Making God’s word effective: The Syro-Phoenician Woman & the theology of inclusion

“In this way you make God’s word

ineffective for the sake of your own tradition.”

--Mark 7:13

 

I have always had trouble with the way Jesus speaks to the Syro-Phoenician woman.  She comes to Him seeking help for her daughter who is possessed by a demon.  This is a classic situation for Jesus to reveal His power, and His Father’s healing love.  But instead Jesus responds to the woman’s plea with a kind of parable or koan-like statement about taking food away from children and feeding dogs.

“The children should be fed first, because
it is not fair to take the children’s food
and throw it to little dogs.” (Mk 5:27)

Upon first reading, it sounds not only like Jesus is being dismissive of her pain (and her daughter’s suffering), but also a little insulting. Why?  This is not the Jesus we expect. He doesn’t seem to be the same guy who just  walked on water, fed 5000, healed Jairus’s daughter (as well as the woman with her bleeding), and anyone the crowds brought to Him, the guy who ate with sinners, calmed the sea and taught that the Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath. Clearly, he’s not someone who seems wrapped up in rules and regulations. And, prior to this, has shown no hesitance when asked for help.  And yet, what He says to the Syro-Phoenician woman sounds like a dismissal and a veiled reference to a rule is the only explanation He offers.  To me, this strangeness is a theological speed-bump. It slows me down, in fact--stops me in my tracks—and demands my attention.  I don’t like it.  It makes me uncomfortable. Why is Jesus acting like this?  What does it mean?

 

Often when this story is discussed, the emphasis is put on the fact that the woman is Syro-Phoenician (a Gentile; non-Jew). There is a tradition of Jews referring to Gentiles as dogs, and so this makes some sense.  Yet, Jesus has just cured another Gentile of demonic possession back in chapter 5 (cf. Mk 5.1-20 the Gerasane demoniac & the 2000 pigs). So, why is He suddenly hesitant to cast out another demon from another Gentile?  Why this sudden change? Again—a theological speed-bump, encouraging us to slow down and take a moment (or a life-time) and pay attention. Contemplate this.  Let the Word of God open itself to you and see where it leads.

 

And so, here is where it lead me—backwards.  I remembered that in Matthew’s version of this story, the disciples complain to Jesus about the woman.  They want Him to do something so she will stop following them.  And so, in Matthew’s Gospel it makes sense to read this story as a lesson for those same disciples.  They have come from a world where people like this woman are often referred to as dogs. So, when Jesus refers to throwing food to the dogs (Mt. 15:21ff) it seems quite plausible that He is making a point specifically for His disciples. He is demanding that they confront their own language and prejudices against the Gentiles.  But here in Mark there is no mention of the disciples.  We have only the woman and Jesus.  Within that context, we must ask ourselves, what is Mark saying here?  And a trick I learned from N.T. Wright (an Anglican theologian) is to look at the surrounding text. What has just happened prior to the troubling verse, and what comes after.  Well, just prior to this, Jesus has been having a discussion with the Pharisees and scribes about the rules.  They want to know why the disciples eat with unclean hands. Why don’t the disciples follow the rules about washing their arms up to the elbow before they eat?  These rules come not from the Torah, but from tradition; in effect, they are an interpretation of scripture, a reading of God’s law; they arise out of theologizing –thinking about God and God’s law.  But here’s the problem. Jesus points out to the Pharisees and Scribes that their form of theologizing ends up being very exclusive. It tends to “rule” people out.  Just as it does here with this question about clean hands, the way they read God’s law ends up excluding people for a variety of reasons. In fact, it seems that the lens they use for reading God’s law is a lens of exclusion. It tends to read God’s law (God’s love) as being only for an exclusive group—those who meet certain qualifications.  And so it is constantly looking at the rules to measure out who meets those qualifications.  It is as if they have a telescope turned round the wrong way and are looking at everything through the wrong end. Everything looks smaller, looks tighter, looks narrower through this lens.  Harder to attain, and much less open for discussion (or inclusion).

