It’s called the Chinnereth, or Lake Gennesaret. The etymology of the name most likely refers to how the lake is shaped like a harp. The harp of David. It is the Sea of Galilee. It is a breathtakingly beautiful lake. The light from the rising sun shines on the fishing boats that are returning from a night of work and a few swimmers enjoy an early morning workout. Later in the day, it’s a few jet skies that you can see and tourist boats blasting Christian music. At night, a disco party boat slowly moves across the water all lit up with festive lights. More than a few fireworks lit up the sky celebrating the 40 year anniversary of the Six Day War. When you stand along the shore of the Sea of Galilee, history has a way of being smushed together.
      It was out there, somewhere in the middle, where Jesus calmed the storm. Over there is Capernaum, according to Matthew, that’s where Jesus made his home. Back there is Bethsaida, the home of Philip and Andrew and Peter. Just up there is Migdal, the home of Mary Magdalene. There are the sites made sacred by tradition: the Mount of Beatitudes here; and over there is where Jesus multiplied the loaves and fishes, and then there, that is where the Risen Christ served breakfast to the disciples on the beach.
      Early one morning, the sky as blue as you can imagine, the sun not yet scorching hot, a refreshing breeze blowing over the water, our group was out in a boat somewhere in the middle of the Sea of Galilee. We were surrounded on all sides by the topography, the landscape of the gospels. The guides and the boat crew and our group leader, they were all pointing out places back there on the shore. “So how about the Geresene demoniac?” I asked Professor Charlesworth. “Where was he from?” Thankfully he didn’t treat it like a “whose buried in Grant’s tomb” question. He could have just answered like Luke and said he was from the country of the Gerasenes. He turned me full around so that we faced the far off shore. He pointed to a hazy spot where the hills sort of rolled right into the water. “Right about there”, he said. And he reminded me: pigs, tombs, spirits, swineherders, Gentile territory. Over there, everything about it over there, everything about it was unclean. Luke records that it was “opposite Galilee”. I take that to mean more, much more than a directional cue. There wasn’t much beautiful when Jesus stepped out on the land of the Gerasenes somewhere over there, opposite Galilee.
      It didn’t take long for the begging to start. And there was a whole lot of begging going on. That man who lived in the tombs and wore no clothes, he fell down before Jesus and shouted at the top of his voice, “What have you to do with me, Jesus, Son of the Most High God? I beg you, do not torment me?” (v.28) And when Jesus asked his name, the response was “Legion”. It was the legion of demons who begged Jesus not to order them to go back into the abyss (v.31). There on the hillside was a large herd of swine. Those demons begged Jesus to let them enter the pigs (v32). As the word spread about what was going on, about what had happened to the man who lived in the tombs, all the people of the surrounding countryside came and they begged Jesus to leave them, for they were all seized with great fear (v.37). And the man from whom the demons had gone, the one who was now sitting at the feet of Jesus, the one now clothed, the one now at peace, that man begged Jesus that he might be with the One who had healed him. That he might stay. He begged Jesus (v.38).
      Jesus and the story of the man from over there, opposite Galilee. It’s a story full of begging. The begging, it’s not just Luke. When Matthew tells the same story, Matthew describes that same level of pleading. When Mark tells it to, he tells of all the begging in the narrative of the man from Gerasene who lived among the tombs, who broke the shackles used to restrain him. As Mark tells it, Jesus sort of has one foot back in the boat to sail off when the man begged Jesus that he might be with him (Mark 5:18).
      Of course, this man from Gerasene wasn’t the only one to beg before Jesus. Other healings, other petitions to Jesus in the gospel include a little begging; like when Jairus, the leader of the synagogue came and begged Jesus that he might heal his daughter, and when the Syrophoenician woman begged on behalf of her daughter. Others came to Jesus and begged, but this story of the Gerasene demoniac, it’s just so full of begging.
