Matthew 15:21-28
August 13, 2011
Wider Yet: The Limits of Human Imagination
Rev. John M. Caldwell, PhD
First United Methodist Church
Decorah, Iowa
It's going to be a long fifteen months until the elections of 2012. For some time I have found our national political conversation wearisome. Perhaps because it has ceased to be conversation in any real sense of the word. We no longer actually listen to those with whom we disagree. Instead we make up some distorted version of their position and tear that apart. The give and take that used to happen in spite of ideological differences so that things could get done is now so rare as to become a heroic achievement. There are, I guess, a lot of reasons for this.
What concerns me this morning is that the way that public debate takes place fails to check a very natural human tendency, that, left unchecked, destroys our sense of community and a shared life. Like everyone else I tend to view the world from where I stand. I see and understand the world and the people, places and things in it from a particular place.
I know that each of you does the same. Mostly this works okay without disturbing me too much because, after all, we are mostly more alike than different. The proof of that is that you get most of my jokes, or at least you are very politely pretending to and laughing at the right places and that's nearly as good.
When we disturb each other it's because of a tendency that I have (and perhaps you have it, too): I tend to normalize my perspective. That is, because I stand in a certain place and see the world in a certain way and because from where I stand that way looks natural and right, I assume that my way of looking at things is normal. It's not just a geographical place I'm talking about. I take my place in the world as a white, middle-aged, middle-class, over-educated, ordained and appointed, straight man who occupies a place of power and privilege. My view of the world seems normal and right. When I bump into others who don't share that view, I tend to see their view as abnormal, unnatural and wrong.
In short I am the product of my experiences, the product of my times and of the culture that nurtured me. I can, of course, choose some of other experiences, but those choices themselves are shaped and limited by my experiences, my times and my culture. This doesn't sound very hopeful, does it?
Before we give up on our chances for real change, though, let's take a look at the story from Matthew and see if it has anything to add.
It's not an easy story, mostly because in it Jesus is not very nice. He says some rather nasty things to a woman who—from our point of view at least—doesn't seem to deserve it. Many readers of the Bible have been scandalized by this story and have tried in various ways to make it sound nicer than it is. Unlike these readers who try to get around a problem text, I'm just stubborn enough to plot a course through it and inconsiderate enough of your feelings to drag you with me. So let's see.
As Matthew's gospel has laid it out, Jesus has been working without any time off for some time. This isn't good. There is a rhythm to human life of work and rest. We are supposed to work hard. We are also supposed to rest not just when we get our daily sleep. We are supposed to take a day off now and then. For some reason—though I can't quite put my finger on where I might have heard this—a ratio of six days of work to one day of rest comes to mind.
Jesus had not been getting his days of rest. Every time we tried to slip away someone would see him and the word would spread and the first thing you know a quiet retreat had turned into a mob scene with multitudes asking him to fix their problems. We aren't told, but I'm imagining that Jesus realized that a preacher cannot take a vacation and stay at home. He needed to get out of town and turn off his cell phone.
So he left his parish—Galilee and Judea—and went to their version of the Jersey Shore, the neighborhood of the Phoenician cities of Tyre and Sidon. There he would be away from the Jewish population centers and hoped, if he wore sunglasses, to avoid having to meet any needs other than his need for rest.
It didn't work out that way. Perhaps Jesus hadn't reckoned with his spreading fame. Perhaps Jesus hadn't realized that the Jewish hope for a messiah was known and even shared outside of his people. In any event, even at the Jersey Shore and even when he was wearing sunglasses, there was at least one Canaanite woman who not only recognized him on sight but was able to address him by title: Son of David. "Have mercy on me, Lord, Son of David," she cried.
She was desperate in the way that only a parent with a sick child can be. She was desperate in a way that drove her to a Jewish messiah to ask for help for her daughter, even if he was on vacation.
