Who Does She Think She Is?

Scripture               Mark 7:24-30  NRSVUE

 

From there he set out and went away to the region of Tyre. He entered a house and did not want anyone to know he was there. Yet he could not escape notice, but a woman whose little daughter had an unclean spirit immediately heard about him, and she came and bowed down at his feet. Now the woman was a gentile, of Syrophoenician origin. She begged him to cast the demon out of her daughter. He said to her, “Let the children be fed first, for it is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.” But she answered him, “Sir, even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.” Then he said to her, “For saying that, you may go—the demon has left your daughter.” And when she went home, she found the child lying on the bed and the demon gone.

 

Sermon              “Who Does She Think She Is?”

 

Well, this is awkward. As one of my favorite writers on the New Testament says, it looks like we’ve caught Jesus with his compassion down.[i]

 

Let’s recap. Jesus has been busy and frazzled over the course of maybe a month. He has been rejected in his hometown—not something you get over in a day, I’m thinking. He has learned of the death of John the Baptist, his mentor and the one who baptized him, and according to one of the gospels, his cousin. Today we find Jesus having traveled to Tyre, Gentile territory, and it appears he is still trying to take that tiny Sabbath he’s been longing for, and which keeps being denied him. People have needs, and Jesus almost always does everything he can to meet those needs. But it’s possible that his hope not to be noticed, may well be one of the reasons he has traveled to Gentile territory—a place where, logically, his fame may not have spread yet. A place decidedly not his hometown.

 

Just as he teaches his disciples to do on their journeys, Jesus finds a home that welcomes him and goes in, hoping no one will notice him. There is no mention of the disciples in this passage. Are they with him? We don’t know. He appears to be on his own.

 

But there is no not noticing Jesus. We don’t know exactly how it happens. Does someone who had traveled to Galilee recognize Jesus? Does the homeowner share just enough information with a neighbor for whom it rings a bell, that wandering preacher everyone is talking about. Maybe a household servant—an enslaved person—tells a friend—a surefire way for news to travel, and fast. Or maybe, as one writer puts it, Jesus will always be noticed because of his divine identity and his power.[ii] We can try to put ourselves there, in the scene. We can imagine what it would be like to see Jesus, without introduction, without preparation, if he didn’t look like all the paintings and stained-glass windows. Would we guess it was him? Would we know?

 

A woman who enters the house knows. We don’t know how she found out. We don’t know who told her. But we know she gets herself to that house as fast as she can, and when she sees Jesus, she comes and bows down at his feet. She humbles himself, making herself as small as she can. And she begs. She begs Jesus to heal her little daughter, who is at home, in the grips of an unclean spirit, a demon.

 

The woman is desperate—anyone who witnessed such a scene would have known that. She is frightened for her, body and soul. And she has some distinct disadvantages going into this conversation. First, she is a woman, and in that time period, it is never appropriate for a woman to approach and speak to a man who is not her husband or a relative. It is just not done. Second, she is not a Jew, but probably an adherent to one or more of the Canaanite gods. Think Baal, the war-God,  think Asherah, goddess of fertility. The religious difference here is a barrier. And thirdly, the woman—whose name we never learn—is a different nationality from Jesus. Jesus is a Judean; the woman is from the land we now call Lebanon. All these disadvantages, laden with cultural taboos, show that this woman, in her desperation, has thrown all propriety out the window. I think we all relate. If someone we loved, someone precious to us, were in a dire state of health and likely to die… wouldn’t we move heaven and earth to find them healing? And that is what this woman is prepared to do. She begs Jesus to cast the demon out of her daughter.

 

Jesus’ response is shocking. In fact, it’s unlike anything he says anywhere else in the gospels when responding to someone in need of healing, for themselves or for another.

 

Jesus says, “Let the children be fed first, for it is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.” Jesus has just used a slur to refer to this woman and her daughter. He has called them and those like them, other Cannanites, other Syrophoenician people—dogs. This is a Jesus we don’t witness anywhere else in the gospels.

