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Matthew 15.21-28
Matthew 15.21-28
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Pentecost Fourteen
Shelton, WA
Dogs and Crumbs
Sometimes I like to let my imagination loose. Sometimes I like to try and imagine what might be going on behind the text. It may not be the best exegetical practice, but it’s not total fantasy either. When you study the conditions and the culture, it’s not all too hard to piece together a sketch of what thing might be like. Imagine with me, if you will, what might lie behind this small story from Matthew’s gospel.
Her life was wretched. It was misery beyond compare. Shunned by the community, she lived in the small shanty village on the outside of town. The small hovel she lived in was not nearly large enough for her and her daughter, but it was all they had. It was all she could throw together with the scraps of wood and branches and strips of cloth she scavenged from the area.
Oh, she had plenty of neighbors. They were all like her—outcasts... the marginalized… the unwanted. During the day they would make their way into the towns and villages, begging for food, hoping to scrape together enough for a small meal. Some died of starvation, but many, many others simply died from despair… from the lack of will to go on living.
Conditions were terrible in that shanty town… far worse than she could have ever imagined… far worse than you of I could ever imagine. Oh, we may see pictures and we may hear the stories, but it’s different when you live among the smells… those horrible smells that filled the streets day and night—the smell of death and decay… the smell of uncovered waste and rotting refuge… the smell of disease, the smell of sickness, the smell of life without hope. That was by far the worst—the lack of hope. You see, these shanty towns were really no different than a prison. The jailer was fear. The keys were intolerance. And prejudices stood watch over everything.
Before she entered this prison she lived a normal life. She came from a respected family, a good family, and her husband was a good man. They were married only a short time before she had their first child… a little girl… a beautiful baby girl. Everything seemed to be going great. More children followed. But then… slowly at first… that first born girl began to develop problems. Small ones to begin with, mind you… no one even seemed to notice at first. But soon they became worse, more difficult to hide. And soon the family couldn’t hide them any more. Physicians were of no use. They tried, but they couldn’t do anything. The problem wasn’t physical, it was spiritual. A demon had come to torment her. And she was shunned—by friend, neighbor and family… everyone who was supposed to love and care for her. And she was condemned to live in that prison on the outside of the city gates. But her mother’s love couldn’t let her go. So great was her love for her child that she followed her into that prison, and there they tried to make a life together.
That life—if you could it a life—was far worse than anything she had ever imagined… far worse than you or I could ever imagine. To live as a dog off the crumbs thrown from the table where you once dined… it teaches humility… it teaches faith … if you let it. And if you would open your heart to it, it will teach your empathy and mercy.
This woman had tasted the worst that sin could do to a person. She watched as her daughter was literally tortured by the powers of Hell itself. Nothing could take away that suffering. Not the gods of her people—not Baal or Arshera… they were as deaf to her pleas as they were to the false prophet on Mount Carmel in the day of Elijah. No, nothing could take away the pain, the suffering, the anguish. And with every tortured scream from her child, this woman cringed in an agony all her own. She was utterly helplessness as she listened to her daughter’s agonizing cries of help—she was totally unable to do anything to take away the pain. And that truly broke her.
It was this empathy, this brokenness for her daughter, that gave her a spark of hope when she heard that a miracle worker from Galilee was in the region. It was this empathy that filled her heart and gave her the persistence in faith to peruse this miracles worker… even in the face of adversity.
Perhaps that’s one of the greatest needs in our world today… a heart so touched by the suffering of others that it will not give up until that suffering is relieved. Perhaps what we need most in our opulent society is to smell those smells that fill the prisons of the outcast… to smell the smell of death and despair… to smell the stench of sickness and despondence… to feel the pain of living in the city of the dogs.
Oh, we may not lock people away outside the city gates anymore, but we lock them away none the less. Fear is still the jailer, intolerance still holds the key, and prejudice still oversees everything. You see, the real problem is sin—ours as well as theirs. But I think a lot of times it’s mostly ours. It’s been said that “Social sin is the crystallization… of individual’s sins into permanent structures that keeps sin in being and makes its force to be felt by the majority of people.” Sin is not just the things we do. It is systemic as much as anything. Contributing to systems that cause and feed injustice and intolerance and oppression is as great a sin as any individual act of sin you can think of.
Perhaps if our hearts were truly broken by sin and the suffering it produces we would do more to try and relieve it. And if nothing else, it would certainly drive us to our knees and make us cry out as that Canaanite woman did: “Lord, Son of David, have mercy on me!” You see, the suffering of her daughter had become her own burden. The suffering of her daughter had become her own suffering. Her love for her child was so great that with each shriek… with each scream of agony, her own heart was pierced. And the pain she felt was a real as that of her daughter’s.
