Mark 7: 24-30

In my sermon last Sunday, I spoke about how special it was to travel in the area around the Sea of Galilee on my recent pilgrimage to Israel. The setting in which Mark begins his gospel is around the Sea of Galilee around which Jesus stays in homes, teaches in synagogues, and heals the sick. In the seventh chapter of Mark, some religious authorities are sent all the way from Jerusalem to check out this new rabbi who was stirring up such interest among the peasants in the countryside around the Sea of Galilee. (Which is really more like a large lake; from almost any point, you can see the other shores.) The first thing the officials observed troubled them. It seemed Jesus’ followers were ignoring Jewish dietary regulations. When confronted with this, Jesus defended them, saying, “Do you not see that whatever goes into a person from the outside cannot defile, since it enters, not the heart but the stomach, and goes out into the sewer. It is what comes out of a person that defiles.” (Mark 7:18a-20)

After that initial conflict, Jesus leaves the area around the Sea of Galilee and travels into the region of Tyre, which was a large Phoenician capital port city in what is modern day Syria. We are told he entered a house there and did not want anyone to find him. He wanted a little R&R, and perhaps a chance to think through all that was occurring so rapidly.

He must have figured that being out of Jewish territory would allow him to lay low for a while but even in this Gentile setting he could not escape notice. The first person to seek him out was a Gentile woman of Syrophoenician origin who was in desperate straits. She had a daughter who was very ill. We don’t know exactly what ailed her or what her symptoms were; it says she had an unclean spirit, sort of a generic term in those times for an unexplained illness. It was serious enough that her mother was willing to try anything to help her get well. She must have exhausted all resources available to her for why else would she approach an itinerant Jewish rabbi she had heard healed some people down south.

It took some gumption to get in the door after Jesus had told the disciples he did not want to be disturbed. But somehow she either talked her way or pushed her way past the disciples into the presence of Jesus. I imagine her as someone who looked and acted like the actress Cathy Bates to get to him. But once she was in Jesus’ presence she was a model of humility. She bowed down at Jesus’ feet and begged him to cast the demon out of her daughter.

In the gospel of Matthew’s account of this same story, Jesus at first ignores her and when she persists, tries to have her sent away. The gospel of Luke, who used some of the same sources as Matthew, drops this story entirely, which is understandable since it does not show Jesus in a favorable light, especially when you consider his response when he finally spoke to her. He said, “Let the children be fed first, for it is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.”

For those observing this, things must have gotten a bit tense. Did Jesus just call that woman and her sick daughter dogs? Yes, he did. Was referring to people as dogs a derogatory term in that time? Yes, it was. What did Jesus intend by it? In Matthew’s version of this story, Jesus first says, “I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel.” This tries to put Jesus’ harsh statement in context, showing that at this point in his ministry, Jesus understood his mission was only with Jews, and maybe even only to those that found themselves marginalized and excluded by their own Jewish leaders, whom he referred to as “the lost sheep of Israel.” But it would seem Jesus could have left it at that, and said, “Sorry, Lady, what I am doing is a Jewish thing.”

But instead he says, “Let the children be fed first, for it is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.” Maybe it was more than the fact that she was a Gentile. She had another strike against her in being a woman and asking for help for a daughter. In a Hebrew prayer book of that time was a prayer, “Blessed are thou, O Lord our God! King of the Universe, who has not made me a woman.” Being a woman and a Gentile would make her not fully human, a dog not deserving to eat the food of the chosen children of God. So was Jesus at this point in his life provincial in his thinking or even outright prejudiced? Though we affirm that Jesus was truly divine and one with God, we also say that he was completely and utterly human. Would that include using the language of racial and religious prejudice and being chauvinistic toward women? Whatever we wish to confess about Jesus now, in his earthly ministry he was a first century Jew from Galilee, which was hardly the most cosmopolitan spot on the map. Jesus was born a Jew. He grew up in a Jewish home and was taught in the Jewish synagogue. Is he in this story just a typical Jewish male of his time?