Now we come to the difficult part. Like us, Jesus grew up in a particular place and time and within a particular culture. His way of looking at the world was shaped by time and place and culture. There were things that he knew because of this shaping. He knew, for example, that the earth was flat and that the sun journeyed across the sky during the day and returned under the earth to the east at night. He knew that disease was caused by the actions of evil spirits. He knew that his people, the Jewish people, had been chosen by God to live in covenant with God. They had obligations under this covenant. Jesus understood that his mission was to help his people to see these obligations clearly, to take up these obligations and make the fulfilling of them a part of their ordinary lives, and to enjoy as a result the power of God to heal and make whole. Jesus' work was to be done among Jews. This woman had no claim on him. He ignored her.
But the woman did not take the hint. Instead she kept on crying for him to help her daughter. Jesus kept ignoring her. The disciples started pestering him to send her away. The woman kept crying out. Some vacation.
So Jesus stopped and faced her. He had acknowledged her existence. He would have to deal with her. So he began by sharing his mission statement: "I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel." Mission statements are good. They give clarity about what we're supposed to do. More importantly they give clarity about what we're not supposed to do. Jesus' attempt to clarify things, however, failed to impress the desperate mother of a disturbed and troubled child. "Have mercy on me," she continued to cry.
Finally, his patience gone, he addressed her in a way that, if it was brutal, should have been effective in getting rid of her: "It is not fair to take the children's food and throw it to the dogs." He called her a dog. There is to this day no worse insult in the Middle East than to call someone a dog. Jesus called her a dog. Some readers have tried to soften the insult by pointing out, correctly, that the word that is translated "dogs" is the diminutive form of the word for dog. It could mean puppy or it could mean household dog, so that's not so bad.... No, he called her a dog.
This is perfectly in line with how his culture regarded outsiders. It's perfectly in line with how any culture regards outsiders: beneath notice, not quite human, Other.
Now, if this Canaanite woman had been a little less courageous, if she'd been a little less desperate, if she had had a little less of that quintessentially Jewish character trait known in Yiddish as chutzpah, the story would have ended there.
But it didn't. She had finally gotten Jesus' attention. That was a victory in itself. He had put her down verbally, but could only do that by talking to her. All she had to do then was to win the verbal exchange. Verbal jousting was very popular in those days. Thrusting and parrying with words or watching others do it was what people did in place of watching ESPN. Those who were really good at it were taken as wise, even as God-favored. It was expected of philosophers and messiahs. But anyone could play. Even this Canaanite woman.
But she would only get one chance. So she took her best shot. "Yes, Lord, but even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from the master's table." Taking and accepting for the moment the terms that Jesus had used to define her and their relationship, she turned them inside out. She showed that even within those abusive terms, she had a claim that Jesus could not deny. All she was asking for was crumbs. He had to grant them to her.
She had won and Jesus knew it. In his encounter with this woman, Jesus heard clearly the inhumanity of his culture's view of things, a view that had seemed natural until that moment. It was awkward. Jesus wasn't used to losing these verbal jousts. I can count on the fingers of one finger the total number of times that Jesus lost. So he must have been uncomfortable. And how embarrassing to have it happen in front of his disciples! But there it was. The text doesn't say so, but I imagine that Jesus laughed. Sometimes you just have to laugh at yourself and surely this was one of those times. "Okay, you win! Go in peace, your daughter is made whole." And so she was.
Jesus' encounter with the Canaanite woman was surely a revelation to him. It didn't change his mission. He was right about that, at least as far as Matthew is concerned. He didn't suddenly revise his itinerary to tour the Roman Empire. He sought the lost sheep of the house of Israel. But he learned something about the heart of God that he had not known before: it encompasses everyone. Yes, Jesus learned a tough lesson that day. He who already knew God's heart so deeply and so well learned that he still more to learn. He received this lesson from a woman he had been taught to despise.
And this gives me hope. If Jesus needs this lesson, then how much more do I? And if Jesus can learn this lesson at this stage of his career and life, it's still possible for you and me. And that's about all the good news I can handle for today.
©2011, John M. Caldwell. Permission is given by the author to reproduce and distribute the unaltered text of this sermon provided this notice is reproduced in full and provided that this sermon shall not be offered for sale, nor included in any collection or publication that is offered for sale, without the express written permission of the author.
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