Diverse. Urban. Historic.

A diverse congregation set in the East Village

Capitol Hill Lutheran Church is a congregation in the East Village of Des Moines, Iowa. Our members were born on five different continents, are from 23 different countries, represent a range of sexual and gender orientations, and live throughout the metro area. We celebrate our diversity in all that we do. This makes things a little messy from time to time, but we think that’s a genuine expression of the body of Christ - and we wouldn’t have it any other way.

Capitol Hill Lutheran has a long history of supporting immigrant communities from the very beginning. CHLC was formed after the merger of two immigrant churches — Norwegian (Central Lutheran) and Swedish (First Lutheran). These congregations were safe havens for Latvians in the 1950s, Vietnamese refugees in the 1970s, and Sudanese refugees in the 1990s. They assisted in providing resettlement services to refugees of these and other countries by assisting with housing, education, food, and clothing for families in need.

Since the merger in 2001, Capitol Hill has continued to be a place for these refugees and others living in the margins to worship and participate as full members of the congregation. Capitol Hill Lutheran is in partnership with Lutheran Services in Iowa to offer weekly English language classes to refugees and immigrants in our building. Today we offer worship services in two languages and a Bible study in a third. We recently began an LGBTQIA+ group. God continues to provide new opportunities for our congregation expand this extravagant hospitality to others.

We are proud that, for generations, our congregation has been blessed by the presence of refugees and immigrants, and now to others seeking to hear the Gospel message. We will, through the power of the Holy Spirit, continue to be a place where all people will experience the grace and love of Jesus Christ.

All are welcome. We mean it.

CHLC is a welcoming community. Our diversity reflects God’s creation, and our shared unity is in Christ. Our history of welcoming refugees has extended to the work of anti-racism, uplifting the LGBTQIA+ community, and equity. We are an ELCA congregation rooted in the gospel message of Christ’s love and justice for all. We openly welcome and affirm YOU: your race, culture, sexual orientation, gender identity, gender expression, as well as those of you who may have been excluded because of other human distinctions such as ability, age, addictions, mental health, imprisonment or economic status. We are committed to being the body of Christ because we believe: it takes a village.

Sermon for the 2nd Sunday after Pentecost

Text: Luke 8:26–39

Title: Across to the Other Side

Grace and peace to you from Jesus Christ, Our Lord and Savior, Amen.

Let’s be honest—this is a strange and unsettling story. We have demons. We have

tombs. We have a herd of pigs possessed and stampeding off a bank to a watery

death. And we have a man, once chained and isolated, now clothed, calm, and at

Jesus’ feet—while everyone else is seized by fear.

But as strange as this text is, it is exactly what we need in a world where people are

still exiled, still stripped of dignity, still treated as disposable.

Let’s start at the very beginning: “Then Jesus and his disciples arrived at the country

of the Gerasenes, which is opposite Galilee.”

That little detail—opposite Galilee—matters. Jesus is crossing a boundary. Not just a

geographic one, but a social, political, and spiritual boundary. The Gerasenes were

Gentile territory. This was not Jewish land. These were outsiders. Foreigners.

Unclean. Unwelcome. And yet this is where Jesus chooses to go.

And the first person he meets is someone everyone else has tried to stay away form

and even forget. A man so tormented that he has no home, no clothes, and no

community. He lives in the tombs. He is literally surrounded by death. They tried to

restrain him with chains—but even iron wasn’t enough to keep his suffering under

control.

And as soon as Jesus steps off the boat, this man sees Jesus. And not just sees

him—he recognizes him. “What have you to do with me, Jesus, Son of the Most

High God?”

Let that sink in. This man—this wild, naked, terrifying figure—is the first person in

Luke’s Gospel to name Jesus’ divine identity so clearly. Not Peter. Not the disciples.

Not even the religious leaders. It’s this man, full of demons, living among the dead.

That should stop us in our tracks.

Sometimes it is the ones we have “othered” that can see what the rest of us miss.