What we don’t know when we read this story is the tone in which Jesus spoke these words. It is said that when we speak to someone, the average communication involves about 55% body language, 38% tone of voice, and that the actual words we speak constitute only about 7% of what is communicated. Which explains, by the way, why the Internet is so often a source of miscommunication. Especially when you are trying to discuss a highly emotional topic, without tone and body language over the Internet, you have about a 93% chance of things going wrong. Which is why our Oakhurst list serve group is such a mixed blessing. It’s a great tool for sharing non-emotional information (Such as: can anybody recommend a good plumber?) but an extremely poor substitute for face-to-face dialogue.

Jesus’ words sound like that of a bigot, and maybe he was prejudiced against non-Jews and women at this point in his ministry. This is why countless Biblical scholars have tried to defend Jesus here. In his excellent book, The Humor of Christ, Elton Trueblood makes a persuasive case that this is a great example of Jesus’ sense of humor. Trueblood says Jesus is quoting an epigram from that time familiar to both the woman and him that sets up her reply. I have used that interpretation before in a sermon because it fits with what I see in the character of Jesus too often overlooked, that is, Jesus’ playfulness.

Whether Jesus’ tone and body language was derogatory or playful, the woman’s response is nothing short of brilliant.” She answered him, “Sir, even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.” She refused to be offended because she was there for one reason only, the love of her daughter.

In that moment, that is what Jesus realized. “Then he said to her, ‘For saying that, you may go-the demon has left your daughter.’ So she went home, found the child laying on the bed, and the demon gone.” This woman “knew her place,” not as a woman, or as a non-Jew, but as a human being. Courage rooted in love, and a quick wit, gave her the audacity and persistence in spite of what might have been embarrassment or rejection and hurt.

Jesus came to this area to escape, but an encounter with a Gentile woman with a clever retort plays an important role in Jesus realizing that non-Jews must share in God’s bounty. In the next story, (Mark 7:31ff.) we find Jesus leaving the region of Tyre and intentionally returning to the Decapolis, the Gentile territory to which he had gone earlier to find rest from the crowds (Mark 4:35-5:20). Only this time Jesus seems to see his journey there as an extension of his newly expanded ministry to the Gentiles. He heals a man who is hearing and speech impaired and then chooses to stay in the area for several days, teaching and healing. During this time, out of compassion, he also performs a miracle of feeding a multitude of Gentiles. This story mirrors the earlier miraculous feeding of a multitude of Jews.

It is a powerful symbol, for the Gentiles are now invited to join the feast and eat at the table instead of begging for crumbs that fall from the table. As J.B. Phillips chided decades ago, “Our God is too small.” All too often, we want a god whose field of operations we can circumscribe, a god who is interested in “our kind,” a god who leaves no more than tiny crumbs for people of different religious customs and persuasion, a god who is “on our side” in all our wars and important issues of life.

Our God is not a tribal God. Much of the world’s evil comes from people believing that God cares more for their tribe than anyone else. This summer, I made another pilgrimage to the south of Poland. Ever since I took a course on the Theology of Elie Wiesel in seminary 25 years ago, I have had a deep need to go to that part of the world. In Krakow, I spent time exploring the ghosts of the rich Jewish life that existed before World War II. And I spent a day at Auschwitz where most of that life went up in flames. In his book Night, Wiesel tells of the hell that was Auschwitz where his mother and sister perished. His father died in a death march near the end of the War. To visit Auschwitz is a terrible but necessary experience.

For me, the most difficult part was visiting the actual area where hundreds of thousands of Jews were murdered and their bodies burned, along with gypsies, homosexuals, and the disabled. It is the ultimate in the evil that comes when a group of people identify themselves as superior beings and others not like them as less than human. Perhaps today’s story from Mark was the exact moment that stretched Jesus to see his mission and identity as much bigger than his own people, his own tribe. Whether he knew this from the beginning or it gradually dawned on him, there is no doubt that on that day, Jesus’ banquet table grew ever more expansive. It is still growing whenever we as Christians expand our vision far beyond our tribal thinking and our God is not too small.

