Sermons

“The Power of Hope: Learning from the Margins”

Psalm 131; Matthew 15:21-28 – Rev. Rebecca Littlejohn

Vista La Mesa Christian Church (Disciples of Christ), La Mesa, California – August 20, 2017

Holy God, bless the speaking and the hearing of these words that we might have the humility to learn all you are teaching us. In the name of Jesus we pray, Amen.

Something we reminded ourselves of this morning in my new Bible class: the different parts of the Bible were written across a wide swath of history, thousands of years apart from one another. And yet, another thing I firmly believe about the Bible: one of the gifts the Spirit gives us to assist in interpretation is our own imaginations. So let me suggest this non-factual idea to spark our thinking this morning. Doesn’t Psalm 131 sound as though it could have been written by the Canaanite woman in the story we just heard from Matthew, after the whole episode was over?

A woman holding a child – perhaps a newly calmed and quieted child – with a calmed and quieted soul, humbly rejoicing in the saving power of God, which did not betray her trust and hope. That is the voice I hear in Psalm 131, and it sounds just like what might come from the heart of this unnamed Canaanite woman once she’d gone home and found her daughter freed from the demon that had tormented her. God knew the anguish and distress she had endured when her daughter was unwell. So the deepest praise she could offer was her calmed and quieted soul. It was the ultimate proof of God’s saving power, of Israel’s or anyone’s cause for hope. “My soul magnifies the Lord,” she might have sung, along with Mary.

It seems the preaching is just getting harder each week this August. Matthew 15:21-28 and its corollary in Mark are, for me, some of the most difficult passages in all of the gospels. We’ve been exploring these miracle stories in the middle of Matthew for hints about what we can learn about following Jesus. But this story is different. The miracle is clearly not the point. Or maybe something other than the healing is the miracle.

Followers of Jesus have tried all sorts of complicated interpretive contortions over the years to wiggle out of the uncomfortable truth within this passage. It’s just so distressing to see Jesus being so uncaring, so rude, so wrong. “I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel.” “It is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.” What is going on here? Why would someone include this horrible story of Jesus being cranky and exclusive and cruel, in the gospel that is supposed to bring us to discipleship? This passage has messed with me for a long time.

The deeper we get into this story, though, the more we realize that there are some extraordinary things about it. There is something powerful going on here. There must be a good reason why such an unflattering episode was included.   The more we wrestle with it, the more possibilities we may find. In the end, they may expand our understanding of how God worked out the plan of love through Jesus.[1]

So let’s take a look at some of the unusual things about this passage. First of all, there is the strange nature of the initial conversation the disciples and Jesus have about the woman. “Send her away,” the disciples say, “for she keeps shouting after us.” Why would we assume this means anything other than what it says, that the disciples want Jesus to send the woman away? And yet, if that is what they mean, Jesus’ reply is a bit of a non-sequitur: “I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel.” You could imagine the disciples responding, “Yeah, so send her away!” Is the implication that what the disciples meant was “Give her what she wants so she’ll shut up and leave us alone”? Or is Jesus’ comment an attempt to justify to himself doing what the disciples are urging him to do? “I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel.” What seems most likely here is that the gospel writer is setting up a dramatic conflict, not quite as adeptly as we might wish, for the purpose of highlighting a new truth: that it turned out Jesus was not sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel. This awkward non-sequitur is only one of the devices used to teach this extraordinary new truth.

There is an important turn of phrase that is hidden by our New Revised Standard translation. If we had been reading this in the King James Version, verse 22, which introduces the Canaanite woman, would have begun with the words, “And behold”. This “Matthean focalizer”, as Elaine Wainwright calls it, shifts the attention of the story. “And behold,” Jesus is no longer the main character in this passage. Having the Canaanite woman’s entrance emphasized so dramatically makes clear that she is the one who is acting as the agent of change in this story. This shift is also reflected by the conversational structure that is faithfully transmitted by the NRSV, which has Jesus literally answering to the Canaanite woman.

Finally, and perhaps most miraculously, there are the expressions of faith that come out of the woman’s mouth. She is a Canaanite; there is no reason for her to recognize Jesus as the Messiah. And yet, three times she calls him “Lord”. She comes to him, beseeching help in the language of the Hebrew scriptures, the psalms. “Have mercy on me, Lord, Son of David!” “Lord, help me!” Three times she calls him Lord. Does that remind you of anyone? She’s not denying three times. She’s not repenting three times. She is proclaiming and petitioning Jesus as Lord three times. No wonder Jesus eventually pronounces her faith “great”!

