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Matthew 15: 21–28
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Lord, may we hear your voice in the words spoken in your Name. Amen.
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Twelve years ago, when I was preparing to baptize our first–born
grandchildren, I bought for them both a small – and I hoped
meaningful gift — at The Cathedral Bookstore. The gift was a
book entitled, “I Belong.” It begins by proclaiming that
this child – and here, there is a space for the child’s name
and photograph – has always belonged to God. But on such and
such a date he or she was baptized into the Body of Christ and so
began his or her journey as his disciple. On subsequent pages there
are spaces for godparents, friends and family to add their heartfelt
hopes and prayers for the child and pages for more photographs of the
welcoming reception at the church afterward. Whenever either of them
looked at their book in subsequent years, I wanted them to see the joyful
celebration that broke out on the occasion of their entrance into the
Body of Christ.
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When I gave those little books to Francesca and Jonas, I could think of
no greater gift to give them than the gift of belonging to a loving
family and a loving God. And I still think that that sense of belonging
is one of the most precious gifts I can give to my grandchildren, all
six of them, now.
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In fact, we all want to belong – to our families, to our
communities and to God himself. Belonging is the basis of our sense
of identity. It’s the foundation of our self-esteem. And that is why,
in this morning’s Gospel when Jesus tells the Canaanite woman
that she does not belong to his tribe, his larger family, we understand
right away it’s one of the most painful things he ever said
to anyone.
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Jesus and his disciples were in Tyre, a wealthy seaport town on the
coast of the Mediterranean Sea, when this Canaanite woman, this Gentile,
burst through the crowd and began shouting, “Lord, Son of David,
have mercy on me! My daughter, have mercy, she’s tormented
by a demon!” She is addressing him in Hebrew terms as Lord
and Son of David – as if she herself belonged to this people.
But Jesus ignores her. He doesn’t say a word. So the woman continues
to shout and plead and make a scene. Finally Jesus’ disciples
urge him to send her away, to say something definitive that will hush
her up. So finally he says, “I was sent only to the lost sheep
of the house of Israel.” In other words, “I’m the
Jewish messiah, Ma’am. I’m here for Israel,
not for you.”
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But such is this woman’s faith and her desperation for her child
that she still won’t take “no” for an answer. She
kneels at Jesus’ feet. “Lord, help me,” she cries.
And then we hear words coming from Jesus’ mouth that no one can
believe he has said: “It is not fair to take the
children’s food and throw it to the dogs,” he says.
He’s not only refusing to help her. He’s insulting her, adding
insult to injury as he compares her to a dog.
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But even now the woman won’t quit. With a flash of self–deprecating
humor and a quick wit she responds, “True, Lord. Maybe I am
a dog. But even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from the master’s
table.” And with that she has won Jesus over. He compliments her
for her great faith and grants her daughter the deliverance this mother
sought so persistently.
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The problem we have with this story is how to reconcile the image of a
gentle, welcoming Jesus – “Come unto me, all ye who are
heavy laden, and I will give you rest” with this less
generous Jesus who is acting as if mercy were a zero sum game –
and there’s only so much mercy to go around: Certainly not
enough to share with this Gentile woman and her afflicted daughter.
Nor did all the commentaries I read this week help, as they tried to
explain away Jesus’ harshness by insisting that the Greek word he
used for the word “dogs” really meant
“puppies” – so his words weren’t really so
harsh. Or that explained that Jesus was only testing this woman’s
faith so everyone could see her persistence and follow her example.
I wasn’t convinced by those arguments. I don’t think
anyone is.
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What did impress me, though, was the honest admiration Jesus showed at
the woman’s quick wit and perseverance. He allowed her to persuade
him that he was in the wrong. He allowed her to change his mind. And in
that humility, in that willingness to change and grow, Jesus showed me
that he wasn’t just fully divine. He was fully human too – and
learned the way we all do – by making mistakes and being willing
to learn from those mistakes. That’s a Lord I am willing to follow.
That’s the Lord I want my grandchildren to follow too.
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You and I are used to hearing what Jesus taught. But we seldom hear
much about what he learned. And that’s unfortunate, because just
like us, Jesus was always learning, always growing, always going back
to the Father to understand more. Just as we all need to do.
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In fact, maybe that’s the lesson for us today from this story.
Maybe we all need to go back to the Father to hear what he might tell
us about being merciful to some of the people in our towns and
cities – people who don’t look like us, who might not
worship as we do, who might not even speak the same language. They are
our Canaanites, our foreigners, our Gentile
outsiders. And in the past several months we have all heard their
cries for mercy.
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Maybe, just maybe, if we do what we promised to do in our baptismal
covenant and respect the dignity of every person, we can all get what
we need – better jobs and housing, better schools for our children,
equal protection under the law. For it’s not about “us”
and “them.” It’s more like recognizing that we all
belong to the family of God.
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Amen
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