 

Now, notice that Jesus has not said, “Let the children be fed, and don’t feed the dogs.” He’s said, “Let the children be fed first.” All the gospels tell us that Jesus’ ministry begins in Judea, Jewish territory occupied by the Romans. And it seems for a while that Jesus’ ministry is in fact to the children of Israel, God’s covenant people. But here is a hint that Jesus already knows his ministry won’t end there, that, in fact, he will extend it to those outside his own religious tradition. Just not yet.

 

The woman’s comeback is swift and even a bit witty. She says, “Sir, even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.” For the past ten years, these words have hit me differently than they had before. My friend Diane died ten years ago, after six months fighting a cruel, aggressive cancer. During that time, she prayed to God for crumbs—her own words, just crumbs—of a miracle, a chance she knew she didn’t really have. But she prayed for a miracle all the same. When I read the words of the Syrophoenician woman I remember Diane’s desperation. I remember her prayer for crumbs. And I feel the fear and heartbreak of this ancient, unnamed mother even more deeply.

 

As we read the gospels, we notice that every once in a while, someone pushes at Jesus’ plans, at his timeline. At that famous wedding feast in Cana, for example, when Jesus tells his mother, “My hour has not yet come,” and the implication is, no, he will not do something about the wine. (Spoiler alert: He does.) The disciples push forward at their own vision of a “Messiah Comes to Rule” timeline, imagining their exalted positions in his administration, and Jesus pushes right back, because what they are envisioning is not part of his plan. Could it be that the Syrophoenician woman has just pushed up against his timeline for when Gentiles will be included in his ministry of preaching, teaching and, yes, healing? Could it be that she has actually accelerated it?

 

Jesus immediately concedes the point. “Because of what you have said,” he tells her, “your daughter is healed.” Jesus sees in this woman the passion she has for her child’s wellbeing. He sees how she has persisted. He sees her faith, shining through her words. And it might also be that he sees his own plans for inclusion and welcome blossoming right before his eyes, rather than buried in the soil, waiting for the right season. After this, Jesus will leave Tyre and engage in outreach to Gentiles just as if it were his plan all along—because maybe it was. In the Decapolis he will heal a Gentile man who cannot hear or speak, and he will heal and feed a multitude. This woman’s plea and her tart response to Jesus’ rude words make room for an outpouring of miracles, not just for her daughter, not just for her family, but for her people.

 

I believe God wants us to pray bold prayers. Not just to say, “O God, if it’s possible,” or “O Lord, if it be your will.” Yes, pray “Your will be done,” and believe it. But also pray for miracles. Persist. Push. Immerse yourself in conversation with God and remember: Jesus was in that house in Tyre. He’s also in your house in Endicott or Endwell, Appalachin or Apex. Approach him. Let God know your needs in no uncertain terms. Tell God the needs of the world. Ask for a miracle.

 

This story hinges on an imagined table, with children at it, and a real child, not yet welcome to that table, who hungers for wholeness. By the end of the story that child is welcomed to the table, and today we get to gather at the table, too. We get to live out a reminder of the fulness and expansiveness of the welcome God extends to us and to all people. The bread of life. The cup of salvation. Reminders that our God does indeed engage in bold actions on our behalf, that justice and inclusion are Christ’s way, and our way. So pray boldly, for we have a bold God, who may just answer those prayers with a resounding yes. Pray boldly, for our world and its people are all in need of God’s tender care. Pray boldly and imagine this: your prayers, like this unnamed woman’s, resulting in an outpouring of miracles, more than you can imagine.

 

Thanks be to God. Amen.


[i] Matt Skinner, “Commentary on Mark 7:24-37,” Working Preacher, September 9, 2012. https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/ordinary-23-2/commentary-on-mark-724-37.

[ii] Alyce M. McKenzie, “Commentary on Mark 7;24-37,” Working Preacher, September 6, 2009. https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/ordinary-23-2/commentary-on-mark-724-37-2.