(The sermon title is based on the fact that Jesus casts out many demons in today’s Gospel reading. But that title has almost nothing to do with the sermon itself. That happens sometimes when you choose the title before writing the sermon.)

Last Sunday we went to synagogue with Jesus. There, in the company of an ancient congregation, we saw his authority at work.

We saw him teach with authority, not like the scribes. And we saw him cast out unclean spirits – with authority, again.

That authority, I suggested, stems not from any wisdom the scribes lacked (they weren’t dumb), nor from any power that was unavailable to the spirits. (They weren’t weak.) Rather, I said, his authority was (& is) rooted in compassion.

Jesus cared about the poor and the weak and the outcast. He reached out to the sick and downtrodden. He spoke to people who were marginalized and at risk.

That made him different. He had a great big soft spot for people in need. And he exercised it.

Compassion is the defining characteristic of God’s power in Jesus. Compassion enabled him to go willingly to the cross, and rise from the dead in order to overcome all that ails and oppresses God’s people.

Compassion is also Christ’s ongoing gift to the church. It allows us – and even compels us – to do good works in his name. Compassion is the way Jesus calls us to relate to each other … and to the wider world.

I felt pretty confident locating Christ’s authority in his compassion. I still do. After all, the passage we heard last week unfolded in Capernaum – a town whose name means “Village of Compassion.”

To know Jesus is to know compassion. To follow Jesus is to practice compassion.   To call oneself “Christian” is to claim citizenship in his Village of Compassion.

Today’s reading proceeds from the previous one. Authority is still very much in play. But the question has shifted. Last week we wondered where that authority came from, and what it is made of.

Now the question is: “How far does it reach?”

• Is this compassionate authority confined to the synagogue (& to other houses of worship perhaps)?
• Does it work with people who cannot or who choose not to go to worship?
• Can our Lord exercise this same authority once the sabbath is over? And
• Does this compassionate authority extend to places outside Capernaum?

A series of vignettes helps us answer those questions.

When Jesus heals Simon’s mother-in-law of her fever in her home, we see that his authority is present beyond synagogue and church, as well as within.

We see, too, that his authority encompasses both men and women – at a time when the sanctuary was off-limits to women.

When night falls, and sabbath ends, and his work of healing and casting out demons continues, we see that his authority applies to every day of the week, not just the sabbath, and is available in daylight and darkness.

And, when Jesus awakens before dawn and leaves Capernaum to tell the good news and to cast out demons in other villages and towns, we see that his compassion is bigger than the place where he lives and the people who know him by name.

In Jesus, the words of Isaiah find flesh and bone. The voice of the prophet is fulfilled:

Have you not known? Have you not heard?

The Lord is the everlasting God,

We are still in chapter 1 of the Gospel of Mark. But already we are learning that the authority of Christ thwarts fevers and demons. It applies equally to every day of the week. It pertains to all people and goes to all places – places as hidden and remote as the desert where Jesus prayed, and as teeming with activity as the door of the house where the whole village gathered ’round him. In the darkness of nightfall, the hours before sunrise, and in broad daylight, the work of Jesus continues undaunted.

Yes, Jesus rests too. I won’t make him sound like a comic book super hero that never needs sleep.

He isn’t all work and no play.

Sometimes that’s hard on us. We want Jesus to appear at the first sign of trouble. We want him to ward off the diagnosis of illness. We want him to answer, each and every time we call, even if it’s been a while since we checked in.

Sometimes, just as Simon and his colleagues had to go looking for him, we awake to the fact that he’s not where we think he should be. He is elusive. He doesn’t sit still, availing himself to our timetable. He’s not Mr. Fix-It, with 24-hour-a-day service and a 1-800 number.

Yet even when he isn’t at our beck and call, Mark insists that Christ’s absence may signal a delay … but not a defeat.

At the right time and in the right place, Jesus will show up again, casting out demons and proclaiming the good news of God’s compassion and love.

And when he does, it’s a pretty safe bet that it will happen in a way that points toward resurrection.

We see that several ways in today’s reading.

For instance, v. 35 says, “In the morning, while it was still very dark, [Jesus] got up and went out to a deserted place [to pray].”

Do you hear anything familiar? Drop the last phrase, and listen again.

Compare that to John’s account of the women, going to the tomb at Easter:

Mark’s story in Capernaum and John’s report of the resurrection eacho each other – intentionally, perhaps. Then, as if to remove all doubt, Mark adds a decisive touch. He says, “[Jesus] got up and went out.”

“Got up” and “went out” – two resurrection verbs. It’s only chapter 1, the start of Mark’s Gospel, but already he is planting seeds and signs of resurrection.

And, lest we miss it there, Mark does it again a few verses later. He repeats the resurrection language. While talking to Simon Peter, Jesus says,

for that is what I came out to do.”

Jesus could have said, “That is what I came to do.” That would be incarnational language, about why Jesus was sent into the world in human form.

But no. According to Mark, Jesus says, “That is what I came out to do.” Another resurrection verb. It’s impossible to separate coming out of Capernaum from coming out of the tomb. Both serve the same purpose and goal.

It’s as if Mark is punning us toward God’s resurrection power. He uses a pun, a play on words, to alert us where the story is heading, and turns the whole Gospel upside down and inside out, putting the end of the Gospel right from the beginning.

It’s as if Mark got his pages out of order, and accidentally put a resurrection story up front. Except, I think he did it on purpose. He was telling his people that Christ’s authority and compassion inaugurate a new life here and now that you don’t have to wait for.

There’s one more instance in this passage where resurrection language seeps in. I point it out only because of where it leads.

When Jesus heals Simon’s mother-in-law, our English version says, “he took her by the hand and lifted her up.” But the Greek says, “raised her up.”

Resurrection language once again.

If that were all there is to it, I wouldn’t bother much to point it out. But Mark adds one more detail. He says, “Then the fever left her, and she began to serve them.”

That line should make every deacon in this congregation swell with pride. Because the Greek says, “she began to diaconei to them.”

She began to be a deacon to them. To experience Christ’s resurrection is to want to become a deacon and servant to others.

Our Presbyterian Book of Order defines the office of deacon as “one of sympathy and service.” That’s almost like saying “compassion and service.”

And it tells me that this woman, who had been raised in a prelude to resurrection, was eager to share the authority given to Jesus and his church – authority built on compassion.

Simon’s mother-in-law responded – as we all might respond – to Christ’s life-giving, life-affirming, all-encompassing, ever-expanding love …