Worship is at the heart of who we are.

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 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.

- Pastor Minna Bothwell