"Crumbs From the Table"
Dr. George Sinclair, Pastor
Gen. 45:1-15; Ps. 133; Rom. 11:1-2a, 29-32; Matt. 15:(10-20) 21-28
August 17, 2008
What does it take to get a few crumbs from God’s table? Apparently, it takes shouting, pleading, and cajoling. I know, it doesn’t sound right. It doesn’t sound right to say it or to hear it. “God is generous. God’s supposed to love everybody. Everyone has equal access. God shows no partiality toward anyone who fears him.” Apparently that’s not quite right—sometimes it takes shouting, pleading, and cajoling to get God’s attention, to get a few crumbs from his table.
The story of the Canaanite woman who meets Jesus somewhere near the region of Tyre and Sidon is one of those Bible stories that preachers wish would go away. I mean, really, Jesus acts out of character. He behaves badly toward a poor woman in need. When she asks for help, and mind you she doesn’t ask for herself but for her sick child, Jesus first gives the woman the silent treatment, he then tells her curtly his business is only with Jews; and finally, Jesus calls her a dog, hardly the universal language of love.
What’s going on here? Is this the Jesus we met in Sunday school? What’s up with Jesus? And what does the story tell us about faith—by the story’s end Jesus praises the annoying, persistent, non-Jew calling her faith “great.” The Greek uses the word “mega.” The shouting, pleading, cajoling outsider has megafaith.
For Matthew, the “district of Tyre and Sidon” clearly denotes Gentile territory. Mark tells the same story referring to the woman as a “Syrophoenician.” Geographically, the district was northwest of Galilee. Culturally and politically it was home to one of Israel’s most notorious and ancient enemies—the Canaanites, which is how Matthew labels the woman. She was “a Canaanite.” If you’re looking for a modern equivalent, think of the social group you consider beneath you. Think enemy.
Matthew’s not entirely clear why Jesus ambles through “the district of Tyre and Sidon.” Unlike Jericho, say, which you had to pass through if you were going to some place big like Jerusalem, Tyre and Sidon were out of the way. It wasn’t as if Jesus had to go through Tyre and Sidon unless of course, as some have speculated, he went there to lie low following hostilities with Jerusalem bosses. That seems plausible enough. Jesus goes where no one knows him. Jesus finds an out of the way place where he can sort things out, undisturbed.
“Undisturbed,” though, hardly describes what Jesus finds. He is not undisturbed or unrecognized. His anonymity is short lived. When the Canaanite woman recognizes Jesus she comes out “shouting, ‘Have mercy on me, Lord, Son of David; my daughter is tormented by a demon.”
I like retreats as much as the next person—you know, tranquility, walks along the beach or through a quiet wood, mountain tops, serenity, peace, quiet. This woman is anything but peaceful and quiet. She doesn’t meet Jesus on a quiet beach at sunrise. Think big city ER, the glare and hum of harsh fluorescent lights. This is the Psych Ward, Drug Rehab—“My daughter’s tormented by a demon."
One Easter when we came home from church we noticed Meredith had a fever. She was, I don’t know, maybe two, something like that. Paula tells me I tend to get dates wrong about these things. All I remember that she was sick. You know how little kids can get a fever really fast. Well, she did. She went to church and was fine. When she came home she was sick. We didn’t know how sick at first—‘cause we even made some pictures—seems like she was wearing a little pink and white dress—looked like a baby doll. When you look at those pictures closely, you can see her cheeks. They’re beet red. Meredith was getting pneumonia, and we didn’t know it. But we surely knew it when the doctor put her in the hospital. That’s a terrible thing for a parent—seeing your child sick that way. You feel so helpless. A mother or a father will do just about anything for a sick child. “Lord, have mercy on me; my daughter is tormented . . .”
It’s a pitiful scene, a terrible, tragic scene, a desperate mother, a sick child, “Lord, have mercy.” And what does Jesus do? His silence is deafening. “He did not answer her at all.”
That hardly seems like Jesus. Jesus is supposed to hear our prayers. He’s supposed to be compassionate, loving, caring, welcoming—all of those things. “But he did not answer her at all.” Maybe Jesus was suffering from “compassion fatigue.” Maybe he was, as someone has said, “fried.” He’s seen one too many desperate mothers with sick children, and he’s had it.
Or, maybe, he’s testing the woman. You know, trying to see how sincere she is—but that seems beneath Jesus, petty actually.
I think Tom Long comes closest to the truth when he observes that Jesus’ silence is like the silence of heaven. The Psalms talk about that silence. Psalm 22 for example: “O my God, I cry by day, but you do not answer; and by night, but find no rest.”
I’ve prayed more than once when I didn’t think anyone was listening or cared. “Talk to me, Lord.” And there’s no answer.
The disciples pick up on Jesus’ stony response and appear emboldened by it. They urge Jesus, “Send her away, for she keeps shouting after us.”
