Have you come to torment us before the appointed time? (Mt 8:28-34)

Gospel of Jesus Christ according to Saint Matthew

Matthew 8:28–34

²⁸When Jesus landed on the other side of the lake, in the country of the Gerasenes, two demon-possessed men came out of the tombs and approached him. They were so furious that no one dared to pass that way. ²⁹And they began to shout, "What do we have to do with you, Jesus, Son of God? Have you come here to torment us before the appointed time?"" ³⁰Now there was, at some distance, a large herd of pigs grazing. ³¹And the demons made this plea to Jesus: «If you drive us out of here, send us into that herd of pigs.» ³²He told them, «Go.» They came out of the bodies of the possessed and went into the pigs. At that very moment, the whole herd rushed down the steep bank into the sea and drowned. ³³The guards fled and came to the city, where they told all these things and what had happened to the demonic people. ³⁴Immediately the whole town came out to meet Jesus and as soon as they saw him, they begged him to leave their territory.

At that time, as Jesus arrived on the other side of the lake in the region of the Gadarenes, two demon-possessed men came out of the tombs to meet him. They were so violent that no one dared to take that road. They cried out, «What do you want with us, Son of God? Have you come to torment us before the appointed time?» Now a large herd of pigs was feeding in the distance. The demons begged Jesus, «If you drive us out, send us into the herd of pigs.» He said to them, «Go.» So they came out and rushed into the pigs. At once the whole herd rushed down the steep bank into the lake and drowned. The herdsmen ran off into the town and told everything that had happened, especially what had happened to the demon-possessed men. Then the whole town went out to meet Jesus. When they saw him, the people begged him to leave their territory.

Recognizing the Lord who crosses the boundaries of death

When Jesus enters the land of darkness and the demons themselves proclaim his victory

There are texts that disturb even before they edify. This is one of them. Possessed people screaming in a cemetery, pigs throwing themselves into the sea, and an entire city begging Jesus to leave—this scene seems anything but pious. Yet, it is precisely in this apparent chaos that something essential takes place: Christ's encounter with evil in its own territory. This message is addressed to anyone who doubts that Jesus can enter the darkest corners of human existence and emerge victorious.

We will begin by situating this episode within its geographical, liturgical, and editorial context—because the setting here is not insignificant. We will then analyze the dramatic structure of the narrative and what it reveals about the identity of Jesus. Three thematic axes will structure the core of our reflection: Christ's sovereignty over eschatological time, the logic of evil that negotiates but always loses, and the paradox of a humanity that prefers its swine to its own liberation. Finally, we will draw concrete implications for the spiritual life, before concluding with a prayer and a call to action.

When Jesus crosses over to "the other side"«

To understand this narrative, we must first grasp the geographical significance of "the other shore." Matthew tells us that Jesus arrives in the land of the Gadarenes after crossing the Sea of Galilee (Mt 8:28). This crossing is not insignificant. In symbolic and theological terms, Jesus leaves Jewish territory to enter foreign land, even considered impure according to the categories of the time. The Decapolis, a region with a large Hellenized population, was perceived by devout Jews as a space of compromise with Greco-Roman culture—pigs were raised there, which speaks volumes.

The crossing itself, which Matthew describes just before (Mt 8:23-27) with the storm having subsided, is therefore more than a physical journey. It is a theological movement: the Lord advances toward what resists his presence. He goes to the margins, the excluded, the territories of disorder. This is a constant in his ministry, and this passage is one of its most dramatic expressions.

The setting reinforces this impression: the two possessed men emerge "from among the tombs." In first-century Jewish thought, tombs were places of extreme impurity. Contact with a dead body rendered one ritually impure for seven days (Numbers 19:11). These men literally live in the realm of death. They are not simply sick—they embody the dark side of life, the very image of what sin and evil do to a human being when they take complete control.

From a stylistic point of view, Matthew condenses Mark's account (Mark 5:1-20), which devotes twenty verses to the subject and describes at length the single demon-possessed man in Gerasa. Matthew, true to his style, gets straight to the point. There are two demon-possessed men—perhaps to satisfy the rule of two witnesses (Deuteronomy 19:15), or simply to emphasize the public nature of the confrontation. What matters here is the direct confrontation between Jesus and the powers of evil, in their own domain, on their own ground.

