Homily for Sunday, August 14
13 Pentecost/Proper 15/Year A
Matthew 15: 21-28
Dear Sister in Christ:
It must seem strange to be getting a letter some 2000 years after your courageous encounter with Jesus of Nazareth. I write to you out of deep admiration for your story. I confess that I am also writing because this is what I tell others to do when they are confused about how they feel, or in need of clarity about a way forward in the midst of a messy, uncomfortable situation. The story of your effort to get help for your daughter that day is still told by many, and it may please you to know that it is written in a book called the Holy Bible—and in a chapter in that book called the Gospel of Matthew. I had not read your story in quite a while, and for some reason, this time as I read, it made me sad, and angry, and uncomfortable. I should probably mention that I am a teacher, and a priest—though not the kind of priest you would have been familiar with—and a counselor. So part of my discomfort comes from feeling that I should know just the right thing to say, or feel, or think to explain away my discomfort. Yet, I do not…I cannot. I have read your story over and over again, so that I could give a lesson on what happened that day for those in my worship community, a place called the Cathedral of St. Philip.
My name is Bill, and in reading your story again I was struck not only by how uncomfortable it made me, but how much I admired you, and how many questions I had about how your encounter with Jesus. In fact, I had so many different feelings and questions that I found myself not wanting to talk about your story at all. This made me even more uncomfortable, but it also made me curious. You see this, too, is part of my training—to be willing to ask tough questions in relation to things that make us want to look the other way, things we would rather ignore, or deny, and pretend will go away if we do so. I imagined different ways of understanding and “interpreting” your encounter with Jesus so that this might take away my discomfort and, by extension, allow my talking about it to be less uncomfortable too. Yet, I could not. And, come to that, I wonder if perhaps we are called by the Gospel to feel uncomfortable at times. So, the only way to proceed seemed to be that of being as transparent as possible, and let your story stand on its own, even if it meant being scared, and angry, and uncertain, and even if it meant that those with whom I share this had some of these feelings as well... so, I decided to write you a letter.
I should also confess that I am a person of privilege in my country. Unlike you I do not really know what it is like to be overlooked because of race, or gender, or skin color. I have not known real hunger—and I have never had to wonder where my next meal was coming from. I have not been passed over for a job because of the color of my skin, or because of my gender. I have not been discriminated against or overlooked in spite of the content of my character—and yet I imagine this was a way of life for you. In fact, it occurs to me as I write to you that although I have told you my name, I do not even know yours. You are often referred to as “a Canaanite woman,” or “a certain woman.” In what we call Mark’s Gospel—another version of your story—you are referred to as the “Syro-Phoenician woman.” In my country, if you have to say you are African American or Native American or Latino American, you already know you are often subject to being overlooked, on the margins, ignored. I suspect you knew this feeling quite well. I don’t ever recall feeling the need to refer to myself as White American, or Euro American. In Matthew’s version of your story, in which you are referred to as “a Canaanite woman,” this meant that you were marginalized in the world of Judaism—both as a Canaanite and as a woman. You would have been considered the property of your husband or your father.
And in spite of this—in spite of the fact that race, gender, class, and nationalism were all working against you, you approached a group of men—also taboo, and you kept doing so; and why? Why did you create such a scene? Perhaps you were a single mother—why else would you have made the journey on your own—why would your husband or some other male advocate not speak for you as custom demanded? And being a single mother, your position would have been even more tenuous—with virtually no status or material resources. It must have been embarrassing and uncomfortable for everyone concerned, including you, and clearly the disciples in the story are aggravated by your persistence—they even warned Jesus to ignore you—“Send her away,” they said, “for she keeps shouting after us.” They turned their backs on you, and yet you persisted.
We are different in all these and so many more ways, you and I, but I do know what it is like to be a parent—I am the father of two sons. That part of your story got my attention as well, I can tell you. I know what it is like to sit up all night with a sick child, and to huddle in a hospital emergency room scared, and desperate for the healing of a child. I know what it is like to suffer with and for my children. So I understand this much. I also understand why you approached Jesus and why you so brazenly sought him out in your time of need. You did this for the very same reason that so many over the past 2000 years have done so—for healing, for strength, for sustenance, for release from the powers of darkness, and for wholeness of mind, body, and spirit—for community….for embrace—not exclusion. In fact it is for these reasons that we gather this morning, in my community of worship, and it is for this reason I am sharing my letter with those whom I serve.
