Sermon for 14th Sunday after Pentecost – Mark 7:24-37

Lucky me, preaching on one of the most controversial passages of scripture! A woman has a daughter who’s possessed with an unclean spirit. She’s powerless to help. But she hears Jesus is in town and seeks him out, because everyone knows what Jesus can do. She bows down at his feet and begs him to help her daughter. What does Jesus say? “Let the children be fed first, for it’s not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.” How shocking is that?

Except this woman probably isn’t that shocked. Our gospel makes sure we know she’s Syrophonecian. That means Canaanite. We know them. The folks that were already living in the land God promised to Israel. So God commands the Israelites to wipe them out. That doesn’t make for a good relationship, does it? That’s bad history. And then you can find places in Torah that the ancient rabbis say are calling the Canaanites “dogs”. So, it’s an ethnic slur. Jesus really is calling this poor woman and people like her as dogs. Now, a lot of Christians don’t realize this, and they bend over backwards to try to explain it away, because Jesus can’t be a jerk, can he? But you can’t whitewash this. So it’s also pretty shocking that she’d want anything to do with this God at all. But she asks, and Jesus doesn’t exactly say no. He just says “wait your turn” in the nastiest way possible. She persists. “Sir, even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.” That pushes Jesus’ buttons. So he says, “For saying that, you may go – the demon has left your daughter.” Happy ending, right?

But it’s not satisfying. We’re still offended. Why humiliate her if he was just going to do it anyway? Isn’t Jesus supposed to be inclusive and welcoming in all the ways that we’re not? Well, there’s something else going on here that’s easy to miss. Before this, Jesus argues with a bunch of Pharisees about how they keep co-opting God’s commandments into traditions that miss the point. Like obsessing over cleanliness and what they can or can’t eat, as if that makes up for the evil in their hearts. Or like giving all your money to the temple but neglecting your needy neighbor. So Jesus says, “Isaiah prophesied rightly about you hypocrites. They honor me with their lips, but their hearts are far from me.” Being chosen isn’t like a gold star because God likes you more. It means blessed to be a blessing. It’s an obligation to justice and wellbeing for the orphan and stranger. But these folks don’t get that. They just care about making really clear who’s inside and who’s outside, like an exclusive club.

Jesus gets so frustrated that he throws up his hands and leaves. But how interesting that he ends up in the region of Tyre! Because that’s where the Gentiles are. Folks who AREN’T chosen by God. Is it on purpose? An accident? Who knows. And Jesus hides out in a house like he thinks Gentiles don’t care. But here comes this woman with a big ask. Jesus tries to put her off, but he’s not prepared for her to hit him with the truth. “Sir, even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.” She’s saying, “I know I’m not chosen. I’m not one of your children of Israel. But I’m here and I’m asking you anyway.” She gets what no one else does – it’s not about chosen-ness. It’s about grace. And grace doesn’t care about status or privilege. It doesn’t play favorites. It goes where it’s needed, and she needs it right now. Jesus has no choice but to comply.

What Mark’s getting at here is to show us what we keep getting wrong about the gospel. We love to say “all are welcome” because isn’t God’s love universal? So we’re offended by Jesus’ words. Except, we act the same way. The world makes very clear that all are NOT welcome. We downplay it but we all know it’s true. Otherwise we wouldn’t feel the need to keep saying it like some kind of magic spell. But it doesn’t make outsiders feel welcome. It just reinforces the gap between what we say and what we do. Because “all are welcome” isn’t gospel. It’s law. It accuses us. It’s like every time I walk in a church with a big banner that says “all are welcome” and I think “I’ll be the judge of that.” It hits me every time I take a walk around my neighborhood. There are two houses I always see. Side-by-side. One has a big sign that says “Black lives matter”. The other has a big sign that says “all lives matter”. And I always wonder how the folks in the “all lives matter” house treat their neighbors. Especially since theirs is the only one surrounded by a chain link fence. You know, Mark didn’t have to include this story in his gospel. But maybe Mark wants us to admit that it’s a lot easier to be offended by what Jesus says, then to repent for ignoring the neighbor right in front of us who’s desperate and beaten down and just needs a blessing.

But the good news is that Jesus never ignores any of us in our need. And he never withholds his blessing from us. Except, his blessing doesn’t really feel like a blessing. It’s not some kind of generic “Jesus loves everyone” or “God is love” or a little pat on the head. That stuff means nothing when you’re desperate. When you’re dying to know that you actually matter to God. When you feel like you just can’t find God no matter how hard you look. So Jesus finds us, even in the most unexpected places. And he gives us something totally concrete. He gives his own body and blood FOR YOU, because he doesn’t want you to wonder if he really means what he says. He wants you to know beyond a doubt that you belong to him. And then he gives us something controversial. Just as controversial as what Jesus tells the woman. It’s his forgiveness, and the first thing forgiveness always does is call us “sinner”. That burns. There’s no love in that word. But then it always makes a promise. That this is not the last word for you or me. That we’re a new creation, and this is our new beginning. And THEN Jesus calls us his beloved. It’s nothing we deserve, but everything we need, so that we might have abundant life. Because what’s the point of repentance unless Jesus gives us something to repent INTO?

But it doesn’t happen all at once, you know. The life of faith is hard and slow. We still have ups and downs. We’re not always going to be as welcoming as we’re called to be. It’s weird to say it like this, but sometimes we’re going to be like Jesus, where we say some of the most regrettable things to folks who don’t deserve it. But the fallout teaches us humility, and humility is a trustworthy thing. It keeps us on the ground, where our neighbors are. Where we can learn how to weather the storms of life together. Where we can give our imperfect selves away to each other and witness the power of Jesus’s redemption. Because honestly, for all our division, it’s a miracle that we ever manage to come together in community at all.

Right now we get to see this in the aftermath of all these natural disasters that keep beating us down. Hurricane Ida in the south and northeast. The wildfires out west. That’s just a couple. So many communities hit. So much loss. We have much to pray for. We pray for folks who are wondering right now where their help will come from. And they need it now. Yet, we can give thanks for stories of neighbors helping neighbors. Folks who might never have come together for any other reason, and maybe this is enough to give us a little glimmer of hope. Little glimpses of the kingdom of God breaking in the midst of chaos. Like little crumbs of salvation that fall through the cracks of a table that we never quite reach. It’s not everything, but even still, thank God for the crumbs.