Sept / 16 / 2025

“A spirit has robbed him of speech.”

Picture this: a desperate father, elbowing through a crowd in ancient Galilee, clutching the frayed edges of his hope like a man who’s just realized his wallet’s gone missing in a divine pickpocket scheme. “Teacher,” he blurts out in Mark 9:17, “I brought you my son, who is possessed by a spirit that has *robbed* him of speech.” Robbed. Not gently borrowed, not misplaced in some cosmic filing error—robbed. As if Satan himself is out there running a black-market operation on human dignity, snatching voices, health, and futures with the glee of a thief who knows the cops are on coffee break. And Jesus? He’s not there to commiserate over the loss. No, He’s the divine restitution agent, the one who turns the tables and declares, in essence, “That’s not how this story ends.” Because while Satan steals, kills, and destroys, Jesus—that is, God in the flesh—shows up to give life, and life to the full (John 10:10). It’s a total takedown, a comprehensive comeback, where the enemy’s heists meet their match in the King’s vault of abundance.

Let’s not rush past that word, though: “robbed”. The NIV nails it here, capturing the raw theft at play. This isn’t some vague affliction drifting in from the ether; it’s a deliberate grab, a demonic mugging. The father isn’t whining about a genetic glitch or the general brokenness of a fallen world—he’s pointing the finger straight at the spirit doing the dirty work. And Jesus doesn’t correct him with a theological footnote about Adam’s ancient fumble in the garden. No, He rolls up His sleeves, rebukes the foul spirit, and sends it packing, leaving the boy whole. It’s a scene that echoes through the Gospels like a divine audit: Satan as the ultimate con artist, pilfering what God intended for flourishing. But here’s the frank truth, straight from the self-authenticating pages of Scripture—our epistemology’s unyielding foundation: This robbery isn’t God’s idea. It’s not His script. God doesn’t script poverty of body or spirit; He authors prosperity, health, and unhindered communion. To think otherwise is to buy into the devil’s counterfeit theology, where lack masquerades as piety and suffering as sanctity. What a con. What a waste.

Dig a little deeper into Jesus’ ministry, and you see this contrast isn’t a one-off plot twist—it’s the central narrative arc. From the synagogue in Capernaum to the dusty roads of Judea, Jesus doesn’t just forgive sins in some ethereal corner of the soul; He pairs it with healing the body, restoring the broken, and multiplying the loaves like He’s got a divine expense account with no limits. Remember the paralytic lowered through the roof in Mark 2? “Son, your sins are forgiven,” Jesus declares. The scribes mutter about blasphemy, so He follows up: “Which is easier: to say, ‘Your sins are forgiven,’ or to say, ‘Get up, take your mat and walk’?” Then—bam—the man walks. Forgiveness and function, absolution and ability, bundled together like a covenant combo meal. It’s total salvation on display, where spiritual restoration isn’t isolated from material wholeness. Satan robs on both fronts: voices silenced in shame, bodies bent in pain, wallets emptied in want. But Jesus? His life-giving ministry hits back harder, broader, deeper. He doesn’t offer a half-measure grace that patches the soul while leaving the flesh to fester. No, He restores the whole package, because anything less would dishonor the God who, from Genesis onward, pronounced creation “very good”—abundant, integrated, thriving.

And let’s not kid ourselves: This robbery extends to the material realm, too. The same spirit that mutes a boy’s speech whispers lies about scarcity, convincing folks that God’s too stingy for silver or too sovereign to care about supper. But Scripture shreds that nonsense. Satan steals health *and* wealth, binding people in cycles of lack that mock the Creator’s generosity. Look at the widow’s oil in 2 Kings 4—multiplied by God’s word through Elisha—or Abraham’s flocks swelling under heaven’s favor. These aren’t anomalies; they’re previews of the blessing that flows from faith. Jesus embodies it fully: feeding five thousand from a boy’s lunch, turning water to wine without a single budget meeting. His high priesthood isn’t one of half-rations and holy poverty; it’s the ministry of righteousness, healing, and prosperity (as Peter sums it up in Acts 10:38). To claim Jesus as your priest while nursing a theology of deprivation is like hiring a chef who specializes in feasts and then settling for stale bread. It’s not devotion; it’s delusion. God’s unmerited favor supplies man—man doesn’t supply God. Satan peddles the lie that lack builds character; Jesus proves abundance glorifies the Father.