      The man begs not to be tormented. Jesus doesn’t torment him. He heals him. The demons beg Jesus to not order them back into the abyss, that place of the dead where spirits are imprisoned forever. Jesus didn’t order them anywhere. The same demons beg Jesus to allow them to enter that herd of swine. And in the language of Luke, Jesus gave them permission. The gathering crowds who were overcome by fear, who must have been put off by the swine herders loss of business, who liked it better when the presence of evil was a clearly defined, the people from all around beg Jesus to leave. So Jesus gets in the boat and returns to the Galilee.
      Begging. Begging. Begging. And Jesus saying yes again and again and again. Until, right up until, that man from whom the demons had gone. Right up until the man who was clothed and resting and sitting there at the feet of Jesus. Right up until Jesus was in the boat and ready to set sail back across the sea. Right up until the man begged Jesus to let him be with him, to let him go with him, to let him follow. Begging. Begging. Begging. And Jesus said no. Jesus sent him away saying “return to your home, and declare how much God has done for you.”
      You remember that often Jesus would heal someone and tell them not to tell anyone, not to say a word. Or when the disciples would be witnesses to something miraculous like the Transfiguration, and Jesus would tell them to say nothing to anyone. Well, apparently this was not one of those occasions for keeping the “messianic secret”, apparently over there opposite Galilee, it wasn’t so much about keeping quiet. Jesus told the man to go and tell how much God has done. Go and declare. Go and proclaim. But before Jesus said “go” he said “no” you can’t stay with me. In response to the Gerasene’s begging and pleading Jesus said no. And instead of getting in the boat with Jesus, instead of enjoy a few minutes of bliss at the feet of the Savior after years of torment there in tombs, instead of following back to Galilee, the man turned opposite Galilee, and he went away. “So he went away, proclaiming throughout the city how much Jesus had done for him.” He went away.
      In just a few minutes we are going to commission those who are engaging in various summer ministry opportunities here at Nassau; West Virginia, Guatemala, Ghana Vacation Bible School, Montreat, Middle School Arts Camp, Johnsonburg, and others we won’t name. The commissioning always sneaks up on us at this time of year and it appears almost as an after-thought. Partly that’s the time of year, partly we take for granted here at Nassau the myriad of opportunities through the summer, but mostly, I think, we underestimate, or we just assume, or we miss the chance, or we forget to mention, or we’re too embarrassed to claim the theological, spiritual, faith-filled foundation of being sent out by God to do the work of the ministry of Jesus Christ; to carry out the very mission of God, in far off places and in this community, serving strangers and serving the children we love, proclaiming with acts of love and with time devoted, serving as witness at the office, in the classroom, at home, in the world…in both word and deed, declaring how much God has done.
      Because when you live somewhere opposite Galilee, where the world crashes into the oasis of your faith life time and time again, Jesus isn’t going to let you just sit there at his feet. He sends you away. He sends you home. You and I, we were commissioned like Nicholas, at the day of baptism. Baptism, it is a once and future thing. The water dries, but everything else stays forever. The Forgiveness. The Holy Spirit. The seal of God’s love. The sign of the kingdom. Being cradled by grace. The washing. The naming. The sending. Your baptism, it is a once and future thing. So with drops of water from the river of grace still rolling down the back of your necks, and the Holy Spirit still falling so fresh, and eyes of your heart being overwhelmed again by God’s love, hear the very voice of God deep saying “Go and tell. Go and live, so I can use you”. Commissioning doesn’t quite describe it, does it?
      In a recent essay in The Christian Century, the Episcopalian preacher Barbara Brown Taylor writes about being sent into the world. She doesn’t call it that. She described it as being poured out. She says that “it is the church that has poured me into the world.” And how can a church survive that keeps pouring itself into the world? Taylor asks in a not so rhetorical fashion. “I cannot possibly say. All I know is the gospel truth (she concludes): those willing to give everything away are the ones with anything worth keeping; those willing to look death full in the face are the ones with the most abundant lives. Go figure.” “Leaving church” according to Barbara Brown Taylor, “is what church is for—leaving on a regular basis, leaving to see what God is up to in the world, and joining God there.”
      Pouring out. It’s not just the church that’s pouring us out. In the waters of our baptism, God is the one who is pouring us out. Sending. Go and declare.
      After all, I don’t think Jesus is going to let us stay.

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