Sermon:
February 21, 1999

Scripture:
Luke 11:24-26
Matthew 21:18-22

When I reached what I thought was my lowest point, somebody said to me: "Cheer up; things could be worse." So I cheered up and, sure enough, things got worse.

That line did not originate with me. But it could have been written by this poor, unnamed man in Luke's little parable. The man once harbored a demon. Then the demon left, or was expelled ... the story doesn't say. The demon wandered the desert in search of lodging. Finding none, it returned to the man. In the meantime, the man had swept, scrubbed and tidied his soul. So the demon went out and collected seven demons worse than itself. Whereupon, they entered in. And the Bible says that the man's "last state" was considerably worse than his first.

It's a great little story ... easy to visualize, albeit hard to understand. And don't blow any chance at understanding by getting all hung up on whether you believe in demons. What you think doesn't matter. What matters is what people thought in Jesus' day. And, concerning that, there is little room for doubt. First century folk believed in demons. They believed that demons caused illness. They believed that demons caused dementia. They believed that demons caused depression. And they believed that demons caused deviancy. Much of this belief they borrowed from the Persian and Iranian cultures of their day. And it's possible that Jesus believed exactly as they did. But it's also possible that Jesus simply worked within the cultural assumptions of his time. I'm not equipped to solve such questions here. Come join one of my classes. That's where I worry about such things.

In present-day conversations, however, I hear precious little talk of demons. People seldom tell me that demons have entered them ... or left them. To be sure, I have met a few people who have talked that way. But not many. Some people come close when they say things like: "I just don't know what's gotten into me" ... or "Whatever possessed me do to something like that?" But when I push them, they shy away from demon-talk as such.

I think it fair to say that whatever was bothering this man was both personal and powerful. I think it also fair to say that it was disagreeable and uncomfortable. But then it left. How? Nobody knows. Why? Nobody knows. To go where? Nobody knows. It just left. The man felt better. He breathed a big sigh of relief. He slept nights. He smiled more. He sang in the shower. People began telling him that he looked like his old self. And it must have felt like a monkey off his back ... a breath of fresh air in his lungs ... and a new broom sweeping clean.

Which is what Luke said. This man was like a tidied-up house. He'd gone through and swept out the corners, ridding the place of crud and cobwebs. He'd gotten it in order. He'd gotten it together. Then, whatever left, came back. Worse than before. Seven times worse than before. And why was that? Because, as Luke tells us, the demon couldn't find anyplace else to go. For it was believed, don't you see, that demons couldn't just run loose. They had to lodge somewhere.

Remember the story of the man who lived in the territory of the Gadarenes? That man was full of demons. One day Jesus called their bluff. "Get out of the man's life," Jesus said. The demons answered: "We'll go, but only if you send us into those pigs over yonder." Demons had to go somewhere, you see. So Jesus obliged, sending the demons into the pigs. Whereupon the pigs got crazy and tumbled over a cliff into the sea. Which is important. Don't miss that. For it was believed that demons could be neutralized by water. Which means that Jesus played "Let's Make a Deal" with the demons and still won. Water will trump demons every time. Which is why the demon that departed from the man in Luke's little story wandered through "waterless places," looking for lodging. Finding none, it came back to this tidied-up house of a man ... bringing seven friends.

That's the story. Short. Simple. A tad grim. Not terribly edifying ... at least on the surface. And for those of you who are overwhelmed by a need to know where this is going, let me announce three simple points. They are as follows.

1. It's hard to keep a clean house clean.

2. A full house beats a clean house, every time out.

3. Cleanliness is a far, far cry from goodliness.

Let's start with the obvious. It's hard to keep a clean house clean. Whenever I go through and clean the parsonage from top to bottom, I say to the wife: "Wife, let's see if we can keep it this way for awhile." Alas, it seldom works. Someone leaves a coat here, a sock there, a banana peel someplace else, and a dish in the sink. Or someone neglects the proper wiping of feet. It's hard to keep a clean house clean. Truthfully, in our house, it is Kris who bears the greater burden and has reason to voice the greater complaint. But you knew that anyway. Most of the time, she rolls with it pretty well. I am told that some women can get pretty volatile, yelling things like: "What's the matter with you? Were you born in a barn?" I wonder if Mary ever said that to Jesus? I wonder what Jesus answered? For he was, you know. Born in a barn, that is. We talked about that on Christmas Eve.