The alleluia antiphon from James 1:18—"The Father chose to give us birth through the word of truth, to make us a kind of firstfruits of all he created"—is not unrelated to this episode. The "firstfruits" evoke a reality already attained, the first fruits of a harvest to come. If the Father begot us to be his firstfruits, then the liberation of these two men is not a mere isolated miracle: it is a foretaste of the re-creation that Christ came to bring about. Every exorcism is a firstfruits of the resurrection.

Liturgically, this passage belongs to Ordinary Time, a time when the Church meditates on Christ's royal sovereignty over all aspects of human existence—including the most obscure. It is therefore not an anecdotal text. It is a confession of faith presented in narrative form.

The structure of the drama: who speaks, who remains silent, who acts?

If we look closely at the narrative mechanics of Mt 8:28-34, we are struck by a radical asymmetry: the demons talk a lot, Jesus says only one word.

The possessed cry out—and in that cry, the demons themselves recognize Jesus: «Son of God» (Mt 8:29). It is striking. God’s enemies are forced to confess what the disciples still struggle to articulate. A few verses earlier, after the storm had subsided, the disciples had asked, «Who is this?» (Mt 8:27). Here, it is the demons who answer. Matthew’s Christology advances by contrast: those who resist Christ are often the first to name him.

The demons' question—"Have you come to torment us before the appointed time?" (Mt 8:29)—is actually a confession wrapped in protest. It implicitly acknowledges that there is an "appointed time" for their judgment, that Jesus has the power to torment them, and that his coming is linked to this eschatological judgment. In other words, evil knows its own end. It does not contest Christ's sovereignty—it tries to negotiate its timing.

This negotiation is itself revealing. The demons «begged Jesus» (Mt 8:31) — the same Greek verb parakaleō which is sometimes used for prayer. Evil, faced with Christ, is reduced to pleading. It no longer has any authority of its own. It can only ask for a disguised form of reprieve: "Send us into the herd of pigs."«

Jesus replies, "Go." Just one word in Greek: Hypagete. No ritual formula, no incantation, no visible effort. The word of the Son of God is sufficient. And the result is immediate: the pigs rush into the sea. What was meant to be refuge becomes a trap. Evil seeks to survive in the animal—and finds death in the waves. Here, the waters act as they did in the Exodus: they engulf the forces of oppression.

The town's reaction closes the story on a troubling note: the people "begged him to leave their territory" (Mt 8:34). One might have expected joy, wonder, gratitude. No. Fear prevails over gratitude. And Jesus leaves. He doesn't impose himself. He respects this refusal—while letting it weigh on the reader's conscience.

Christ's sovereignty over eschatological time

The question of demons — «before the appointed time?» — opens a window onto the entire theology of time in the New Testament. This «appointed time» (kairos (in Greek) refers to the end times, the final judgment, the definitive destruction of the powers of evil. Demons know that this time will come. They know it with a certainty that many humans do not possess.

What surprises them—and this is the whole revelation of this episode—is that Jesus acts NOW. Perhaps they were waiting to wreak havoc until Judgment Day. But now the Son of God, in his mortal flesh, crosses the sea and comes to them. The Kingdom is not merely announced: it arrives. It advances. It takes its stand.

This is what theologians call inaugurated eschatology—the conviction, central to the New Testament, that the end times have already begun with the coming of Jesus. The resurrection is yet to come, but its beginnings are already here. Evil is still active in the world, but its time is already numbered. Every exorcism performed by Jesus is an advance of the Kingdom into the territory of evil—a demonstration that the final victory is not merely future, it is already underway.

For us, this means something concrete: we do not live in passive expectation of a deliverance that will only come at the end. We live in the space of victory already won, even if it is not yet fully manifested. The prayer of exorcism, healing, reconciliation, conversion—all these realities are signs that the "appointed time" has already begun to assert itself in history.

Saint Paul expresses this beautifully in Romans 8:38-39: neither principalities nor powers nor anything else in all creation can separate us from the love of God. This is not merely a promise for the future. It is a present reality, established by Christ through death and his triumphant return.

The logic of evil — negotiate, disguise, destroy

The demons' attitude in this story is disturbingly consistent. They don't seek to fight Jesus—they know they would lose. They seek to negotiate. "Send us into the herd of pigs." It's a seemingly reasonable request: they accept being expelled from humanity; they ask only for refuge. What apparent generosity!