Maybe because they have nothing left to lose. Maybe because when you’ve lived in

the tombs, you can recognize a Savior who brings life.

Jesus doesn’t run from him. He doesn’t fear him. He asks his name. And the man

says, “Legion.” That’s not just a spooky word. It’s a loaded one.

A legion was a Roman military unit of around 6,000 soldiers. A legion symbolized

military might, occupation, and systemic violence. This man doesn’t just have inner

turmoil— when the demon says their name is Legion, they aren’t just revealing they

are “many”, they are revealing what kind of “many” they are: violent, imperial, and

oppressive. He’s carrying the weight of empire. This man tormented by demons is a

living embodiment of what it means to be colonized - not just externally but

internally. Forces that have crushed him. An overwhelming psychological burden -

and his torment is layered. The choice of this name, Legion, implies that his

suffering isn’t random or vague, it is strategic and structured.

So when Jesus sends the demons into the pigs—and the pigs rush off the bank and

into the lake—it’s not just a weird plot twist. It’s also a political act. Pigs were already

unclean to Jewish listeners, and the drowning of this herd symbolizes the casting out

of something unholy and oppressive. It’s as if Jesus is saying: this man’s suffering is

real, and it is caused by powers that will no longer control him. Jesus doesn’t just

restore one person, he symbolically drives out the the structures of violence and

oppression that control him.

In Luke’s gospel, this story is a theological critique. Jesus confronts the spiritual

forces behind empire, and defeats them. It is about God’s power confronting the

powers of the world.

And it is interesting then, to think that the demons beg not to be sent into the abyss

but into the pigs, the unclean animals, and then they plunge themselves into the

water…which some scholars believe is a symbol of chaos and judgment in Hebrew

thought. Much like Pharaoh’s army going into the red sea, only to be drowned.

And so when the people see what’s happened—the man, now clothed and in his

right mind—you’d think they’d celebrate. But they don’t. They’re afraid. Deeply,

viscerally afraid.

Why? Why would they be afraid?

Because when real healing happens, when systems of control are undone, when

someone who was written off is restored to dignity—it disrupts things. It upends the

status quo. They were used to this man being out of sight, out of mind. His

brokenness fit their worldview. His healing challenged it.

So they ask Jesus to leave.

And sometimes, friends, when grace shows up where people least expect it—or

least want it—it gets rejected. Sometimes liberation is too much for those who have

learned to live comfortably with oppression.

The healed man begs to go with Jesus. But Jesus says no. He sends him home.

“Return to your home, and declare how much God has done for you.”

And this is where it all turns.

Because Jesus doesn’t just heal him—he commissions him.

He turns this man, who just seconds ago had spent a lifetime seized by demons and

out of his mind, he turns this man into the first missionary to Gentile territory in the

Gospel of Luke.

This formerly tormented man becomes the first witness to the power of God’s mercy

in a place no one imagined or perhaps wanted God to show up.

This story isn’t just about one man. This story isn’t just about a miracle. It’s about

Jesus’ mission.

It’s about crossing boundaries. Healing wounds that run deeper than the body.

Confronting systems that leave people chained up, living among the tombs. It’s

about dignity. Restoration. And testimony. And transformation.

And it speaks directly to us today.

Because still—still—we live in a world where people are cast aside. Where

immigrants are labeled as threats, where lgbtqia+ kids are being legislated out of

existence, where black and brown bodies are policed rather than protected, where

we chain people up in prisons and forget about them.

And still—still—Jesus crosses the water to meet them. To meet us.

To meet the ones the world has written off.

To say: What is your name?

To speak wholeness into our fragmented selves.

To cast out the voices that tell us we are too much or not enough.

To restore us.

And then to send us—to send you—to proclaim how much God has done.

So my prayer, is that we, too, cross over. We, too, risk disrupting the status quo.

We, too, see what others miss.

And that we never forget that Jesus still shows up in the places we fear the most—

offering not just healing, but belonging, and calling, and life. No matter what tombs

we find ourselves or others in. There Jesus is too. Amen.