What we know is that the sacred Presence provoked a crisis. There is an unbelief which never can be silent, never wearies railing at the faith, and there is a corruption which resents goodness and hates it as a personal wrong. So the demons who possessed men were never able to confront Jesus calmly. They resent His interference; they cry out; they disclaim having anything to do with Him; they seem indignant that He should come to destroy them who have destroyed so many. There is something weird and unearthly in the complaint. But men also are wont to forget their wrong doing when they come to suffer, and it is recorded that even Nero had abundance of compassion for himself. Weird also and terrible is it, that this unclean spirit should choose for his confession that pure and exquisite epithet, the Holy One of God. The phrase only recurs in the words of St. Peter, “We have believed and know that Thou art the Holy One of God” (John vi. 69, R.V.). Was it not a mournful association of ideas which then led Jesus to reply, “Have I not chosen you the Twelve, and one of you is a devil?(4)” But although the phrase is beautiful, and possibly “wild with all regret,” there is no relenting, no better desire than to be “let alone.” And so Jesus, so gentle with sinful men, yet sometime to be their judge also, is stern and cold. “Hold thy peace—be muzzled,” He answers, as to a wild beast, “and come out of him.” Whereupon the evil spirit exhibits at once his ferocity and his defeat. Tearing and screaming, he came out, but we read in St. Luke that he did the man no harm. And the spectators drew the proper inference. A new power implied a new revelation. Something far-reaching and profound might be expected from Him who commanded even the unclean spirits with authority, and was obeyed. It is the custom of unbelievers to speak as if the air of Palestine were then surcharged with belief in the supernatural. Miracles were everywhere. Thus they would explain away the significance of the popular belief that our Lord wrought signs and wonders. But in so doing they set themselves a worse problem than they evade. If miracles were so very common, it would be as easy to believe that Jesus wrought them as that He worked at His father’s bench. But also it would be as inconclusive. And how then are we to explain the astonishment which all the evangelists so constantly record? On any conceivable theory, these writers shared the beliefs of that age. And so did the readers who accepted their assurance that all were amazed, and that His report “went out straightway everywhere into all the region of Galilee.” These are emphatic words, and both the author and his readers must have considered a miracle to be more surprising than modern critics believe they did.