When Jesus and his disciples had crossed to the eastern shore of the lake and arrived in the country of the Gerasenes, they were met by a man possessed of demons. He was naked and most likely rather wild-looking, since he lived in the caves and hillside tombs rather than in a house in the city. He must have been strong as well, since he had broken the chains and shackles with which the guards had tried to restrain him. Upon meeting the man, Jesus commanded the unclean spirit to come out of him. The tortured cry came next: “What have you to do with me, Jesus, Son of the Most High God? I beg you, do not torment me…”

Each time I read this story, I am reminded of one of the ministry assignments during my discernment process in the Diocese of Atlanta. Our group of would-be priests spent ten weeks at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Comforter, a small parish just off Moreland Avenue in the southeast part of the city. The primary mission of the parish was to minister to those men and women who lived in nearby “personal care” homes – most of them released from psychiatric facilities far too soon and all of whom had at least moderate emotional (and sometimes physical) disabilities. Our primary assignment was just to be present to these men and women – in a time of afternoon fellowship talking with them, worshiping with them at the Eucharist and then sharing a meal with them back in the parish hall.

In our times of just being together, we learned a lot about Bob and Harry, Denise and Mary and all the others – about their fractured pasts and the violence some had endured, about their current troubles with medications and ongoing care. As best they could, they shared their hopes and dreams, their frustrations and fears. During worship, we listened to their heartfelt petitions during the Prayers of the People. At the time for communion, we watched as they gently helped each other walk to the altar rail to receive the bread and wine. At supper, we met the members of the various parishes who came once a week to deliver and serve the meal and we took our place at the table with these special members of Holy Comforter. We listened and laughed and cried some more. At the end of each week, we wrote a one-page reflection paper that explored the question: Where had God been for us in that place and in that time?

We might reflect on that same question as we read the lessons from the First Book of Kings and from Luke’s Gospel. For the prophet Elijah, God was encountered in the darkness of a cave to which he had fled in fear for his life. In response to the voice who asked him “What are you doing here, Elijah?” the great prophet protested that he had been a faithful and active agent of the Lord, but now the people wanted to kill him. Then the voice told Elijah to go stand on the mountain as the Lord passed by. With our modern sensibilities, we might question the soundness of mind of a man who hears voices and then follows what they tell him to do. But we are told that Elijah was a prophet acutely attuned to the voice of God and he stood outside the cave as he had been instructed to do. After a mighty wind, an earthquake and a fire, there was only sheer silence. But Elijah heard the silence and – in it – the powerful voice of God telling him to go back in spite of his fears, to continue speaking the word of God to the people. God was present and would be with him.

In Luke’s Gospel, the troubled man and his demons found God in the person of Jesus standing on the shore of the Galilean sea. The demons howled and begged that they not be sent into the “abyss” – that place where disobedient spirits were imprisoned. Instead, they bargained, let us go into the swine if we have to leave this man. As soon as the spirits had entered the herd, the swine took off toward the edge of the hill and tumbled to their death into the sea. By the time the people of the area arrived, the man was sitting calmly at Jesus’ feet, fully clothed and in his right mind. He had been restored to wholeness. For the swineherds and the owners of the pigs, their livelihood was gone. For the others, this exorcism was just too much. They could not fit the mystery and power of Jesus’ action into their mental framework of the way life was or could be. So they asked Jesus to leave.

Perhaps out of gratitude, perhaps out of a desire to learn more, the man wanted to join the band of followers traveling with Jesus. Instead, he was told to go home and tell others about the good things God had done for them. He was to be a witness back in the Decapolis where everyone who had known him to be so troubled could now see the transformation – could now see him healthy and whole. I am reminded of last week’s lesson from Luke about the sinful woman who was forgiven and told to go in peace back into the village from which she had come. Just as the woman had, the man would indeed be a witness to the loving compassion of God as shown through Jesus.

In a time and place where swine and tombs were considered unclean, when people believed that demons were responsible for all sorts of illness and mental conditions, the response to this story must have been overwhelmingly positive. The destructive power of evil – represented by the demons – had met its just reward. In essence, evil had self-destructed. The story must have offered assurance of a greater power that could overcome the demons of the world and invited those who heard it to have faith in that power. For those outside the Jewish tradition – the Gentiles – this must have been very good news indeed.

We might see what the first-century Christians took from this story. But what does it say to our twenty-first century ears? Perhaps it speaks a word of hope to those who struggle with the “demons” of our current age – demons that come in all shapes, sizes and forms. For those who feel totally overwhelmed by the complexity of this world and who have lost their sense of identity among the countless number of “demons” they encounter, perhaps it offers a glimpse of the path to wholeness. For anyone who struggles to provide adequate care for loved ones or friends who struggle with some sort of mental illness, depression, anxiety or fear, perhaps there is a sense of comfort and peace. In this story, I wonder if we are able to hear the affirmation of a compassionate and caring God – one who crossed a lake to seek out a troubled stranger. I wonder if we are able to catch a glimpse of the mysterious power that is capable of vanquishing the demons and restoring a sense of wholeness. I wonder if we don’t offer our own prayers out of a sense of thanksgiving for this mighty power but also out of our own fervent hope that the presence of God will fill us up – leaving no room for the demons that threaten us.

We might ask ourselves what Jesus would have us do? I think that in each of our lives, we face lakes of some kind all the time. These “lakes” separate us one from another. In what ways might we be called to cross over to the other side and reach out to the troubled ones on the other shore just as Jesus did? In what ways are we asked to respond in compassion and care to those living on the margins – in the caves and on the hillsides of our world – who have limited or no access to effective care for their bodies and minds? In the face of our own fears and anxieties – our own demons – how are we asked to have faith and then to tell others of the good things God has done for us?

In my reflection papers, I wrote that God was always present during our evenings at Holy Comforter. The “demons” of the modern world might have assailed and tormented those we gathered with each week. Yet their faith was strong and unfaltering. They knew that they were surrounded by a community that cared for them and about them, so at least for a while they could throw off the chains and shackles of the demons they carried with them… They felt that they were welcome in a church that praised God in a joyful spirit of thanksgiving and blessing, so at least for a while they could come in from the margins and relax in the warmth of a real home… They believed that their prayers were being heard so they expressed them with a sense of knowing expectation. Each week, it seemed to take a little longer for their voices to subside.

But in that sacred moment of time between their earnestly spoken hopes and fears and the assurance from the priest that the Holy Comforter had heard their every request – in the sheer silence between the beats of our collective hearts – each of us could hear the voice of God saying, “Amen.  So be it!”