It is to humble us too, to throw us on our back, and let us see how utterly powerless human agency is. When you cannot get in the thin end of the wedge, much less the whole wedge; when the ploughshare breaks on the edge of a hard rock; when the edge of the sword turns against the armour, then it is to draw yourself out of self to God. You see it is a deadly evil, where only omnipotence can help. Your soul says, “Lord, put out thine arm! Now do it, and the glory shall be thine.” This is probably the chief reason; it is in order that God may get great glory to himself. He lets the devil have it all his own way. “There,” he says, “pick your own ground, fight in your own territory, manoeuvre in your own way, and, with a word, I will crush your power.” He gives Satan great advantage, lets him entrench himself firmly in the soul from youth up, so that the victory may be splendid to the greatest degree.
We have thus before us now, for our sorrowful contemplation, the case of one whose disease mocks the physician, laughs at all human endeavours, and defies the watchful care of mild and gentle treatment to mitigate its force, or ameliorate its fearful symptoms.
II. Turn we now with passing glance, to LOOK AT THE SCENE AROUND. The company is made up of five sorts of people.
There are the scribes—cynics, methinks, to a man—”We told you so! We told you so!” they say. “Your Master pretended to give you power to cast out devils. No such thing! you cannot cast out devils. Those whom you healed were not truly possessed. Little enough was ever the matter with them, and so they got better. They were fanciful, and they believed you through enthusiasm. The dupes of credulity, your incantations bewitched them, and so they got better. But you cannot cast out a devil—you cannot cast that devil out.” “Now then,” says one of the scribes to Andrew, “cast it out. Come, Phillip, try what you can do!” And inasmuch as after all trying, the devil would not go out—”Ah! just so!” they say, “they are impostors. There is nothing in it” Just recall it, friends, to your own memories, have not you seen men of that kind? “Ah yes,” they say, ” the gospel converts one sort of people, such as always go to places of worship, the more intelligent and respectable of the community, but, you see, it is no good in these tough cases. These hardened ones—it cannot touch them. They are beyond its power.” “Aha!” they say, “where is the boasted might of this great physician? He can heal your finger-aches; he does not know how to make these foul diseases fly.”
Then here is the poor father, all dejected. “I brought him to you—I knew you did cast out devils, and I thought you could cast my son’s devil out, and he would be healed. I am disappointed in you all. Yet I do think your Master can do it, but I am not sure that even he can. If such excellent apostles, as you are, have tried so hard, and have failed, I do not think there can be any chance for me. I am full of unbelief. O, I wish I had never brought my child here at all, to make a public spectacle of him, that he might be a witness to your failures.” That is the poor father. Perhaps that poor father is here this morning and he is saying, “Ah, I do believe, but still I am full of unbelief. I have brought my daughter; I have brought my child under the sound of the Word; I have prayed, and wrestled with God in prayer, and my child is not saved.” “I have brought my husband,” says one good woman, “but he is just as full of Satan as he ever was. I must give it up in despair.”
And then, there are the disciples, and they look pitiable indeed. “Well,” they say, “we do not know how to account for it. We cannot tell you how it is. We have said the same in this case that we were wont to say in others.” “Why” says one of them, “when I went abroad and just said ‘In the name of Jesus Christ I command thee to come out of him,’ the unclean spirit always did come out in every other case. I cannot comprehend this. I must give it up.” “We all must give it up,” says the apostles. For some unknown cause, this seems to be quite out of the catalogue of cases which we are commissioned to cure. And so we sometimes hear dejected ministers, after preaching long at such hard shells as these—they say, “Well, we cannot understand it. ‘The gospel is the power of God unto salvation to every one that believeth.’ Oh, it must be that these are fore-ordained unto damnation; we must give it up.” That is how unbelieving ministers talk—or at least the most part of ministers in their season of misgiving and chagrin.
But then there is the general crowd. They are neither this way nor that. They say they will see fair. “Come, clear the ring out. If Jesus Christ be not an impostor—if he be God—certainly he can heal this poor man.” Now here is the test and the ordeal, “If that man be not healed, we,” says the crowd, “will not believe; but, if he be, then we will believe that Jesus Christ is sent of God.” O dear friends, how often we have thought of those very hard cases in this way. There are hundreds of undecided people looking on and saying, “Ah, if So-and-so were converted, then I should say there was something in it. If truly we could have a new heart and a right spirit, then I, too, would turn to God with full purpose of heart.
There was the fifth party there, and that was the devil himself. Oh, how triumphant was he! “Ah!” he seemed to say, “try your exorcism; go on with your words; preach at him; pray at me; weep over me; do what you will, you cannot get me out.” There he seems to stand intrenched within the stronghold of the poor tortured heart. “Do your best, do your worst, I am not afraid of you. I have got this man, and I will keep him. I have so fixed myself in him that no power shall ever be able to heal him.” So we seem to hear that vile shriek of hell over some men, “Yes,” saith he, “I will trust him to go into Spurgeon’s Tabernacle. I know the thousands there have felt the power of the Holy Ghost in making new men of them, this is a case I can trust. There is nothing that will ever touch him. The great hammer has knocked the chains off many, but it cannot touch his chains; they are harder than iron. I have no fear for him;” and perhaps he is gloating his thoughts now with the torments of the man in another world. Ah, thou foul fiend! if our Master should come here this morning, thou shouldst sing another tune. if he should say, “Come out of him thou foul spirit,” thou wilt go back howling to thy vile den; for his voice can do what our voice never could have done. And may we not easily realize such a scene enacted in this congregation? You have the scoffers, you have the anxious parent, the ministry confessedly powerless in the matter; the crowd looking on, and the devil rejoicing that such cases are quite beyond human strength. What more can you want to vivify the picture before your imagination?
III. But look! THE MASTER COMES.
Ah! the master comes! Forthwith the scene changes. The lieutenants and the captains who began the battle did not understand the art of war; the were precipitant and hasty. The right wing was broken; the left began to reel; the centre almost fails. The trumpets of the adversary begin to sound a victory. Here they come—their dread artillery in front. What will become of the army now? Hold! Hold! What is that I see? A cloud of dust. Who comes galloping there? It is the commander-in-chief. “What are you at?” says he, “What are you at?” In a moment he sees this is not the way to fight. He comprehends the difficulties of the case in an instant. “Forward there! Forward There! Backward there!” The scale is turned. The mere presence of the commander-in-chief has changed the whole face of the field; and now, ye adversaries, ye may turn your backs and fly. It was so in Jesus’ case exactly. His lieutenants and captains—the apostles—had lost the day. He comes into the field; comprehends the state of the case. “Bring him hither to me,” says he, and the poor wretch, foaming and tormented, is brought to him, and he says, “Come out of him, thou unclean spirit.” The thing is done; the victory achieved; the undecided receive Christ as a prophet; the scoffers’ mouths are shut; the trembling father rejoices, and the poor demoniac is cured.
And yet when Jesus Christ came to cure this poor man, he was in as bad a state as he well could be. Nay, the very presence of the Saviour seemed to make it worse. As soon as ever the devil perceived that Christ was come he began to rend and tear his poor victim. As quaint old Fuller says—like a bad tenant whose lease is out, he hates the landlord, and so he does all the damage he can, because he has got notice to quit. Often just before men are converted, they are worse than ever; there is an unusual display of their desperate wickedness, for then the devil hath great wrath, now that his time is short.
“This article originally appeared here at Bible Bulletin Board.”