Now, pivot to that sevenfold restoration—the Bible’s bold promise of over-the-top payback. Joel 2:25 thunders it: “I will repay you for the years the locusts have eaten—the great locust and the young locust, the other locusts and the locust swarm—my great army that I sent among you.” Not just a refund, mind you, but a surplus, a divine interest rate that turns theft into treasure. Zechariah 9:12 echoes the vibe: “Return to your fortress, you prisoners of hope; even now I announce that I will restore twice as much to you.” Twice? Try seven, as the pattern holds from Job’s double-down restoration to the prodigal’s fatted calf welcome. This isn’t cosmic compensation for pity’s sake; it’s God’s sovereign logic at work, where what the enemy meant for ruin becomes rocket fuel for glory. Satan robs your speech? God restores your voice—with volume, clarity, and a testimony that echoes through eternity. He robs your health? Expect not just mending, but vitality that turns heads and topples strongholds. Wealth pilfered? Watch as storehouses overflow, not from sweat alone, but from the blessing of Abraham crashing through the gates of grace.

But here’s where the rubber meets the road, and the wit turns a shade sharper: If the curse of Adam looms in the background—and it does, that primal fracture rippling through creation—Jesus didn’t leave it hanging like a bad sequel. Galatians 3:13 lays it bare: “Christ redeemed us from the curse of the law by becoming a curse for us, for it is written: ‘Cursed is everyone who is hung on a pole.'” Substitutionary atonement in action: Jesus absorbs the thorns, the sweat, the silence of the tomb, so you get the garden’s bounty. The father in Mark 9 doesn’t blame Adam’s echo; he names the demon. Jesus doesn’t theologize about original sin; He evicts the intruder. The bent-over woman in Luke 13? “Ought not this woman, a daughter of Abraham whom Satan has kept bound for eighteen long years, be set free on the Sabbath day?” Satan, not some vague curse, gets the credit for the crook in her spine. Sure, the Fall set the stage for such invasions, but Jesus spotlights the squatter, the thief in the night. And why? Because pinpointing the robber empowers the resistance. If it’s just “the curse,” you shrug in fatalism (aka the Christian word for “if it is God’s will”). But if it’s Satan—and Scripture screams it is—then you’ve got a command: Resist the devil, and he will flee (James 4:7). Cast out spirits, heal the sick, reclaim the stolen. Faith isn’t passive therapy; it’s aggressive restitution.

Frankly, if you’re sitting on robbed health or pilfered prosperity, nursing it like a badge of spiritual maturity, you’re not just missing the plot—you’re aiding and abetting the heist. You’re a willing accomplice, handing Satan the getaway car keys while Jesus stands ready with the restitution check. Maxim 16 cuts like a surgeon’s scalpel: Reprobates who resist faith on demand for healing and blessings have sided with demons to trample the blood of Christ. Ouch? Good. Truth should sting when it exposes the lie. God isn’t the miser doling out affliction for your “growth”; He’s the Father who, through the Son, has already swapped curse for blessing, poverty for plenty. Abraham’s seed? That’s you, insider to the Contract, heir to the abundance; inheritor of Jesus who is the resurrection of life “now,” not just pie-in-the-sky later. To accept the robbery without a fight is to declare Jesus’ cross as ineffective, His resurrection a footnote. But no—His life is abundant, total, sevenfold-plus. Satan steals your speech? Jesus restores your shout of praise. He binds your back? You walk tall in dominion. He empties your coffers? You sow in faith and reap barns that burst.

Don’t let the thief define your story. Scripture interprets itself, originalist to the core, and it screams restoration over ruin. Start with the self-authenticating Word: Your faith saved you—from sin, from sickness, from scarcity. Confess it daily, relentlessly: “Satan, you robbed what was mine, but Jesus redeemed it sevenfold. I take it back now, in His name.” Command the mute spirit out, the bent frame straight, the empty hands full. Reality obeys faith, because the resurrected King backs your play. It’s not arrogance; it’s agreement with God, whose love to you, makes you worth the overpayment. And when the loot rolls in—health humming, wealth working, voice vibrating with victory—remember: This glorifies Him, who is the power, the love and the giver; not you. It’s the Father’s joy to lavish on sons who believe.

In this fallen farce of a world, where Satan still pickpockets the unwitting, be the one who turns the tables. Robbed of speech? Speak life. Robbed of strength? Stride bold. Robbed of substance? Scatter seed and watch the harvest mock the thief. Jesus didn’t come to commiserate; He came to compensate, to conquer, to crown the believer with triumph. By faith, you’ll save yourself from Satan’s steal. And in doing so, God boasts of you before the heavens, as the hero He always scripted you to be. No more victims in the kingdom. Only victors, voices restored, vaults replenished. That’s the gospel’s punchline—and it’s hilariously, eternally good.