'Jesus left that place and
went away to the district of Tyre and Sidon. Just then a Canaanite woman from
that region came out and started shouting, “Have mercy on me, Lord, Son of
David; my daughter is tormented by a demon.” But he did not answer her at all.
And his disciples came and urged him, saying, “Send her away, for she keeps
shouting after us.” He answered, “I was sent only to the lost sheep of the
house of Israel.” But she came and knelt before him, saying, “Lord, help me.”
He answered, “It is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the
dogs.” She said, “Yes, Lord, yet even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from
their masters’ table.” Then Jesus answered her, “Woman, great is your faith!
Let it be done for you as you wish.” And her daughter was healed instantly.'
--Matthew 15: 21-28
It’s been a hard couple of weeks in our country, the state of North Carolina, and even our little city of Asheboro. This past Sunday I preached from the pulpit, something that I normally reserve for major feast days or some other special occasion. I prefer to preach on the floor, making a few jokes or telling some stories and, in general, being more personal with my sermons. But that was not the case on this Sunday, not after all that we have been through. And so I preached from the pulpit, which is the liturgical symbol of the authority given to a minister to proclaim the Gospel, even when it's hard. As you can see, this is one hard Gospel! There is, though, a miracle that occurs in this Gospel but I bet it isn’t the one you’re thinking of.
The miracle that I’m talking about is one that, in the midst of a fortnight of
fear and anger and confusion about what to do, can offer a sense of hope for all
of us.
Like you and me, Jesus was a product of his time. We must never forget that; after all, it's part of the whole "fully human" thing. Just as we place labels on one another based
around our gender or race, so did folks in the time of Jesus. As history has shown, when labels are placed on
people the inevitable result is an ‘us v. them’ mentality, and there is almost always a
dynamic of oppression. The Jews, for
example, were oppressed by the Romans, who had derogatory labels for them, but
the Jews themselves oppressed Gentiles, whom they equated with dogs—unclean
scavengers—among other things. To top it off, all of those groups oppressed women, who were seen as ontologically inferior to men
because their very matter was incomplete.
No one could escape the labels.
Everyone was caught in this web of oppression.
While he and his disciples were in the region of Tyre &
Sidon, which is outside of Jewish territory, Jesus is confronted by a Canaanite
woman—she’s called a Syro-Phoenician woman in Mark’s version of the story, but
the point is the same: she’s a Gentile, and thus is one of ‘them.’ So Gentile+woman=doubly oppressed in this
society, and sure enough, when she first approaches Jesus he says nothing at all to her. She’s then ridiculed by the disciples, who ask Jesus to turn her away. When she comes to Jesus and throws
herself at his feet his response is a harsh one: “It is not fair to take the children’s food
and give it to the dogs.”
Jesus rebukes (insults?) the Canaanite woman.
Let that sink in for just a moment. Jesus implies that this woman is a dog—her
and her entire race, for that matter—which was a supreme insult in the ancient world, and
because of the way Jews viewed Gentiles—especially Gentile women—making such a
statement would’ve seemed harmless, even normal.
Maybe he did it because he knew what would happen next, and it was just
to prove a point to his disciples about how faith can and should be strong, but even if that were the case, his words must have still hurt. In this moment even Jesus himself is caught
in his society’s web of systematic labeling and oppression.
Then something totally unexpected happens. For the first time, for the only time, in the
Gospel narrative Jesus gets corrected.
She says to him, “Yes, Lord, but even dogs eat the crumbs under the
master’s table.” In other words, society
may give her the label of a dog, and she may be mistreated, but she still has
the right to be heard. She still has the
right to exist.
Next comes the miracle.
Jesus listens. He does not correct her, or explain his actions, he simply listens, and by listening, he changes his mind. He could have continued to walk on, or stuck
to his vow to go only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel, or stayed true
to the ‘us v. them’ mentality that his people knew so well, but he doesn't do these things. He lets this woman have her experience, lets her express her emotions, and
he listens to her. By listening to
her he allows her to teach him, and her words change him. He then commends the
woman’s faith, her courage in standing up to him, and her bravery in giving voice to her experience. It’s then that
her daughter is made well.
