Sea of Galilee. This is foreign territory for
them. Their normal stomping grounds are west and north of that oblong lake.
This is a Gentile area, not part of the land dominated by Jews like themselves.
Put simply, they were in the wrong neighborhood, in what they would have
considered a dangerous and unsavory neighborhood.
The minute they stepped out of the boat, not in a city or
town, but in what amounted to a rural cemetery, they encountered a crazy man
running around with no clothes on. It turned out he was demon-possessed—not
just by one demon, but by a whole horde of demons, such that their collective
name was “Legion.” The people from the nearby town were afraid of this guy and
tried to keep him chained up, but he kept breaking free from the chains—as well
as his clothes—and wandering off out of town into places like this cemetery,
where he just hung out around the graves.
I can’t say whether Jesus was afraid of Legion—we’re not
given that information—but I can say that he felt great compassion for this
man. Here was a human being who, through no choice or fault of his own, was
enslaved in a horrible and cruel way; his life had been effectively ruined as
long as this pack of demons was in control of his body. So Jesus did what Jesus
customarily did whenever he encountered human suffering, particularly Jesus as
he is portrayed for us in St Luke’s gospel: He cast out the demons and restored
the man to wholeness and sanity.
But then the plot takes another bizarre turn. Just before
Jesus casts out the demons, they beg him not to just send them off into the
ether, but to let them transfer to a nearby herd of pigs. He grants their
request, whereupon the pigs immediately go berserk and run off a cliff into the
lake and drown, and what we’re supposed to infer from that is that the demons
all died with the pigs, so Jesus pulled a fast one on them, demonstrating his
utter superiority to all the forces of Evil.
Then the people from the nearby town show up, and they see
the formerly deranged man, who had for so long been such a source of heartburn
to them, fully clothed and in his right mind and carrying on a conversation
with Jesus. Now, we might expect that they would be relieved and grateful. That
would be the logical response. But they’re not. They’re as nervous and afraid
as ever, and they plead with Jesus to go back where he came from ASAP. They
weren’t happy about their status quo before Jesus arrived, but at least it was
familiar, and they knew what to expect. Now Jesus has completely shaken things
up, and it never occurs to them that “different” in this case might actually
translate into “better.”
Of course, Jesus and his disciples were Jews, and the people
on that side of the Sea of Galilee were Gentiles. So there were a couple of
things going on symbolically that Jews, like many of the first readers of
Luke’s gospel, would have found at least interesting and probably quite
encouraging, but just confused the heck out of Gentiles. The setting for this
incident is a cemetery, a graveyard. And nearby is a herd of pigs. To Jewish
sensibilities of the time, these were both highly offensive conditions, symbolizing
every sort of four uncleanness imaginable. For us the cultural equivalent might
be a sewage treatment plant next to a rat colony. So what this means is that
Jesus is taking the offensive. He is going right into the belly of the beast to
do battle. He’s not waiting for Evil to come to him; he’s bringing the fight to
Ground Zero of Evil—a graveyard next to a herd of swine. And right there, at
symbolic Ground Zero, Jesus wins. Jesus is triumphant. Jesus conquers the
powers of darkness right on their own home field. The spiritual forces of
wickedness that rebel against God, the evil powers of this world that corrupt
and destroy the creatures of God, the sinful desires that draw us from the love
of God—everything that we renounce when we’re baptized and when we’re
confirmed—are cast out of us by Jesus just as he cast the legion of demons out
of that man on the eastern shore of the Sea of Galilee.
My friends, is it too much of a stretch to understand Cairo
and the surrounding area as symbolically similar to the territory of this
deranged man whom Jesus delivered from horrible oppression? Cairo has been a
place of great beauty; I’ve driven through some of the old neighborhoods of
stately and elegant homes. Cairo has been a place of great strategic
importance, and a place of great vitality. The evidence of that importance and
vitality can still be seen in the Custom House museum. But, in more recent
decades, that beauty and importance and vitality have all faded, and been
eclipsed by the shadow of death. It has come to mean for many what that
graveyard next to a herd of pigs meant for Jews 2000 years ago, a symbol of
decay and despair.
Jesus’ message to the people in the “country of the
Gerasenes,” as Luke refers to it, was one of hope and deliverance. The demon-possessed
man wasn’t the only one oppressed by the legion of demons who inhabited his
body. Through that man, the demons held the whole community hostage by
enslaving them to fear. Jesus gets out of a boat and says, by his actions, “You
don’t have to live this way anymore.” He offered the liberation of a demoniac
as a down payment on that hope of deliverance. It was a thoroughly encouraging
act. But the local people would have had to change their perspective in a
number of important ways in order to see that encouragement. They were not able
to do that. They recognize the mystery and the power of what Jesus has done,
but they cannot make a place for it or accommodate their lives to it. So what they do is just invite Jesus to leave.
Is that not simply heartbreaking? The one who offers them hope, the one who is
their only hope, they run out of town.
My beloved brothers and sisters, I know I don’t live here,
so I can appreciate that some of what I might say might ring a little hollow to
those of you who do. But I’m fairly certain that if God had become incarnate in
southern Illinois in our time, rather than in Palestine two millennia ago,
Cairo would be on his itinerary. Jesus would show up in Cairo with a message of
hope and encouragement, and with some act of power that would serve as a down
payment on that message. But wait: Jesus is going to show up bodily in Cairo.
Not in a body with feet and hands and elbows, but, a few minutes from now, at
this altar, as we offer our sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving, and that
offering is returned to us as the Body and Blood of Jesus the Christ, present
in our hands and on our lips and in our souls, infusing us and sustaining us
with the very deathless life of the Holy Trinity. Jesus is showing up in Cairo
this morning with a message of hope and encouragement, and our invitation is to
welcome him, to not make the same mistake as the Gerasenes made and ask him to
go away, but, rather, to invite him to stay for a while. And in so doing, we
open ourselves to the grace that enables us to be Jesus in Cairo, to
ourselves be symbols of hope and deliverance in this broken place. Praised be
Jesus Christ. Amen.
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