But look at what's really happening. By inhabiting pigs, demons hope for two things. First, to survive—to continue exerting influence in the material world, even if displaced. Second, to cause considerable economic damage: an entire herd of pigs means the ruin of a farmer, the loss of an entire community. Evil, even when constrained, seeks to harm. Even in its partial defeat, it plots its revenge.

This is a pattern that spiritual tradition has clearly identified. Saint Ignatius of Loyola, in his Rules for the discernment of spirits, He notes that the enemy acts "like a warlord who attacks where he senses weakness." He never confronts head-on what he cannot defeat. He diverts, he offers alternatives, he negotiates compromises. Temptation is almost never a direct invitation to evil—it is almost always a gradual slide, a seemingly reasonable way out.

In concrete spiritual life, this pattern recurs every time we accept a "refuge" for a reality we should frankly expel. We don't get rid of an addiction, a resentment, a destructive habit—we displace it. We transfer it. We find it a new home that seems less serious. And the flock ends up in the sea.

The pigs' fall into the flood was not an accident. It revealed what evil inevitably produces when given even the slightest foothold. Jesus' mercy is not a weak tolerance of destructive forces—it is a radical liberation that rejects all compromise.

The paradox of fear — preferring one's pigs to one's freedom

The town's final reaction is perhaps the most disturbing part of the entire story. Freed men, an extraordinary power manifested, an unambiguous divine intervention—and the people's response is: "Leave." They beg Jesus to leave their territory.

Why? Matthew doesn't explain. But we can reasonably imagine several reasons, all relevant to our own spiritual psychology.

First, there was the economic fear. The pigs represented considerable capital. Their loss was a real financial catastrophe. And if Jesus stayed, what would he do next? Who would be the next to lose their possessions for the sake of a liberation no one had asked for? Christ cost something—and not just symbolically.

Then there is the fear of change. These two possessed people had lived in the tombs for a long time. They were part of the landscape—a horrible landscape, certainly, but known. Established poverty is sometimes less frightening than the unknown of freedom. What Jesus did shatters a balance, even a tainted one. And for many, instability is more terrifying than suffering.

Finally, perhaps, there is the fear of God himself. To truly encounter the Son of God is to find oneself before someone who sees you completely—your flaws, your complicity, your cowardice. Like Peter who says to Jesus, «Go away from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man» (Luke 5:8), the city of the Gadarenes reacts with rejection to what disturbs its comfortable mediocrity.

This paradox is universal. How often do we prefer our "pigs"—our habits, our securities, our bourgeois certainties—to the radical freedom that Christ offers? How often do we invite Jesus to leave our territories because his presence costs us too much?

What this text changes in concrete life

In personal life

The first practical teaching is an invitation to name what dwells in the "graves" of our inner selves. Everyone has their dead zones—buried fears, recurring sins, unresolved grief, secret resentments. Jesus goes precisely there. He doesn't turn away from these zones. He goes right through them.

The liberation it offers is total—but it presupposes that one does not negotiate refuge for what one wishes to keep. Regular examination of conscience, sacramental confession, spiritual direction: these are practices that allow one not to be content with a mere "expulsion to the pigs" but with true healing.

In community and church life

The Church, too, can prefer its "pigs" to the unsettling presence of Christ. When a community organizes itself more to protect itself than to liberate, when it prefers institutional comfort to the evangelical mission in difficult areas—it resembles the city of Gadara. Christ knocks on the door of our ecclesiastical comforts as well.

The pastoral care of exorcism, the ministry of accompanying people under the influence of evil—addictions, cults, violence—is a contemporary form of what Jesus accomplishes on the other side of the world. It requires courage, solid training, and above all, the conviction that Christ is truly sovereign over all these realities.

In social and cultural life

The text also speaks to contemporary society. A culture that prioritizes the order of its markets over the liberation of wounded human beings resembles the Gadarene crowd. Economic priorities that prevail over human dignity, policies that manage marginalized populations rather than integrate them—these are modern forms of the same reflex: «Leave. You’re disturbing our equilibrium.»

Rooted in tradition: from the Church Fathers to contemporary spirituality

The Church Fathers meditated at length on this episode, and their readings are surprisingly rich.