Sure, the healing of a demonic child is certainly a miracle, but I'll argue that there is another miracle that occurs first, and it is the miracle of Jesus being able to escape the web of systemic oppression
that held everyone, even himself. He does so by listening to this woman, who is the first Gentile to receive Jesus’ grace, but she will not be the last. The
Gospels of Luke and John, which follow Matthew, will have even more stories
about Jesus ministering with and empowering 'them,' including Romans, Gentiles, and women, and St. Paul will
make it his mission to preach almost exclusively to Gentiles. But it all starts here. It starts with the miracle of Jesus listening
to this woman and changing his mind about the scope of his ministry.
In this miracle, this moment of listening, we have an
example that we can follow, which can give us hope that positive change can actually happen. When he
listened to this marginalized person, who through her courage and faith managed
to share her experience and stand up even after feeling insulted, something
shifted in Jesus. The same thing happens
when we listen to those who have been—and still are—marginalized, those who
still carry the label of ‘them.’ Last week, while having a conversation with a group of people over the ongoing conversation of removing Confederate monuments--notably the one here in Asheboro-- I made some
comments that seemed at the time to be harmless. And they were; that is, to the white folks who were
standing there, but not to the Black folks. Two women had the courage, bravery, and love to call me out for what I said, to share with me how my words
hurt. I was caught in the web of
oppression. My intentions were good, so I thought. Yet listening to them share their experience helped me realize how hurtful and ignorant my words had
been, how irrelevant my intentions really were.
Something definitely shifted in me, but it only happened when I listened
and opened myself up to the possibility that I had been insensitive, that I had
made a mistake. I’d like to think that
was a miracle, a moment where something changed. As part of that change I plan to contact the
NAACP and other faith and community leaders to create space for dialogues
around racism in our city, where folks can share their experiences without
fear, just as that person did with me.
If Jesus can change his mind by listening to someone else’s
experience, so can we. But it has to be
real listening, listening with openness and the vulnerability to change if
necessary. Friday night a prayer vigil was held in our city to remember those who were killed and injured in Charlottesville a week ago. Many of my parishioners attended that vigil. Shortly after folks assembled, however, white supremacists showed up, convinced through social media that the peaceful assembly had come to either protest or tear down the Confederate monument in front of the old court house (they had not!). I arrived shortly after the vigil ended, but many of those demonstrators were still there, gathered around the monument with the intent to protect it. My fiancee and I joined a small group of people composed of young folks, both Black and white, to talk about what was going on. It didn’t take very long
for the shouting to start. The people I
was standing with tried to dialogue, to just share their feelings, and even one
young woman asked the folks by the monument to share their experiences and tell
us why they were there, but they wanted none of it. Curses and slurs were hurled, even while one Black
woman stood there in tears. A gentleman aggressively pushed up against me, came nose-to-nose with me, and yelled with such incredible fear and rage
in his voice when I corrected him after he said "The Civil War had nothing to do with slavery!" For what it's worth, I was in my collar this whole time, but it made no difference. There were no punches thrown, but it was frightening, and when I told the police (who showed up after the confrontation had ended) that some of those in the aggressive group were armed, they said not a single word to me. There had been no intent at all on the part of the
aggressors to listen, and certainly not to change their aggressive
behavior or admit for a second that their rhetoric was hateful and may wound others. If Jesus can change his mind,
so can we, but we have to be willing to listen, and we have to be willing to
change. Now THAT would be a miracle!
But miracles do happen.
They happen every time we come here to the table on a Sunday morning, the place where we meet Jesus
in a crumb. We reach out our hands like
the Gentile woman, and when we do our labels disappear and we are made
one. As a priest I once worked with used
to say, “Sunday’s Eucharist is the dress rehearsal for the rest of our lives.” At the Table of Our lord we are united in Christ so that
we may go forth from this place to unite the world in Christ. If you don’t know how to listen to someone,
don’t know how to escape the web of oppression, let that table be your blueprint. Sit down to dinner or a drink. Have a conversation. Pray together. And above all, listen to their experience.
We can’t change our past, but we can own up to it, and that can change our future. It starts at that table, where ‘us v. them’ comes to die. It starts with all of us, each individual who says no the web of systemic oppression, who is willing to listen without judgment, and who commits himself or herself to transforming this world by first transforming themselves. Thanks be to God for the Gentile woman and her courage that moved even the heart of Jesus. Thanks be to God for all of our brothers and sisters courageous enough to stand and share their experiences, so that our hearts may be moved. If we are vulnerable enough to let that our hearts be moved, then can we escape the web. Then, and only then, can all of us truly be free.
My fiancee Kristen (far right) and I, together with our new friends Amanda and Buffy, at the Confederate monument in Asheboro.