On my pilgrimages this summer, where I found hope was places where people were going beyond tribal thinking and a tribal god. On both sides of the wall separating Palestinians from Jews were people who realized that their destinies were tied together and refused to see those on the other side as any less than the same humanity as themselves. Our group traveling together as Muslims, Christians, and Jews was a sign of hope for many we encountered.

Some of the most special times happened when we worshipped together. On the Jewish Sabbath, we all worshipped in an Orthodox Egalitarian synagogue. That meant that women and men sat alongside each other separated only by a transparent curtain. A woman led half the prayers and a man the other half. The particular service we attended was a joyous one consisting almost entirely of singing. On the walk back, I had a great conversation with a young Muslim man who had never been in a service in a synagogue as we both reflected on our experience. On another day, the Christians and Jews were invited to join the Muslims for their evening prayer. But it turned out that all of the Muslims were caught up in traffic when the time came. The bellhop from the hotel had come to the room to join the prayers. He ended up beginning the prayers before most of the Muslims arrived. They were quite amused to find that the group praying the Muslim prayers consisted almost entirely Christians and Jews. For the bellhop, it was an experience he would never forget!

On the Sunday we were there, I invited anyone who wished to join me at East Jerusalem Baptist Church. Our group had our own Christian service, which included the Jews and Muslims in the hotel that morning. We were running a little late when a van arrived from the church to pick us up. Since it was time for the church’s service to begin, we were surprised that the person driving the van was the pastor himself, Alex Awad. We apologized for making him late, but he was nonplussed, saying with a smile, “Oh, they’ll wait for me to get there.”

And of course, they did. Our group consisted of two African-American pastors, a Baptist layman, a Muslim woman, a Jewish rabbi, and myself. The service was mostly in English and in some ways, seemed like a traditional Southern Baptist Church, reflecting its original roots. Rabbi Joshua Lesser noted that the person leading the singing, the type of singing, the manner in which a deacon prayed, all seemed a bit like southern American archetypes. On the other hand, the amazing range of faces and ethnic groups around the sanctuary made it seem refreshingly different. The depth of sharing during their time of concerns and celebrations made it feel like Oakhurst. It was fairly informal, and each person in our group was asked to come to the platform to introduce themselves. Later in the service, there was a time when anyone could offer prayers from the congregation. The one that touched me the most was a beautiful extemporaneous prayer from Rabbi Lesser, who also happens to be a gay man. Being in a Palestinian Baptist Church with a gay rabbi praying a fervent prayer felt like a taste of the banquet God provides for us when we cross the divide that separates us when our loyalty is to our tribes instead of to our God.

This week, I watched the 2004 Oscar winning documentary “Born Into Brothels: Calcutta's Red Light Kids.” Amidst the apparent growing prosperity of India, there is a dark underbelly of poverty of another side of the nation that is little known. This film is a chronicle of filmmakers Zana Briski and Ross Kauffman's efforts to show the world of Calcutta's red light district. To do that, they inspired a special group of children of the prostitutes of the area to photograph the most reluctant subjects of it. As the kids excel in their newfound art, the filmmakers struggle to help them have a chance for a better life away from the miserable poverty that threatens to crush their dreams. One of the boys is so gifted that he wins an expense paid trip to the World Press Photo Exhibit to show his works along with other children from around the world. In the film, there is a scene where they are looking at each other’s work. Avijit, the boy from Calcutta is talking about another child’s photograph showing a Bedouin girl in front of her family’s tent in the desert with other tents in the village behind her. She appears shy about having her picture taken and has pulled her cloak part way over her face but her eyes say a lot. With the other children intently listening, Avijit says about this picture, “This is a good picture. We get a good sense of how these people live. And though there is sadness in it, and though it is hard to face, we must look at it because it is truth.”

In a way, it is what the whole film is about. It is about being connected as Jesus became connected with a Syrophoenician woman, an encounter that changed both their lives. And since it expanded the focus of Jesus’ ministry, it changed ours as well. She led the way for us Gentiles to not just settle for the crumbs from the table but to join the feast.