Mark 9:14–29
The scene at the base of the mountain in Mark 9:14–29 is chaotic. A desperate father, a tormented son, arguing disciples, and a crowd pressing in. Evil is not hiding in the shadows here—it’s on full display. The boy convulses, foams at the mouth, grinds his teeth, and becomes rigid (Greek: ξηραίνεται, meaning “withered” or “paralyzed”). It’s a picture of life being drained out—not just from the boy’s body, but from his father’s hope as well.
The evil spirit’s assignment is clear: to destroy him. It makes the boy mute. It seizes him without warning, and it often throws him into fire and water. Every detail underlines the spirit’s violent purpose and the father’s growing despair. Evil’s strategy hasn’t changed—it still works through uncertainty and fear, both of which feed our sense of powerlessness.
The Grammar of Helplessness
Mark uses the Greek language to communicate these realities so well. Two small verbs reveal a world of suffering.
In verse 18, the father says, “Wherever it seizes him”—ὅπου ἂν καταλάβῃ. The verb is in the rarely used subjunctive mood, which often expresses some sort of conditionality to it. In this use, it expresses contingency and unpredictability. Evil strikes “wherever, whenever.” There’s no pattern, no control. This is the grammar of fear—the helpless waiting for the next blow. The uncertainty of when it may happen.
Then in verse 22, the father adds, “It has often thrown him into fire and water to destroy him”—ἵνα ἀπολέσῃ αὐτόν. This verb is also in the subjunctive mood. In this use, the subjunctive expresses purpose: “in order that it might destroy him.” Evil is not random—it’s intentional. Its unpredictability hides its singular aim: destruction.
Together, these verbs show us what fear and evil share in common: they thrive in uncertainty and aim to destroy both hope and life. These verbs hint at the experience of what it feels like when chaos rules, and that no one—not even God—can help.
But Jesus
When Jesus steps into the scene, everything shifts. Where the demon’s power is unpredictable and destructive, Jesus’ power is personal, compassionate, and redemptive.
The Power of Compassionate Presence
And Jesus asked his father, “How long has this been happening to him?” Before Jesus performs a miracle, He listens. He looks at the boy and the father. He doesn’t rush past their pain; He enters it through conversation. His first act of authority in this scene is empathy.
The Power to Cast Out Evil
With a single command, Jesus rebukes the spirit: “You mute and deaf spirit, I command you, come out of him and never enter him again.” There’s no struggle, no ritual, no contest. Evil’s power is parasitic (1)—borrowing strength through fear—but Jesus’ authority is absolute. Colossians 2:14–15 captures the same cosmic victory:
“[Jesus] canceled the record of debt that stood against us with its legal demands. This he set aside, nailing it to the cross. He disarmed the rulers and authorities and put them to open shame, triumphing over them in him.”
The cross is the moment when all unseen powers were exposed as powerless before the love and authority of God.
The Power to Raise Up
After the spirit leaves, the boy lies motionless. The crowd whispers, “He’s dead.” But Jesus takes him by the hand and raises him up. The same verb will later describe the resurrection (Mark 16:6). Jesus not only frees; He restores. His power doesn’t just end suffering—it brings life from death.
The God Who Brings Order from Chaos
Our world feels a lot like Mark 9 today—noisy, frantic, full of fear. Wars, polarization, moral confusion, spiritual experimentation—all evidence that people are desperate for control. In a world racked with uncertainty, fear drives us to things that promise power but cannot deliver: tarot cards, crystals, algorithms, influencers, gurus, even the illusion of self-salvation. These are modern idols for an ancient ache—the need to feel safe when everything feels unstable.
But when we reach for what cannot save, we only deepen the chaos. To obey Christ in an age of confusion is to resist both panic and passivity. It means we neither join the world’s hysteria nor retreat into cynicism. Faith looks like daily trust that Jesus reigns—even when evil rages.
The Confidence of Resurrection
The story closes with a boy once lifeless now standing, whole and restored—and that image is the gospel in miniature. What the disciples and the father witnessed that day points forward to the greater victory of the cross and resurrection. The same Jesus who lifted that boy up by the hand would soon descend into death itself, and then rise in glory, breaking the final power of evil.
The resurrection is not just proof that Jesus can conquer chaos—it is the guarantee that He has. The grave, the most certain and terrifying form of human helplessness, could not hold Him. When He rose, He didn’t just come back to life; He inaugurated a new creation where fear and disorder no longer get the final word.
So when you look around and see the world unraveling—or when your own heart feels like it’s slipping into confusion and fear—remember what the empty tomb declares: Jesus reigns over all that once ruled you. The powers that sought to destroy have already been disarmed. The chaos that once seemed unstoppable now serves the sovereign Lord and his purposes.
To live in obedience to Christ, then, is to live in resurrection confidence. It’s to believe that His order will one day fill the whole earth as the waters cover the sea. It’s to walk into uncertainty not as a victim of fear, but as one held by the risen King—whose authority, power, and love remain unshaken forever.
Which is why the father’s prayer remains one of the most honest prayers in Scripture: “I believe; help my unbelief.” Jesus meets him there—not when his faith is strong, but when it’s trembling.
Obedience from that place doesn’t mean pretending you’re fearless. It means trusting that He is not. It means praying, forgiving, serving, and speaking truth even when you feel weak—because His power is made perfect in weakness. (2)
1) Augustine, who is often attributed with this idea of evil being parasitic on the good, says in Enchiridion on Faith, Hope, and Love, “And in the universe, even that which is called evil, when it is regulated and put in its own place, only enhances our admiration of the good; for we enjoy and value the good more when we compare it with the evil. For the Almighty God, who, as even the heathen acknowledge, has supreme power over all things, being Himself supremely good, would never permit the existence of anything evil among His works, if He were not so omnipotent and good that He can bring good even out of evil. For what is that which we call evil but the absence of good? In the bodies of animals, disease and wounds mean nothing but the absence of health; for when a cure is effected, that does not mean that the evils which were present—namely, the diseases and wounds—go away from the body and dwell elsewhere: they altogether cease to exist; for the wound or disease is not a substance, but a defect in the fleshly substance,—the flesh itself being a substance, and therefore something good, of which those evils—that is, privations of the good which we call health—are accidents. Just in the same way, what are called vices in the soul are nothing but privations of natural good. And when they are cured, they are not transferred elsewhere: when they cease to exist in the healthy soul, they cannot exist anywhere else.”
2) 2 Corinthians 12:9