 

Jesus tells them point blank:  In this way, you make God’s word ineffective for the sake of your tradition. They put their tradition, their interpretation, above everything; including the effectiveness of God’s word.  And with that in mind, let us return to this Syro-Phoenician woman and those dogs under the table.

 

I wonder if this vignette, this very brief miracle story, is actually a lesson in interpretation.  A kind of lesson in theologizing. Think about it this way: who is she talking to? The Word made Flesh.  What is she doing? Humbly coming to the Word seeking healing, seeking comfort, seeking guidance.  But what does she find?  She is confronted by an unpleasant truth (or what seems like an unpleasant version of the Truth, the Way, and the Life). But, how does she react? Does she go away in search of another religion? Another miracle healer? Another way, truth or life? No. She accepts the terms that Jesus puts forward, accept the truth of what He says and then she offers a theological reading of that truth.  She offers an interpretation based on His terms, His words, His Truth. She says:

“Ah yes, sir… but little dogs under the table eat the scraps from the children.” (Mk 7:28)

 

And with that response, becomes, it seems to me, an icon of the Christian theologian. Unlike the Pharisees who seem only to see the law as a way to exclude others, she--without contradicting the truth of God’s word, accepting it completely under its own terms-- discovers in it an effectiveness that resounds with the love of the God that has been revealed to us, a God of love and grace and mercy. She discovers even in this unpleasant saying, a broadness and a grace that at first was not apparent.  It is as if in her words here, in this brief response, she teaches us a theological approach: how to read the Word of God through a lens of inclusiveness, how to discover in even the most difficult sayings and unpleasant passages a love that transcends human understanding. 

 

Is that not the true work of theology: to discover and reveal the truth of God’s love? And should that not be the tradition that guides us?  A tradition of love, of mercy, of compassion, a tradition that opens doors, lights lamps, makes pathways straight; a tradition that proclaims always the loving message of a loving God: Come unto me, all you who are weary, and I will give you rest. A tradition that proclaims: At this table, all are welcome.  

Recognizing Jesus

 

“What do you want with me, Jesus…”

Mark 5:7

 

Chapter 5 of Mark’s Gospel is packed so tightly with narrative, there seems no room for teaching; no sermonizing. From beginning to end it tells in simple and laconic language three fascinating and odd miracle stories.  It begins with one of the weirdest miracle stories in scripture: the Gerasene demoniac and the pigs.  Jesus drives the demons out of a man and (at the request of the demons) He sends them into some pigs who rush off a cliff into the sea and die.  When the people of the town hear about this, they go to Jesus and plead with Him to leave their town. And He does.

 

This story is followed by the story of the president of the synagogue who comes to Jesus pleading for help for his daughter. To my ear this story echoes the story of the Roman centurion who asks Jesus to heal his servant (MT 8:5-13).  In both stories there is an official who shouldn’t have anything to do with Jesus, who should be opposed to this itinerant preacher and His magical cures and His rule-breaking and trouble-making ways. But, in both cases the official humbles himself to come begging for help. 

 

And then there is that third miracle story which so artfully interrupts the second, so that we have a story within a story.  This interlude story is that of the woman who has been bleeding for 12 years.  Here is how Mark sets it up:  As Jesus is following the official back to heal his daughter, a woman comes up behind them and touches the robe of Jesus and is healed.  When Jesus turns to see who touched Him, the crowd is pressed around so tightly that no one can tell who touched whom.  And yet the woman comes forward and confesses that it was her—and that she has been healed. As Jesus is talking with her, people from the official’s house come and tell him that his daughter has died, there is no reason to bother Jesus anymore.  Of course, that isn’t the end of that story either.  

 

Though there is no preaching in this chapter, there is a lot of teaching going on.  Kind of a show, don’t tell, chapter—I guess.  And though there is much to be gleaned here, the message that I heard this morning was not about the miracles as much as it was about the people who sought them (or didn’t).  What I heard as I read these familiar stories this morning, was a lesson about recognizing Jesus.  And how we react when we do.

 

In the first story, it is the demoniac (or the demons within him) who recognizes Jesus. He is the one who comes to Jesus and demands: What do you want with me, Jesus, Son of the Most High God?