Ah, but we're not talking about housekeeping, are we? We're talking about more serious stuff. We're talking about the tendency to relapse. We're talking about slip-ups and fall-backs. We're talking about how easy it is to lose all the ground that one has gained. "Clearly," says Joseph Fitzmyer, "this saying of Jesus' warns against any smugness about the defeat of evil." Don't get too comfortable, it seems to say. Don't get too cocky. The thing that tripped you up once, can trip you up again.

Professionals in the diet business tell me that most of the people who take it off, put it right back on. Along with a little more. They are so disciplined, so careful, so focused ... for awhile. But having reached their goal, they return to old ways of eating. Pretty soon, they're back where they started. Or worse.

The same is true in the drug rehab business. Only the stakes are higher. Some years ago I received a personalized tour of a locked treatment facility for adolescents. It was a six-week residential program. At that time, it was considered to be the finest in the nation. I was impressed by the competence of the staff, the compassion of the caregivers and the creativity of the curriculum. But I was quickly sobered when the therapist said that over 50 percent of the people on first release will return.

So last night I called a friend of mine who works in the field of chemical addiction. He's as good as they come. And he's as up-to-date as they come. I asked him if the relapse rate has declined in recent years, given the improvement in treatment modalities. And I was saddened to learn that it hasn't. He said that things haven't changed in the last quarter century. It is still assumed that 30 percent of those released from a first hospitalization will relapse within 90 days, and an additional 30-35 percent will relapse in 180 days.

When you apply the relapse factor to imprisoned criminals, only the name changes. Among penal authorities, it is called "recidivism." But the rate of return to jail certainly equals that of drug rehabilitation ... and may even be higher.

We see the relapse factor in every sphere of life. Bad habits broken are bad habits slipped back into, just when you think you've conquered them for good. Destructive thoughts, against which you have barred the front door, reenter through unlocked windows in the basement of the soul. Crippling emotions defy even the best therapies and reappear in moments of weakness and vulnerability. Husbands and wives target harmful postures for removal, only to find that (20 years later) they are still doing the same dumb stuff that has worked against them from the outset. In fact, most every marriage has one issue that simply won't go away ... that threads itself through the history of the union ... reappearing at regular intervals. It's hard to keep a clean house clean.

But a full house beats a clean house, every time out. Notice that in Luke's little story, the fact that the man cleaned and tidied his house almost invited the demon to return, bringing seven friends along for the ride. If nature abhors a vacuum, so (too) does the human spirit. A swept room is to a demon as a red flag to a bull. "An empty soul," says William Barkley, "is a soul in peril." To which Adam Welch adds: "You've got to fill a man with something. It is not enough to merely drive out the evil."

Think of it this way. Once something destructive gets a foothold in your life ... be it an addiction, an obsession, a compulsion, or a pattern of destruction ... it begins to rule your life like a tyrant. It drains energy. It extracts loyalty. It commandeers control. But if that tyrant be toppled from the throne ... by treatment, therapy, conversion, exorcism, prayer, whatever ... it has to be replaced. An empty throne is an engraved invitation for the tyrant to return.

Years ago, in a sermon by a colleague, I had this explained to me in a way I could understand. Adopting a horticultural image, he suggested that there are two ways to keep weeds from overtaking your lawn. The first way is to pull them out, one by one. You take a knife to the roots. You wear out your knees. You add calluses to your fingers. And you kill countless hours in the process. The second way is to feed and fertilize whatever grass exists ... adding seed ... introducing nutrients ... aerating the soil ... thickening the turf ... so that weeds are literally driven from the lawn by the fertility of all that is lush, green and desirable. While the Landscape Committee might shoot a few holes in the edges of my argument, the point stands. Strangely enough, we are seeing the same subtle shift in the practice of oncology. Whereas once we treated cancer by "destroying the bad cells at any cost," we now make room for a mentality that includes (and sometimes favors) "reinforcing the army of good cells, the better to repel the invader and hold the enemy at bay."

