Scripture can be found here and here…
We know this story, but there’s always something shocking about it.
Up until this moment, in the gospel of Mark, Jesus has never refused to heal anyone. His ministry begins with teaching and preaching and calling disciples. But twenty-three verses into chapter 1, Jesus exorcises a man with an unclean spirit, and from that point on he never stops. And, the gospel tells us, he becomes famous because of it. That’s when the crowds start to really grow: when Jesus gains a reputation as a healer.
Now, six chapters later, Jesus has taken a trip. He’s most recently been in Jerusalem, and has gotten drawn into some debates with religious leaders there. Now, he is in Tyre, which is Gentile territory, and he has lost the taste for debates, at least for the moment. He’s received as a guest in a house where he hopes to lie low for a while—he doesn’t want to see anyone.
But, as I said, Jesus is famous now, and that means his time is not always his own, and his desire to remain out of public view sometimes doesn’t really work out. Word gets around. One person who hears about it is someone very much in need of healing—not for herself, but for her daughter: a Gentile woman whose child has a unclean spirit. Naturally, she seeks Jesus out.
I don’t know anyone that doesn’t need some kind of healing. Someone once said that pain is the most universal experience, and, I suppose that’s true. It makes sense. We all need healing, whether we are vibrating with childhood trauma or lying in the ICU on a ventilator.
And we need different kinds of healing, of course. Some physical, some psychological, some spiritual. Jesus seems to offer all of these. But today—in this moment—he is not inclined.
The woman approaches him—she’s a local, so a different religious and probably ethnic background from Jesus. She bows down at his feet, a completely respectful, even reverent approach to this well-known rabbi. And she begs him: cast the demon out of my daughter.
It’s hard to know exactly what was going on with this child. In other instances where someone is described as having a spirit or demon possessing them, they sometimes yell, the words of the demon come out of them. Another phenomenon associated with these spirits is that they recognize the fullness of who Jesus is: In chapter 1, the possessed man shouts in the demon’s voice: “I know who you are, the Holy One of God.”
Other times, the possessed ones harm themselves. In chapter 5 there’s a man who exhibits great strength—they try to keep him chained up, but he keeps breaking out of the chains, roaming through a graveyard, howling and bruising himself with stones. In chapter 9, we meet a boy with an unclean spirit who can’t speak.
Some of these behaviors sound to us like mental illness or physical illness, and that may be what they describe. We don’t know exactly what symptoms this woman’s daughter is experiencing, but she must be suffering.
So, the woman begs. And Jesus’ response is like a verbal slap. “Let the children be fed first; it’s not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.” When Jesus says “the children” here, he really means, the children of Abraham—people of the covenant. Jews. And when he says “dogs,” he means… everyone else. Jesus has just called this woman’s child a dog.
And she is undeterred. She doesn’t hesitate. She doesn’t rebuke Jesus. She doesn’t even express anger at his ugly words. She simply points out that the dogs are usually allowed to eat the crumbs that have fallen under the table.
She speaks. She speaks out. This is a wonderful moment, and one I really want us to notice. Sometimes we have to advocate for ourselves, and sometimes we have to advocate for the those are not in a position to advocate for themselves. This week the flooding in New York City and northern New Jersey impacted people flying into and out of Newark International Airport. One plane full of people had a particularly awful experience: they boarded the plain, but soon the airport and its runways were so badly flooded, they were left stranded on the tarmac for nearly six hours, a good portion of that without lights so that the plane could conserve energy. When they got into the terminal, the surrounding area was so badly flooded, they couldn’t leave. It was late at night. Everything was closed. There was no food available, the terminal was freezing, and people couldn’t get their luggage or belongings from the plane. There were elderly men and women, unable to stand, freezing, shaking with exhaustion and cold. But some passengers spoke up for them, advocated for them. They took care of these strangers with whom they were stranded. They found them what they needed.
The Gentile mother calmly advocates for her daughter, but there is something wonderfully fierce about it. “Fine,” she seems to say. “We’re dogs. Then treat us, at least as well as you would treat a dog.”
At this point, I feel I should mention: a lot of us who heard this story when we were young had Jesus’ behavior explained to us. He was testing her faith! That’s how the explanation goes. But… where else in the gospels do we see that? Can you remember a single instance of Jesus testing faith as a requirement for healing—when someone had a hemorrhage, or another had a fever, or when presented with a dead child? When it comes to healing, as when it comes to gathering around a table, Jesus doesn’t test faith. He heals. He feeds.
I don’t believe Jesus is testing this woman. I believe Jesus is tired and cranky after his rough week in Jerusalem, and he badly wants some down time. I also believe there is a deep-rooted prejudice in the kind of language he uses about the woman and her child—the kind that we pick up as children. In the wise words of Richard Rodgers,
You’ve got to be taught to hate and fear
You’ve got to be taught from year to year
It’s got to be drummed in your dear little ear
You’ve got to be carefully taught.
Jesus calls the child a dog. His brother James, in the passage Carlton read, reminds the church not to engage in favoritism—which is certainly the case if you’re rejecting someone over religious or ethnic background. But Jesus’ about face is immediate. Say what you will, the man knows a winning argument when he hears it. But he responds to the woman. She has made her case. She has persisted. She has spoken up.
She is rewarded because she spoke up. She has the distinct honor of being the only person in the New Testament to persuade Jesus to change his mind. But the only honor she wants, really, is the one she finds, awake, well, breathing freely, talking reasonably, once again able to laugh, to play, to be a child—her daughter, who she finds in her bed at home.
Thanks be to God. Amen.