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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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This morning we find Jesus on the border – on the border between
Jew and Gentile, friend and enemy, male and female, the holy and the
demonic – but also on the outer border of his patience. He
has just come through an encounter with hostile Jewish officials
from Jerusalem, confronting him over “the tradition of the
elders.” And now he is headed for the far northwestern
borders of Israel, the Syro–Phoenician cities of Tyre and
Sidon – hardly friendly territory. But to get there he
and his disciples must first travel through Canaan – the land of
Israel’s ancient enemy. So, he’s clearly close to
his limits when a Canaanite woman approaches him, begging that he
heal her demon–possessed daughter. And she, for her part,
doesn’t approach quietly or humbly. Matthew says that
she shouts at him loudly, from a distance – “Son of David,
have mercy on me! My daughter is tormented by a demon.”
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Now, ordinarily, we would expect Jesus to stop and help anyone who
cried out to him for help or healing. For that’s what
we’ve seen him do, time after time, even when others
hardly expect him to listen – much less to help or heal. But
even more we are looking for his merciful response this time because
this woman has called him by his royal Messianic title – Son of
David – indicating that she understands him to be Israel’s
long–awaited Messiah. And every other time, in the various
Gospel accounts, hearing that title from a bystander stops Jesus in
his tracks. Whenever he hears that title, he seems to understand
that the petitioner has an extraordinary depth of faith and insight.
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But this time, Jesus’ response isn’t what we
expect. He stops, all right. But he remains silent. And
his silence is deafening. Even so, the woman continues to plead
with him.
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Jesus’ disciples now speak up. “Lord,” they urge
him, “send her away.” And we are not sure whether
they want him to dismiss her summarily or whether they are asking him
to fulfill her request – so they can all be rid of
her. But Jesus does neither. He simply says, “I was
sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel” — as if
that answer settled everything.
But it settles nothing, for you and I don’t understand his
answer at all.
Whatever happened to —
“Jesus loves the little children, all the children of the
world.”
Or what about
“There’s a wideness in his mercy like the wideness of
the sea.”
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We’re left wondering, “Where’s the wideness in his
mercy this time?” Or “What is it about
all the little children that he doesn’t
understand?” In other words, we are left questioning
why this Canaanite woman and her little daughter –
don’t seem to be included in Jesus’ loving concern.
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Before we can figure out an answer, the tenor of the whole story
changes when the woman comes up to Jesus and kneels down before him,
saying simply, “Lord, help me.” For now, she is
worshiping him. Now her appeal is coming more from humility than
it is from demand. And in the face of her new–found
vulnerability, Jesus’ own tone seems to soften. For he says,
“It is not fair to take the children’s food and throw
it to the dogs.”
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Only, he doesn’t exactly say “dogs”. He says,
“little dogs,” which was a term people used in those days
for people’s pet dogs, the ones they fed and cared for in their
own households. And to that answer the woman replies, “Yes,
Lord, but even the little dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their
master’s table.” And with that clever answer this
devoted mother has won Jesus over.
“Woman, great is your faith!” Jesus exclaims.
“Let it be done for you as you wish!”
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Now, there are all kinds of explanations out there to tell us why
Jesus didn’t immediately answer this woman’s
request. One is simply that in this narrative we are seeing
Jesus’ human side – and realizing that he was
tired. He was ready for a break from the constant demands, all
around him. Without understanding that he was fully human, we
would hardly be able to appreciate that he was also fully
divine. And certainly, that’s part of the story.
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Then too, he was called – initially, at least — to the lost
sheep of Israel. And he simply had to answer their needs before
he began to help everyone else. Years ago, I did some work at
the Atlanta Day Shelter for Women and Children. We had some
wonderful resources there, and certainly there were many homeless
people in Atlanta who could have used those resources. But nearly
all the women we helped came to us from abusive domestic
situations. And we always had to be careful to shield them from
vengeful husbands or boyfriends who might victimize them all over
again. So, whenever some guy came to us, saying, “Hey, I
could use a free meal too. I could use new interview clothes and
a work referral,” we simply had to say no. We needed to
protect those battered and abused women.
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But finally, what strikes me about this story is Jesus’ initial
silence. For it’s in his silence that the woman’s
demeanor changes from strident and demanding to humble and
worshipful. Jesus was still listening to her, but he was
inviting her to think again about what she was doing, what she was
saying, and how she was saying it. Even when he seems to rebuke
her by his comments, he is still loving her, still listening. And
I can’t help thinking of how many times my own attitude — in
prayer — has changed when Jesus initially falls silent. His
silence – in the face of my impatient prayers — encourages
me to think again, to revise my prayer, to look at things from a new
perspective.
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Maybe you have experienced something similar in your prayers. In
the end, just like that Canaanite woman, we usually receive from God
what we most need. But along the way, in the depths of his
silence, we learn something – something about ourselves, something
about God, something about humility.
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And for that, I give God thanks.
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Amen.
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