“She keeps shouting after us.”
Back in May I went to a baseball game in Cincinnati. The new river front stadium is a very cool place. We got tickets behind home plate—not in the upper deck and not behind box seats but good seats all the same for twenty-two dollars. It was a beautiful, clear night. Nice breeze. The Reds were playing Cubs. Ken Griffey was still playing for the Reds before he got traded and he almost hit his four hundredth home run. He also made a great, leaping catch that night robbing a Cub’s player of a home run over the right field fence.
Anyway, I’m sitting there with a young man who had gone to the conference with me. We’d had a nice supper together, we’re enjoying the game, and along about the fifth or sixth inning this bozo a few rows back with a few too many beers starts ragging the Cubs, especially their manager Lou Piniella.
Now, I hold no great admiration for Lou Piniella. I have no feelings one way or another about the man—he’s got a temper and is known for showing it. There’s a commercial out now that he’s made—that plays on his histrionics. Point is, the loud, drunk guy three rows back starts in on Lou Piniella after Lou’s gone out to question a call. “Sweet Lou” he calls him. Time after time after time. And he doesn’t stop there. He’s making fun of every Cub’s player he can, especially the Hispanic players. He’s being a real jerk. And I want to go punch him in the mouth. Once was funny. Twice, you kind of expect at ballparks. But on and on and on, give me a break.
“She keeps shouting after us.”
The woman is annoying. She is loud.
Disciples can have a bad day. I’ll give them that. You remember when they want to send the crowds away—the time when they were in a lonely, deserted place and people were hungry. The disciples wanted to send them away. So this is not the first time for these guys. “She keeps shouting after us—send her away.”
Granted the Canaanite woman is no Mother Mary: “Let it be to me according to thy word;” but really, “Give her the boot?”
Here’s the thing; Jesus doesn’t send her away but what he tells the disciples is just as bad or sad. And it’s not like the Canaanite woman couldn’t hear him. When the disciples ask Jesus to send her away, he tells them: “I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel.”
We know who the “lost sheep of the house of Israel” are and the “lost sheep of the house of Israel are not annoying Canaanite women who keep “shouting after” the disciples and Jesus. “The lost sheep of the house of Israel” are Jews, sons and daughters of Abraham. Jesus is their guy, one of them, the “son of David.”
What’s up with Jesus? Can he help only Jews? “Sorry, lady, no can do. Too bad about that daughter of yours. My powers are limited to Jews only.” That sounds bad, but it gets worse.
The desperate Canaanite woman with the sick child tries another approach. She stops shouting and starts praying. Kneeling at the feet of Jesus she says, “Lord, help me.”
The Greek is very close to Peter’s prayer on the water, the one we heard last week, “Lord, save me!” “Lord, help me,” she says. Twice now the Canaanite has called Jesus “Lord.” Twice now she has asked for help. And for a second time Jesus puts her off this time adding insult to injury: “It’s not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.”
That’s not the kind of thing we’ve come to expect from Jesus. Scholars try to soften the insult noting that Jesus uses a word for “puppy” or household pet and the term used to refer to the wild dogs that were known to roam the wilderness of Palestine. He calls her a puppy not a big dog.
Personally, that’s small consolation. I don’t think it softens the insult. In those days, Jews derisively referred to Gentiles as “dogs.” Jesus has called the shouting, now praying woman “a dog” and there’s no way around it. Not only that, Jesus says she’s not worthy of the bread from his table. It wouldn’t be fair to give bread meant for the “children” of Abraham to people like her.
Once again the Canaanite woman shifts postures. This time she is cagy. She moves from shouting to prayer and from prayer to street smart wit, “I might be a dog, but my daughter’s hungry. Give me the crumbs from your table.”
Matthew concludes the episode simply but dramatically, “Then Jesus answered her, ‘Woman, great is your faith! Let it be done for you as you wish.’ And her daughter was healed instantly.”
“Great is your faith!”
Great faith, megafaith. Where does faith like that come from? How do you get a great faith? Maybe great faith partly comes from desperation. Maybe when you’re out of options or when you care enough about another human being you’ll do most anything, you find faith. Maybe it takes loving another person so much you’ll do “whatever it takes” to have a great faith. That’s where megafaith comes from. Great faith seeks the good of others and is satisfied with crumbs. And when it’s the right table even crumbs will feed a hungry man, a desperate mother, a sick child.
Faith may be a gift but great faith doesn’t come easily. Few things worth living or dying for ever do, at least not the best things. And the best of all is a faith worth fighting for because being alive, being human is worth fighting for. It’s worth everything we’ve got and more.
With great faith even a few crumbs, when they’re from the right table, are enough to satisfy. They’re sufficient to make us whole. They’re sufficient to make us well. Thanks be to God for crumbs from his Table. Amen.