Saint Hilary of Poitiers, in his commentary on Matthew, sees in the two possessed men a representation of the two peoples—Jews and Gentiles—both liberated by the same Christ. The universal dimension of the Redemption is thus inscribed in the very geography of the narrative: Jesus crosses to the other side to signify that his victory over evil knows no ethnic or religious boundaries.

Origen, in his

Homilies on the Gospel of Luke

(He also comments on the Synoptic parallels), interpreting the tombs as a symbol of mortal sin—that death of the soul which precedes the death of the body. To live among the tombs is to live in a state of grave sin, cut off from God and others. The liberation brought about by Jesus is thus an anticipated resurrection, a return to real life.

Saint John Chrysostom, in his Homilies on Matthew, It emphasizes Christ's sovereign control: the demons plead, Christ commands. There is no struggle, no visible effort. This says something essential about the nature of divine authority—it does not need to demonstrate itself through violence, it asserts itself through the simple word.

In more recent spiritual tradition, Father René Laurentin and the work on deliverance within the Charismatic Renewal have reminded us that the Church is not defenseless against demonic realities. The ministry of deliverance—distinct from solemn exorcism—is a form of spiritual accompaniment that draws directly on such texts to remind us that Christ is always sovereign.

The theology of Karl Barth also deserves a mention. In his interpretation of the doctrine of sin as "nothingness" (das NichtigeHe notes that evil has no inherent positivity—it is a reality that God rejects, a residue of creation that Christ definitively annihilates. The demons who plead and the pigs that drown are, in this perspective, the narrative dramatization of this dogmatic conviction.

Lectio divina

Entering the land of the Gadarenes

Prayer on this text can follow the Ignatian method of composing a place — putting oneself in the scene in one's imagination and letting the Word act.

First step — The crossing. Imagine yourself in the boat with Jesus, crossing to the other side. What does "the other side" represent for you? What area of your life feels foreign, impure, too disordered for God to enter? Let Jesus get into that boat and cross with you.

Second stage — The tombs. Let us now walk into this inner cemetery. What lies in your dead zones? Unresolved grief? Sins you have not yet brought to confession? Fears that paralyze you? Simply name them, without shame, before Jesus who comes toward you.

Third stage — The scream. The demons cry out, "Son of God!" Even your inner resistance knows who Jesus is. Let that resistance rise within you—fear, shame, the temptation to compromise. And hear Jesus simply say, "Go."«

Fourth stage — The question of the city. Now the real question: will you beg Jesus to leave, or will you let him stay? What do you stand to lose if you fully accept his presence? Offer him this "herd of pigs" that you haven't yet been willing to let go of.

The challenges that this text poses to our time

This narrative is profoundly counter-cultural on at least three levels, and it would be dishonest not to look at them head-on.

The question of personal harm. Our contemporary culture is deeply uncomfortable with the idea of a personal demonic reality. The humanities and psychiatry have shed valuable—and often decisive—light on what was once called "possession": dissociative psychosis, unintegrated trauma, personality disorders. The Church itself, in its directives on exorcism (From Exorcisms and Supplicationibus Quibusdam, 1999), insists on the need for a prior medical examination and collaboration with mental health professionals.

However, reducing the reality of evil entirely to psychological pathologies would be a form of spiritual euhemerism—dissolving the transcendent into the immanent. The Catechism of the Catholic Church clearly affirms the reality of fallen angels (CCC 391-395) and their possible influence on human reality. Wisdom lies in not confusing the two realms, while acknowledging that they can coexist.

The question of the cost of liberation. The loss of the pigs is troubling because it raises a real economic question: Does Jesus have the right to cause material ruin in order to effect spiritual healing? Tradition has often answered that human dignity takes precedence over any economic gain. But the question of the cost of evangelization—personal, institutional, and economic—remains a burning issue for a Church that must weigh its finite resources against its infinite mission.

The question of refusal. Jesus leaves when asked to leave. He does not force his presence. This profoundly challenges our understanding of mission: do we proclaim the Gospel as an offer that respects freedom, or as a conquest that imposes itself? The postmodern Church, scarred by the excesses of the past, is particularly sensitive to this tension. This text invites it to a posture of humility: to offer, to bear witness, to cross to the other side—but to leave the other free to respond.