Consider the old cliché: "Idle hands are the devil's playmate." It could well have its origin in this text. Why do you think that judges are more willing to sign an "early release" for a criminal who (while still in prison) has learned a new skill, lined up a new job, and generated a network of friends who will lend support in the initial days of freedom? Why do you think that recovering addicts go to halfway houses after hospitalization, where they can reprogram their future with minimal risk? Why do you think that parents of deviant teenagers sometimes sell their house and move to a new community, in order to ensure that their kid will have a fresh start, in a fresh environment, with fresh faces? And why do you think that no therapy is ever complete until the therapist helps the client deal with the future as well as the past? Because a house that has merely been swept and tidied invites a relapse ... while a full house beats a clean house, every time out.

Finally, cleanliness is a far, far cry from goodliness. The "good life" is a whole lot more than just avoiding the bad. It involves cultivating and harvesting the good. Years ago, I walked into a worship service, scanned the bulletin, and saw a prayer printed on the cover. I have since forgotten every line but one. The remembered line reads: "O Lord, I had thought it enough if my garden were weedless ... but thou hast desired not weedlessness, but fruit." Which suggests that God's judgment is going to come down harder as a result of the fruit I do not grow, rather than as a result of the weeds I do not pull. One of the most vicious displays of anger that ever came from Jesus was not when he drove the moneychangers from the Temple, but when he cursed and withered the barren fig tree. Why? Because it had no fruit. It failed to bring to the world that which was within its capacity to bear.

Anyone can tend a weedless garden. Anyone can keep a clean house. But it takes energy, intentionality and creativity to bear fruit. Still, fruit-bearing is expected. And not just any fruit ... but good fruit.

Clean-house people are those who embrace a religion built on negatives, while practicing a morality structured around avoidances. Clean-house people are known primarily for what they do not do. Which I would not disparage. For it is surely the focus of the Ten Commandments. Thou shalt not do this ... or this ... or this ... or seven other things besides. But that ethic short circuits both the spirit of the law and the style of Jesus. It also leaves the job half done.

As you know, I spend a lot of time preaching funeral sermons. I am told I do them well. That's because I make them personal. But before I can fit a sermon to a person, I have got to know the person. And in order to know the person, I have got to ask some questions of the family. Some of the answers I get are fascinating. I once told you that the most universal thing I learn about people I am about to bury is that they "never said a bad word about anybody." Which makes me wonder who buries all the bad-mouthing folks. It must be some other preacher. It certainly isn't me. I only bury the people who never had a bad word to say about anybody. But it always makes me wonder. How many good words did they say about anybody ... or for anybody ... or to anybody?

The second biggest group I bury are those who "never hurt a soul." But how many souls did they help? And a third group are defined ... usually by those who lived near them ... as having been "good neighbors." So I press the issue. When somebody says, "He was a darn good neighbor," I ask for a clarification. In response to which I hear:

Well, he never caused any trouble.

He pretty much kept to himself.

You hardly ever knew he was around.

And he always cut his grass.

Which is great. I want to live near people who cut their grass and never cause trouble. But that bears no resemblance to what the New Testament has in mind when it talks about being a good neighbor. Let us never reduce our concept of "the good neighbor" to something as shallow as that.

By contrast, I love what John Killinger once said about George Buttrick. John Killinger is a Presbyterian who was invited to submit an essay to the Christian Century, "in praise of a favorite teacher." He picked Buttrick, under whom he once studied preaching at Harvard. Buttrick was a scholar, a wordsmith, something of a loner, hardly an activist by personality or profession. But listen to this word of tribute:

The aspect of Buttrick's personality that stayed with me longest was the way he coupled discipline with style. His faith was tough and wiry. He seemed, every morning, to pit himself against the chaos and confusion of the world, until he accomplished something that would leave things a little more orderly when he went to bed.

To pit oneself, daily, against the chaos and confusion of the world, is several cuts above the keeping of a clean house. For it does leave things more orderly at bedtime. And it is the only surefire way I know to prevent the return of demons.