 

And what does Jesus want, but to make him whole. To cure him of his demons.  Of course, after the man is cured, the people of the town aren’t so sure it was worth it.  Sure, the guy was possessed with demons and haunted the mountains and the caves and broke every chain they tried to lock him up with, but what about all their pigs?  They come out to see this miracle, to get a glimpse of the “show” so to speak.  But instead of sharing the joy of a man’s healing, they focus on the cost and implore Jesus to leave their shore.  Like the demons, they recognize something special in Jesus, but don’t want to have anything to do with Him.  It costs too much.

 

And then there is the official from the synagogue.  He comes from a community that has already rejected Jesus, is already looking for ways to get rid of Him.  But, this man sees something in this stranger that makes him step away from the security of his community (his peers—the Pharisees and Sadducees), to risk ridicule and rejection, by coming to Jesus and begging for help.  He recognizes in Jesus something he can’t find anywhere else: hope.

 

And like him, the woman with the bleeding comes because she has heard talk of Jesus and His healing powers. For twelve years she has sought a cure from doctors and healers and has “spent all she had” without finding any help (5:26) and so she turns to Jesus out of desperation.  She is willing to risk everything just for a chance to touch the hem of His robe.  And after she is cured, what does Jesus tell her:  “…your faith has restored you to health…”(5:34). In other words, she recognized Him. She recognized that He held the power of healing. In fact, that is the story of all these characters—they recognize something in Jesus. 

 

The demoniac recognizes in Jesus (a stranger just arrived on his shore), an authority that sets him free from the evils that plague him.  The people from the town recognize that same authority in this stranger but want nothing to do with it.  It asks too much of them.  

 

For the synagogue official, Jesus is a man spurned by the religious authorities. He is an outcast, a problem, possibly even a criminal.  Coming to Jesus must cost this man more than we can imagine.  His reputation, his position in society, his place in the synagogue… all of it is at risk simply by him seeking out jesus.  And yet he does. Because he sees in Him hope and healing. In fact he pleads with Jesus to come to his house. 

 

And the woman, who has already given up everything she has. She has not only spent everything she has searching for healing, but by her constant bleeding, she has become unclean—a person to be avoided. She has nothing left to lose, and in her emptiness she sees in this poor humble carpenter a radiance that brings her to her knees and brings her back to health.

 

Jesus comes to all three of these scenes as a stranger, an outcast, someone who by his very presence makes a demand upon us.  How will we receive Him? Who will we see when we look at Him? At this stranger? The rejected? The outcast? Or the Son of the Most High God? Jesus? Who do we see when we meet a stranger? Do we see someone who is part of the body of Christ?  Do we welcome the stranger, even reach out to her or him because we recognize they too are children of God? They too are made in the image of God… Or do we turn away because see only a burden? An expense we are unwilling to pay?

The Extravagance of God's Love

“Tell me, suppose a man had a hundred sheep
and one of them went astray…” –Matthew 18:12

 

 Matthew 18 contains that brief and strange parable about the shepherd who walks away from his 99 sheep in search of a single stray.  I have heard preachers preach about this parable in multiple ways.  Often trying to tie it to actual shepherding practices. But it has never made sense to me (at least not an economic or mathematical sense).  Why would a shepherd abandon (and leave vulnerable) an entire flock, in order to go search for a single lost sheep. How would you explain it to the owner if something happened to the others? What if a wolf came along while you were gone and ate the rest of them?  But, of course, Jesus isn’t probably intending to teach a lesson about shepherding here. Looking at the context, the totality of chapter 18 --a chapter filled with images of extravagance-- it is pretty obvious that the ridiculousness of the shepherd leaving the 99 to go in search of the one is supposed to show us something. Probably something about the extravagance of God's love. And recently, I had an experience that  opened my eyes to the lesson of this parable in a way I hadn't expected. 

