Storms and Pigs and Hope

There are two relatively famous passages in the New Testament, and both of them happen back-to-back in the book of Matthew.

The first is this: In chapter 8 verses 23-27, Jesus and His friends are on a boat bound for the land of the Gadarenes, an area south of Galilee but north of Jerusalem. While they're sailing, Jesus decides to take a nap -- as one does on an afternoon pleasure cruise.

While He's dozing, though, Jesus's friends find themselves in a less than relaxing situation. A great storm hits, and suddenly the boys are fighting for their lives. Convinced their death is imminent, they rush to wake Jesus who is (understandably) grumpy at being awakened.

The boys have wakened Jesus not just to fill Him in on what's happening, but also because they seemingly think Jesus can do something about what's going on. ("Master, save us! We're going down!" (V. 25)).

Despite all of the other times throughout Scripture where Jesus accuses the disciples of not 'getting it,' this time, they seem to know about Jesus's identity and are hopeful that Jesus may be able to do something about the storm.

Something we don't think about is how often hope is born of desperation. Which is to say, maybe the boys weren't certain that Jesus could quell the storm. Maybe they weren't particularly confident that He could actually do anything to save them. Still, they had some semblance of a vague, nebulous sort of hope that just maybe He could try. Hope is uncertain, a fragile wishbone born of desperation and riddled with doubt. (Yet still, it's something Jesus can work with, isn't it?)

Surly from being disturbed and grumbling all the way, Jesus goes to the top deck and yells at the elements to chill the heck out, which is precisely what happens. The disciples are shocked, "astonished" (proof that they didn't really think Jesus could do anything, mayb whisper to eac

And other, "Did that really just happen? Who IS this guy?"

(Listen: we'll cut them some slack; I myself have been surprised when my own hope is rewarded or not found to be misplaced. I will pray for things and still be totally amazed when my prayers are answered. Maybe it's just part of being a finite creature who follows an infinite Creator.)

Anyway, so the gang finally reaches their destination and immediately, seemingly out of nowhere, they are greeted by a couple of "madmen." These madmen are "victims of demons" and have been living in a cemetery for a significant period of time. This is significant for two reason:

1. the men are homeless -- we don't know if they've been kicked out of their homes or they chose to leave them of their own volition, but the only place they feel they can go is to the cemetery and

2. Living around the dead was a no good, very bad taboo in this culture.

These men, therefore, are untouchable terrors. In fact, "terror" is the perfect word; we're told that they were so terrorised by their own demons (more on this in a moment) that they resorted to terrorising others to the point where no one felt safe travelling to visit the cemetery anymore.

And yet here comes Jesus. Walking down the path everyone else avoids, purposefully seeking out these troubled souls.

The "demons" in these men apparently recognise who Jesus is because they start screaming, yelling at Him that He isn't supposed to be there yet.

Like the disciples only a few hours ago, the madmen are scared. But whereas the disciples had hope, the madmen are utterly hopeless. How do I know that, you ask? Well, it's like this:

Whether you believe in literal demons or not, these men are clearly tortured by something -- be it supernatural evils or mental illness. They are sick, afraid, anxious, and hurting. They are literally crying out to Christ, "You aren't supposed to show up here, yet!" (V. 31). Hopelessness often looks like an inability to see healing when it's an opportunity right in front of us.

Jesus is coming directly towards them. He isn't avoiding their pain or ignoring it or pretending it doesn't exist. He doesn't question them, or ask them if they deserve to be set free from their pain. What we have here is nothing less than a rescue mission: healing has sought them out. Yet hopelessness can convince us that we don't want healing or we don't need it. It can whisper to us that we will never be better, so we may as well accept how things are now.

We grow accustomed to our pain, we live in it and live in it and endure it, and therefore it can become impossible to even imagine a way out. We fear the other side, the post-pain, because life will have to work differently over there. We will have to process our grief, traumas, addictions, losses but are we strong enough to write new stories? Isn't it so much easier to just sit in the one we're in right now?

Jesus doesn't have time to entertain the madmen's hopelessness, and they know that things are about to change because they wind up asking Jesus to send the demons into a herd of nearby pigs (which royally ticks off the local pig farmer community, which just goes to show that not everyone will care about or support your healing journey, but que sera sera.)

The men are set free, but Jesus and the boys are vilified because the demonic pigs crash over a cliff, putting several farmers out of business, so back to the boat they go.

What do these two stories have to do with each other?

This is the way I see it:

1. Storms precede healing (meaning: healing is not linear and there can be setbacks) and

2. We don't even always know when we need healing in the first place.

I don't always know when I need Jesus to seek me out and heal a piece of my heart. Or, sometimes, I fight Him when He does come calling, because I'd rather not deal with that particular hurt or issue yet, please. Let me keep living in the deadness of this setback, rather than grow a tiny seed of hope. Let me sit in hopelessness where it's safe. Because hope requires me to get on the boat; hopelessness lets me chill in the graveyard. And I may not like the view very much, but I certainly love the familiarity. At least I know what happens next, here, in the darkness.

Jesus is the boat AND the graveyard.

Jesus heals before I'm ready -- in both places.

Jesus confronts the demons I can't. He saves me and frees me and reassures me, and I am known and pursued each and every time.

You are too.

You may not believe me, but it's true.

I invite you to sit with yourself and Christ now and give this song (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UQrJioX9b_ga) listen. May it be a prayer that reveals where you need healing, hope, and new beginnings.