Grace to you and peace from God our Father and from our Lord
and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.
Jesus answered, “It is not right to take the children’s
bread and throw it to the dogs.” She said, “Yes, Lord, yet even the dogs eat
the crumbs that fall from the master’s table.”
That exchange both fills us with curiosity and with wonder –
curiosity at what Jesus means when He infers the Canaanite woman isn’t worthy
of what is given to Israel; wonder at the faith of the woman in the face of
such seeming denial by the Lord.
Last Sunday, I gave you the image of Jesus reaching down
into the water to rescue Peter who was drowning. That hand, reacting and
responding to a mustard’s seed worth of faith that cried out “Lord, have
mercy!”, responded immediately and directly, rescuing Peter both in time and
later, at the cross, into eternity. It
began with the question, “If it’s you, Lord, command me to come out to you on
the water.” When the faith collapsed under the weight of the wind-tossed water,
when the braggadocio faded, when life stood against certain death into the
abyss, Peter cried out to the only one who could save: Jesus. Lord, have mercy.
And, with Peter safe in the boat along with the other disciples, Jesus
addressed him as “Little-Faith.” “Little-Faith, why did you doubt?” After all,
Peter was a disciple. He had seen the Lord’s power as God-in-flesh. He had
heard Jesus’ teaching. Did he understand everything? No – of course not. You’ll
hear more about that next week. But Peter knew Jesus was the Son of God. Yet,
at that moment, Peter was Little-Faith. But, faith, little as it may be, faith
that rests in Jesus is still great faith because it rests in Jesus.
This week, we have another narrative about faith – this one,
on the opposite end of the spectrum. But
we do need to be a little careful when we talk about faith. Faith is not to be
the object of itself. We are not to have faith in having faith, or to have
faith in how strong our faith is. That’s dangerous because faith, used this
way, is subjective. It ebbs and flows, sometimes burning white-hot, sometimes a
cool ember; sometimes as mighty as a mountain, sometimes struggling to match a
mustard-seed. Standing in the boat, seeing His Lord walking on he wind-tossed
water, Peter’s faith was big and bold. Standing on the water, seeing the
wind-stacked waves coming toward him, Peter’s faith collapsed in on itself.
Faith that trusts itself is not much faith at all. And, if we realize our faith
is shrinking and sinking, if that’s where our faith was placed – in the subjective
strength of our faith – then it becomes a hopeless situation very, very
quickly. How can I trust my faith if my faith is disappearing?
But faith that rests in Christ, faith that trusts solely in
the faithfulness of Christ as God’s Son, the Redeemer of the World, the perfect
atonement that pays for the sins of the world, who died and rose and ascended
and reigns, this faith – even if it is small, childlike, and seemingly
insignificant – this faith is great and it is powerful because of where the faith
rests.
But what happens when it seems that the very object of faith
is not listening, not caring, not acting like the One Whom we know, love and
trust? Consider this verbal transaction of the Canaanite woman with Jesus. Her
prayer is nearly a parallel to Peter’s prayer, except this woman prays for her
daughter, not herself. Yet the cry, “Have mercy on me, O Lord, Son of David; my
daughter is severely oppressed by a demon,” is met without action or words on
His part. The disciples try to shoo her away, and it seems Jesus is even
agreeing. It’s as if He says to them, “She’s is right, you know; I am the Son
of David sent only to Israel.” She rushed around to kneel before Him, again
pleading for His help, only to be dismissed with the explanation that it isn’t
right to expect dogs to get the food given to children.
If last week’s image was Jesus reaching into the water to
rescue a drowning disciple, this week’s image is Jesus with His hands held out
saying, “No. Stop. Wait.” Perhaps, pushing the image just a big, perhaps His
hand was held out the way I scold Reese when she is pestering me: Stop, dog,
this isn’t for you. What does faith do when the object of faith seems to be
behaving in such an unfaithful way, that is to say, being unfaithful to who He
is?
Without prescribing what we expect Him to do, without
describing how worthy we are, faith simply clings to what we know to be true
about Jesus. He is Lord. He is the Son of David. And, when it comes to praying
for daily bread, even the scraps, even the crumbs that fall from His table of
grace are all-sufficient. Faith says, “I don’t need to sit at the table; I’ll
take the scraps,” because even the scraps will be enough.
I like the way the poet, Jan Richardson [1],
helps us understand how faith doggedly clings to the promises of God, even when
it seems the hands of the Lord are held out against us.
Stubborn
Blessing
Don’t tell me no.
I have seen you
feed the thousands,
seen miracles spill
from your hands
like water, like wine,
seen you with circles
and circles of crowds
pressed around you
and not one soul
turned away.
Don’t start with me.
I am saying
you can close the door
but I will keep knocking.
You can go silent
but I will keep shouting.
You can tighten the circle
but I will trace a bigger one
around you,
around the life of my child
who will tell you
no one surpasses a mother
for stubbornness.
I am saying
I know what you
can do with crumbs
and I am claiming mine,
every morsel and scrap
you have up your sleeve.
Unclench your hand,
your heart.
Let the scraps fall
like manna,
like mercy
for the life
of my child,
the life of
the world.
Don’t you tell me no.
If you read through the Gospels, there doesn’t seem to be
many things that amaze Jesus. I admit, Matthew doesn’t say here that Jesus was
amazed at her dogged faith, but He does comment that her faith is great.
Interestingly, there are only two people whom Jesus commends for great faith in
Matthew’s Gospel – this Canaanite woman and a Roman centurion whose son was
paralyzed and, when Jesus offered to go to his house, the Centurion simply
said, “Say the word and he will be healed.” Jesus rescues not only the House of
Israel, but even the dogs who gather nearby are welcomed at His table. For
Jesus, ethnicity does not define, exclude, or include. It is faithfulness to
Him. If last week, Peter was the anti-hero as “Little-Faith,” this Canaanite
woman would be easy to name “Great-Faith.” Matthew records it this way: “Then
Jesus answered her, ‘O Woman, great is your faith! Be it done for you as you
desire.’ And her daughter was healed instantly.”
Don’t misread this: yes, the woman wants her daughter to be
healed, but more than that, she simply wants to sit at the base of the table
and receive whatever little bits of grace the Lord has to offer her. Her faith
was great. It was not great because the woman thought she could wear Jesus down
by nagging Him enough, or if she used the right words, or if she could just
pull hard enough at His heart strings. Her faith rested in who she knew who
Jesus is – even when it seemed His hands were held out against her. She knew
Him to be both Lord and Son of David. He was Israel’s Messiah who comes with
such abundance that there were leftovers for someone like her, a woman from
Canaan. And, out of His great generosity, His mercy overflows outward from
Israel to her, a Canaanite woman who knew she deserved nothing except by God’s
grace which made her welcome at the table of Jesus.
By grace, through faith in Christ, Jesus’ hand that seemed
to be held up saying, “No, I don’t think so,” becomes a hand that is held up in
blessing. The hidden mercy of Christ is revealed. Baptized into Christ, we are
welcomed to the table, no longer dogs worthy of just the scraps but of the
finest of bread and wine, the rich fulness of Christ’s body and blood. Here,
the Son of David welcomes you, Sons and Daughters of the King: come and eat.
The table is prepared.
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