That’s empathy. It’s not pity. Pity simply says, “I’m sorry.” But empathy… empathy takes on the suffering of others and makes it their own. It bleeds with Jesus for others. You see, God didn’t just have pity on us. God didn’t just sit up their in heaven and say, “I’m sorry. You messed up and now you’ve got to pay the price. It makes me very sad, but it can’t be helped. And besides, it’s your choice. You made your bed, now sleep in it.”
No, that’s not what God did at all. Instead God sent his Son into this world… into the midst of our suffering… into the middle of our pain… God sent his Son in order that God may experience everything that we are experiencing… to be tempted as we are tempted… in order that our pain may become God’s pain. And then he did something about it. God marched down the way of sorrows, the sin of humanity etched into his back, the crown of suffering pressed into his brow, the burden of death lifted to his shoulders. God staggered under its weight.
The pain seared through his hands and his feet as the nails of fear and injustice and intolerance were driven into that beam of wood. Enduring the ridicule and insults from a crowd that once hailed him prophet, friend, rabbi… Isolated, forsaken… deserted by his closest friends and followers, surrounded my enemies, hanging between two criminals, God became one of the outcast… one of the cursed… one of the marginalized. Paul says, “God made him who had no sin to be sin for us, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God.”
That’s empathy. And that’s something we desperately need in our world today. To bleed with Jesus for the sake of others… to feel the pain of another and then to make that pain our own in the hopes of making it better, that’s what this Canaanite woman did. That empathy gave her a faith strong enough to stand against all odds. It gave her the perseverance to keep going until her voice was finally heard and her request granted. It gave her the ability to allow the indifference of others to fade from her sight as she fixed her focus on the only one who could help her daughter.
Such a single minded devotion to relieve the suffering of others is all too rare in our world today. But it’s not unheard of.
In the 19th century a colony of lepers was established on a remote peninsula on the tiny island of Molokai. Ships carrying the sick like so much worthless livestock would sail near that peninsula. And then… the lepers would be tossed into the ocean. They had to swim for shore or drown trying. Some—many—never made it. And for those who did, life was unbearable. Far worse than we could ever imagine.
Father Damion saw the horrible and inhuman conditions these people had to endure and he was moved with compassion. He dedicated the rest of his life to making the quality of their lives better. He helped build houses. He established sewage systems to carry away the waste, and even a system for bringing in fresh water. And, of course, he looked after their spiritual needs as well. Father Damion brought hope to a people who had lost all hope. He gave them back their dignity. Eventually, Father Damion died of the very disease he came to relieve in others. But not before his voice was heard, and not before his mission had been completed.
This Canaanite woman—this mother whose daughter lived in a constant state of torment—had that same sort of unyielding drive. She incessantly cried out after Jesus, “Have mercy on me, Lord, Son of David; my daughter is tormented by a demon.” Her cries went up as she followed the crowd that followed Jesus. Her plea never wavered, never faltered, “Oh Son of David, have mercy on me!” Her voice lifted far above the noise of the crowd, because in her heart she carried the greatest burden of all… a burden born in love and nurtured through care and compassion… a burden that had become her own the moment she gave herself away in the hope of relieving the pain of another. “Oh Son of David, have mercy on me!”
Jesus heard the empathy in her voice more than he heard the words. The disciples… they only heard the words and begged him to send her away. But Jesus heard the compassion behind those words and he stopped. And he spoke to her. His words may seem harsh; they may spark a conflict in our hearts. Commentators have tried to interpret them in different ways. Some say Jesus was testing her faith. Others say that Jesus was developing her faith… moving it along to the point where it would become her victory.
But you know, I don’t think any of those explanations are right. I think Jesus was just being sarcastic. I think he was being facetious. He was showing them just how absurd their indifference to the suffering of others really is. He was letting them hear just how pathetic their intolerance and their prejudice sounds. And the harshness of his words should give us pause every time we jump to judgment at someone who is different… every time we look with indifference at the less fortunate… every time we move to the other side of the road when some “weird-o” comes walking our way.
I guess here’s the bottom line for me: “God so loved the world that he gave his only Son so that everyone who believes in him may not parish, but may have eternal life.” If God loves the world that much, who am I to love it any less? If God can love undeserving, sinful “weird-os” like us, who am I to withhold that same love from other undeserving, sinful “weird-os”?
Instead, because God has loved me when I don’t deserve it, I can love others—even those who don’t love me. Because God has forgiven me even when I wasn’t looking for forgiveness, I can forgive those who have hurt me. Because God has extended mercy to such a sinner like me, I can extend that same mercy to the same degree to others.
Let’s pray:
All loving and all forgiving Father of mercy; we are so grateful for the mercy that you have shown to us that we desire to extend that same mercy to others. Yet too often we fail to do so. Lord, everyone needs compassion, yet too often we stand over them in judgment. Forgive us. Give us an empathy that truly bleeds with Jesus for the sake of others. And Father, we ask this through the name of Jesus your Son our Lord, who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.
John Grant Page 2 8/17/2008