No doubt you heard of Jesus by word of mouth, and perhaps you heard of John the Baptist in your day, who had only recently been killed before your encounter with Jesus. I have been thinking about this for weeks, by the way, that Jesus must have had much on his mind and heart as his mission became clearer, his fate more certain. He had been seeking out times of solitude, but again and again these were interrupted by the disciples, or by huge crowds calling for him to heal, cast out demons, and preach. Again and again he is moved by compassion to take action, do justice, work miracles. He must have been weary, and deeply in need of solitude—not that this excuses what happened to you—and yet he continued to make himself available. Surely this is what you heard, too. You expected compassion, and justice, and kindness. And not for you, but for your daughter who was suffering. So, against all odds and all that was working against you, you persisted. This is the part where I get stuck with so many feelings. Even as I admire and respect you, I am troubled by Jesus’ behavior. “Have mercy on me O Lord, son of David,” you cried, and he tried to ignore you altogether, and yet you persisted. I wonder how he could ignore you and then dismiss you?
There is no way to clean up this story, no way to sanitize it or explain it away. I’ve heard some very learned people try to do so, and it cannot be done, it always has a hollow sound. And your willingness to be vulnerable allows me to see and hear what I too would rather ignore. “I have come only for the lost sheep of Israel ,” Jesus finally said—I am here to help only those who are like me. Still you persisted, kneeling before him, and in what is at one and the same time incredible humility and vulnerability, and remarkable courage, you say “Lord, help me.” And then, this unbelievable statement from our Christ—“It is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.” For a brief moment you were turned away, and my heart sinks. Just as those with whom I am sharing this letter feel in coming to church, you expected the experience of the sacred grace of God in coming to Jesus. Just as we feel wounded or hurt if we are dismissed and overlooked by brothers and sisters in Christ, you would have by all rights felt crushed, devastated, defeated. How could Jesus compare anyone to a dog? How could he say, in effect, some don’t belong at the table, or even beneath it—some don’t deserve the bread—some are outside the circle of care and compassion—his love is only for those within the circle? How could he do this when so often he told us that all are welcome at the table? It hurts me even to write this down.
And still you persisted. Kneeling before him, even more vulnerable, you spoke up and said to him in a remarkably witty and articulate response—“Yet even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from the master’s table.” You should know if you do not already, that many have followed in your footsteps. Your courage and determination echo down through the halls of history for all women and men whose opportunities were denied by virtue of gender, race, or social status. A woman named Sojourner Truth, born a slave, once said “That man there, he says women can’t have as much rights as men, because Christ wasn’t a woman. Where did Christ come from? From God and a woman…and ain’t I a Woman? I have born 13 children and seen most all sold into slavery, and when I cried out none but Jesus heard me.” Others followed—women such as Rosa Parks, and Ruby Bridges , and so many other “certain women” who took up your cause. And finally, blessedly, Jesus heard you. He came to himself and in so doing extended his ministry beyond the Jews to include us all. He had behaved as he had because he could—because in his culture he had power and status and it pains me to think how often I have unthinkingly done the same. But at last he exclaimed “Woman, great is your faith. Let it be done as you desire.” And your daughter was healed as you must have known she would be.
Do you know that I cannot recall another place in the Gospels where someone won a theological argument with Jesus? Do you know that you were the bearer of Good News to the One who gave Good News to us? In that instant his soul was enlarged, his compassion deepened, the love at the center of His message bloomed ever brighter. By his willingness to learn, to change his mind, He taught us that we are here to grow, to learn, and to be open to the grace-filled movement of the Holy Spirit in our lives. You, with humility and confidence, deference and boldness, and a deep abiding belief that God’s love will transcend the obstacles that would keep us in bondage—taught him, and by extension all of us.
Well, it is almost time for me to close this letter. In the church I serve, the center of all that we do is called the Eucharist. We gather at the table and celebrate with bread and wine what you helped me see in a new way through your story. We come to that table, each of us, as God’s children, with an advocate in Christ Jesus much as you advocated for your daughter. And we receive the bread from the top of the table, not the crumbs from beneath. In so doing we, like you, receive the gift of grace, of God’s love—an ever present reminder that we are not excluded by God no, not one of us, by virtue of gender, or race, or sexual orientation, or political affiliation or any other boundary that would alienate, exclude, divide, or separate us from the love of God. Just this past week I was talking with my friend and colleague Carolynne about the challenges of being a parent—you would like her, and you would have been right at home in our conversation. Carolynne said a very wise thing—perhaps she learned it from you—she said that we do all we can for our children, we put our heart and soul into caring for them, and then we get on our knees and pray. I think this is right: Gratitude, my friend—that’s the word for it. Gratitude that in your story, I now see more clearly that this is a good practice in relation to all that we do: especially all that we do in the service of doing justice, loving kindness, walking humbly with our God—and respecting the dignity of every human being. Thank you, my friend.
Your brother in Christ,
Bill
Comments? Contact Bill Harkins at: Bharkins@stphilipscathedral.org