So what is going on in this highly unorthodox conversation? What does it mean when someone other than Jesus becomes the main character for a few moments in the gospel story? I have a new theory. You have, no doubt, heard the theory that only men should serve in ministry because Jesus was a man. If you haven’t, just try being a woman in ministry for a bit, and you will. But here’s the thing: of course Jesus was a man. In that time, in that place, there is no way Jesus could have done what Jesus needed to do without being a man. Christians proclaim that the Messiah is God incarnate, the divine holiness made flesh. There is no way to truly take on human form without becoming a specific person. Given the cultural limitations of first-century Palestine, that person needed to be a man, a Jewish man specifically.

But it turns out that the truth Jesus came to share, the vision of shalom God sent Jesus to enact is far broader than any one person’s perspective. So God had to send Jesus some assistants, people who would cross his path and take on the gospel teaching themselves for a moment, in order to broaden Jesus’ perspective and understanding of his mission. This unnamed woman of Canaan – tradition sometimes calls her Justa – became one of those assistants. If we can grant that this story shows the gospel bumping up against the limitations of the incarnation, and allow that God had other ways of getting the truth through, we can begin to embrace this otherwise distressing passage. And once we do, it has important things to teach us.

How was it that Justa, a woman of Canaan, became a vessel of God’s teaching Spirit, to lead Jesus into a broader understanding of his mission? Well, let’s remember where the story started. She was a woman on the brink of desperation. What sort of illness would a baby have to have for her mother to describe it as “demon possession”? How long had it been going on? How little sleep had Justa gotten? How many friends had she burnt through, asking for respite? She was ready to look for a sign of hope pretty much anywhere, and Jesus was coming to town. She was ripe for the purpose God had for her.

Is there any length a desperate mother won’t go to? Is there any debasement she won’t endure, if there is hope of finding healing for her child? “Yes, Lord, but even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their masters’ tables.” And suddenly, Jesus’ eyes were opened, his heart saw more clearly: This isn’t about any one particular flock of sheep; this is about all of God’s beloved creation, being invited into redemption and healing and wholeness. His crankiness dissolved; his limitations fell away. And the healing power of God flowed through him once more, no longer held back by the artificial limitations of humanity.

Maybe the healing of Justa’s daughter was the miracle here. But I think there is much more that is miraculous in this story. So let us return to our original question. What can we learn from this story about being followers of Jesus? In this particular case, it seems it might be a trick question. Because in this story, we learn that in order to follow Jesus, sometimes we have to learn from someone else, someone beyond our understanding of who Jesus is. If we want to have our hearts broken wide open like Jesus’ was, we must be willing to learn from those on the margins who are desperately seeking hope.

If we need to, we can take comfort from this story, in that even Jesus was cranky and resistant to anyone messing with the status quo. He wasn’t happy about this Canaanite, this woman, coming after him, shouting for his help. He was full of excuses and willing to be rude in hiding behind them. We are not alone in that. But if we’re going to be followers of Jesus, we must allow God to not leave us there, just as God didn’t leave Jesus there. We must open our hearts to the teachers who arise from unexpected, even unacceptable places. We must be willing to have our perspectives shifted.

What will we learn, if we start listening to those on the margins of our society who are desperately seeking hope? How will our hearts grow, if we begin to share the blessings we have with those we didn’t realize need them too?

We may imagine the Canaanite woman – Justa – singing Psalm 131 after her encounter with Jesus, calmly and joyfully giving thanks to God for the deliverance of her daughter. But what we need to be watching for is Justa before she found Jesus. We need to be looking out for those on the margins, on the precipices of desperation, hoping beyond hope that deliverance is on the way. We need to be listening for the voices of those who have been silenced for centuries, whom God is preparing to be vessels of truth and grace and mercy, to bring the gospel to us. The boundaries of our society are breaking down all around us, and it can make us cranky and weary and full of excuses. But if we’re going to claim the name of Christ, we need to let go of what is limiting our perspective and open ourselves to the teachings of God’s Spirit, for that is the way of truth and joy. That is the way that leads to hope. Alleluia and Amen.

[1] Much of my thinking in this sermon was informed and inspired by “A Voice from the Margin: Reading Matthew 15:21-28 in an Australian Feminist Key” by Elaine M. Wainwright, found in Reading from this Place: Social Location and Biblical Interpretation in Global Perspective, Volume 2, eds. Fernando Segovia and Mary Ann Tolbert, Augsburg Fortress, 1995.