 During the recent flooding rains our backyard became a swamp.  Water standing ankle deep in places; even in the path were we have the concrete pavers, as I stood on the steps water covered my shoes. But, when I went out in the early morning to cover part of the turtle’s pen with a tarp, I didn’t pay any attention to the standing water inside their pen.  I assured myself that they were used to this kind of thing—heck, their turtles!  And—if I am honest-- I didn’t want to be bothered with trying to collect them in boxes or finding the dog kennel and setting it up as a turtle sanctuary.  I guess you could say, I wasn’t really committed to their care. I was willing to make a little effort—to go to just enough discomfort so that I wouldn’t feel badly. I could justify myself by saying: I tried.  At least I got out the tarp!  But, clearly there was no extravagance in my efforts.  At best, it was somewhat reserved. 

 But when Lucia awoke and saw the yard filling with water, everything changed.  Immediately, sans umbrella or shoes, she was out in the rain and the ankle-deep water with a Sterlite container, reaching into the mud and leaves, turning over bricks and bits of nature, gathering her beloved turtles.  Of course –out of guilt—I quickly got my wet shoes back on and rushed out to help her (and Lynne—who was already out there).  The three of us becoming a turtle transport, carrying plastic bins of curious creatures into the garage where the kennel was already set up to receive them.

What seemed remarkable to me was that Lucia knew each of them by name, and after a couple of trips, knew that one was missing. It was one who often gets into trouble, gets into awkward situations: trapped under a rock, or flipped on its back in the middle of the water dish and unable to right itself.  She was aware of its habits and rightly worried for its safety. Because she knew it. And she loved it—with a love that seems beyond reason to me. An extravagant love.

Immediately, she was back out there, and we were back with her; she was turning over rocks and lifting up anything a turtle might hide under until finally she found it.  The joy in her voice, the excitement, reminded me of someone-- a shepherd who lost a sheep…a single sheep.

On top of finding her one lost sheep, she also found three or four new babies. They are now living with the other babies in what used to be our “office.” I had dreams of writing several novels and crafting my Nobel Prize refusal speech from that room.  But instead it is a turtle nursery (or neo-natal unit) and I am writing from the dinner table (or the front porch). 

 As I write this morning –windows open, sunlight streaming in-- the rains have subsided, the yard is drying out and Houston has been graced with a week or so of lovely weather (according to channel 13).  The grown-up turtles are back in their pen, happily wandering about, hiding under rocks and flipping themselves over. 

This may sound frivolous, but I am sitting here contemplating the love of God, the weirdly, wonderfully extravagant love of God, and I am thinking –yes!  I get it now.  It is like the love of a young woman for her turtles—especially for that one awkward turtle who tends to get lost. Like a wandering sheep.   

 And I am glad for that. 

 And I hope the next time it rains, I will have a little bit of that extravagance, too. 

        God open my eyes, that I may read Your Word,
       Open my ears, that I may hear Your message in it,
        And open my heart that I will always be filled
            with the Love that is found there.

 

Anyone who has—Some thoughts on Matthew 13

 “Anyone who has will be given more

and will have more than enough; but

anyone who has not will be deprived

of even what he has.”  --Matthew 13:12

 

Huh?

What on earth is Jesus talking about? And why would He say something that sounds so unfair?  The Gospel message is supposed to be a message of sharing and compassion. If someone is in need, we are supposed to go to them and share what we have with them.  I thought!

 

But here is Mr. Nice-guy-Turn-the-other-cheek-Do-unto-others, saying something that sounds a lot like: Tough luck!

 

This verse is a stumbling block for me. It is something that has always troubled me.  I am one of those Christians who desperately want everything to be “fair” and gentle; I want a yoke that is easy and a burden that is light!  And this doesn’t fit into that vision of Jesus the love-child and erstwhile hippy/peacenik, sandal wearing vegetarian, commune living carpenter.  My childhood vision of Jesus was probably as much shaped by Super-friends and The Archies as it was by church, scripture & random episodes of Davey and Goliath; more Godspell  than Gospel, if you know what I mean.  I come from a spiritual school of simplicity and the obvious.  Guitar masses, tambourines and agape feasts with broken baguettes passed from person to person at the end of a teen-life retreat. Lots of Cat Stevens music intermingled with our hymns.

 

And so, the idea of Jesus ever saying anything that sounds unfair just feels wrong; un-Christian, even.  And yet, there it is, right there in the Gospel. And not just in Matthew but also Mark (4:25) & Luke (8:18).  So, what on earth is Jesus telling us?