Prayer

Lord Jesus, Son of God,

You crossed the sea to come to the land of darkness. You did not wait for this land to be clean, orderly, pleasant to visit. You came to the tombs, to the men whom everyone avoided, to the territories that your own law declared unclean. And you came without weapons, without ceremony, without procession—simply you, with your sovereign word.

We thank you for this crossing.

Lord, you know our tombs. Sometimes we try to hide the entrance from you—to present the carefully arranged, visible part of our lives and barricade what we dare not show. But you come precisely there. Your mercy is not afraid of impurity. It does not turn away from shame. It moves forward.

Teach us not to negotiate refuge for what still holds us in chains. Teach us not to say, «Send it to the pigs»—not just to shift our resistance, but to truly place it in your hands. You are the Lord of time. The «appointed time» for the victory of good over evil, you have already laid the foundations for in your death and resurrection. Nothing that oppresses us has the final word before you.

Protect us from the reaction of the Gadarenes. Protect us from that petty fear that begs the Savior to leave because He disturbs our commerce, our habits, our comfortable arrangements with sin. When Your presence costs us something—and it always will—grant us the grace not to shrink back.

And for those who, at this moment, live in their own graves—wounded by life, crushed by realities beyond their control, prisoners of addictions or hatreds they can no longer escape—be their liberator. Cross over to their shore. Speak your sovereign word. And may the waves engulf, once and for all, what holds them captive.

We pray to you with the words of the Church, with those who have prayed before us for twenty centuries, with all those who have experienced your deliverance: come, Lord Jesus. Cross over again. And stay.

Amen.

Do not beg Jesus to leave

This account from Matthew 8:28-34 is an invitation to a choice. Not an abstract choice, not a comfortable theological option—a real choice, rooted in the flesh of our daily lives.

The choice between being like the freed possessed — who lost everything except the essentials and gained everything — or being like the city of Gadara, which preferred its pigs to its deliverance.

Christ crosses over to our shores. He enters our dead zones. He does not negotiate with that which destroys us. And he leaves if we ask him to—but he leaves free, sovereign, without bitterness, simply leaving behind the trace of his presence and the open question of our response.

The good news of this episode isn't primarily the exorcism—spectacular, but secondary. The good news is that the Son of God crosses the sea to come and find us, right where we are, just as we are. And that his word—a single word, "Go"—is enough to change everything.

Don't tell him to leave.

Key points to remember

• The demons recognize Jesus as the Son of God even before his disciples: Christology advances by contrast in the Gospel of Matthew.
• The "fixed moment" reveals that evil has its own end; each exorcism is an advance of the eschatology inaugurated in present history.
• The demons' negotiation ("send us into the pigs") illustrates the logic of evil: displaced, never truly expelled, it always seeks to settle elsewhere and cause new damage.
• The loss of the pigs raises questions about the true cost of liberation: accepting Christ's healing sometimes means sacrificing very real economic, social, or psychological security.
• The city's reaction — begging Jesus to leave — is a mirror held up to each reader: do we prefer our settled comforts to the disturbing but liberating presence of the Savior?
• The crossing to "the other side" is a permanent theological figure: Christ goes to the margins, the impurities, the zones of death — it is there that he most fully exercises his sovereignty.
• The passage from James 1:18 in antiphon suggests that every liberation accomplished by Christ is a "firstfruits" of the new creation already at work.

References

Primary Sources

• 

  Jerusalem
  Matthew 8:28-34 (TOB, Jerusalem Bible, AELF liturgical translation)
• James 1:18 (liturgical context)
• Mark 5:1-20 (Synoptic Parallel)
• Luke 8:26-39 (Synoptic parallel)
• Origen, Homilies on the Gospel of Luke, SC 87
• John Chrysostom, Homilies on Matthew, hom. 28, PG 57

Secondary sources

• Hilary of Poitiers, Comment on Matthew, SC 254
• Karl Barth, Dogmatic, t. III/3 (the "nothingness" as a reality rejected by God)
• René Laurentin & Henri Joyeux, Medical and scientific studies on the Medjugorje apparitions ; and more directly The demon: myth or reality?, Paris, Fayard, 1995
• Catechism of the Catholic Church, §391-395 (fallen angels), §1673 (exorcism)
• From Exorcisms and Supplicationibus Quibusdam, Rituale Romanum, Congregation for Divine Worship, 1999
• John P. Meier, A certain Jew, Jesus, t. II (The Miracles), Cerf, 2004

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