 

One of the first things I think we need to do when a teaching makes us uncomfortable is look to our discomfort.  Why does this teaching trouble us? Where is it challenging us? What is it asking of us that we are hesitant to give?  What are we holding back?

 

For me, this teaching stings particularly when it talks of taking away even “what little they have.”  Too often I can find myself thinking like this; pondering what little I have left. What little time left –I’m 60 now—what little energy, years left to me: to finish my novel, deliver an address to the UN, win the Pulitzer prize and/or a MacArthur Grant… Or even to finish streaming Midsomer Murders! (How many darned seasons are there?)  Sometimes, when I feel this way, disheartened and self-pitying, I find myself growing resentful, my heart hardening as I ponder all I have sacrificed or given up or never experienced. The many dishes I have washed, and floors I have swept, the diapers I changed, the date nights when I got the kids to bed, the house quieted, lit a candle, poured some wine and prepared a little plate of brie and crackers, only to find my wife asleep on the couch.  In my disappointment, I see not her exhaustion, the work she has done, the burden she has borne and the rest she so desperately needs, only my own wants and needs not being met, the resentful embittering sense of what little I have growing inside me.

And I want to scream out—like a little child—Not fair! I want to cry out to God: This isn’t fair! You can’t do this.

 

And I think that is the problem, my problem with this reading, this teaching. I am looking for the wrong thing.  I am looking for fairness.  And God is offering me abundance. 

 

Pondering this reading for a few days now, it occurs to me that it may actually be a teaching about attitude. How do you look at the world? How do you see life? And a phrase occurred to me: imaginative abundance.  Do you have an imagination of abundance or of meagerness? Do you look at the world, at your life, and see the abundance of gifts you have received? Or do you look at the world see only what you lack, where you have been slighted or ignored, what little you have received?  This ability (or willingness) to see all that you have been given: life, family, friends, sunshine, rain, abilities or talents, laughter and tears, as gift, as grace it brings comfort and it consoles us.  It is itself a sense of abundance. Of more… and in some way it multiplies everything we have. It gives us more. 

And the other way of looking at the world, the lens of meagerness, of not enough, leaves us always feeling like we have not received what we needed, what we wanted, what we deserve.  It leaves us always watching what the other one has, what the other person has received and measuring our share against theirs. We stand there like a small child who has been given half of a popsicle; and instead of enjoying it, we look at ours and compare it to the other half and we cry out: Her half is bigger! That’s not fair! She got more than me!  

 

And aren’t we all that child at times?  I know I am.  This is the attitude that says there is never really enough.  That when you get more, by default I get less and that’s not fair.

 

And yet…  fairness isn’t what Jesus came for.  He came to give Himself, and to give Himself completely. He came for grace and grace overflows. It is at the heart of abundance.  A heart that isn’t constantly measuring and checking its pockets to see how much it has, and comparing that to what others seem to have.  That kind of heart, that kind of thinking, that kind of imagination of lack, of meagerness, blinds us to the truth of grace and God’s abundance, God’s mercy, God’s love.

 

Open your eyes to the abundance around you? An abundance that overflows. Let your imagination open to it, to the grace of it, the gift of it, and feel it washing over you, the joy of it washing over you like that first cleansing wave as you walk out into the surf on the beach. Think about the last time you went to Galveston. You take off your shoes and begin walking toward the waves. Feel it. It can be a little scary at first. You don’t know what to expect. Seaweed and crabs and fish and shells and the foam clinging to your ankles… it’s all a bit overwhelming at first… but then you realize. Yes. This is why I came. For all of this; for the strange enveloping wonder of it. For the amazing abundance of it. I was made for this.

 

And speaking of abundance, there’s more. When it comes to scripture, there is always more. In the very next chapter we catch a glimpse of this abundance in action. There is a wonderful little story about a few loaves of bread and a couple of fish. And a few thousand hungry people.

 

Open your eyes. The abundance isn’t imaginary. It is so real it can feed thousands… and still overflow with plenty for more.

 

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 [HS1]