Lent 3 ¢ Introduction
Jesus saying here about throwing the children’s bread to the dogs has troubled readers over the centuries. Did our Lord really share the prejudices of his place and time, prejudices against foreigners, and against women? In my meditation I have tried to imagine how this all might have taken place, and how that amazing Syro-Phoenician woman could have had the sagacity and wit to come up with her winning response. Do read the Scripture passages first and note how Mark’s version, although the earlier of the two, comes across more simply and intimately. Perhaps the secret lies in the tiny details that Mark includes, speaking of the woman’s little daughter and adding that when she went home she found her cured little girl lying in bed, and the demon gone.
(Matthew 15:21-28, Mark 7:24-30)
They were only trying to protect him,
to shield him, I suppose, from the crowds
who gathered everywhere he went
seeking to hear his fresh words of truth
and to receive his healing gifts.
In other circumstances
I myself might well have been sympathetic.
Certainly I could understand
and appreciate their genuine concern.
He too, when I eventually found him,
appeared drained,
overtaxed by the constant demands
that were being laid upon him.
He was trying to hide out,
snatch an hour or two of respite
in a house not far from mine.
But the children spotted him somehow –
he was always a favorite with them –
and pretty soon the word was out
that Jesus of Nazareth, the teacher,
was actually here in Tyre and Sidon.
This all, however, worked to my advantage.
For if Jesus had approached our village
in the customary fashion,
surrounded by a cheering, hopeful,
pushing, shoving throng,
I would never have had a chance of getting close.
Particularly since, as both a Gentile and a woman
every elbow and knee in that mob
would have been angled, firm and sharp,
in my direction.
They even have a prayer,
these Jewish neighbors of mine,
that they pray regularly in their holy place,
a prayer thanking God for not having created them
a Gentile or a woman.
So the fact that, when I go to the well
to draw our water in the evening,
or to the market to buy food.
I invariably go alone, surprises no one,
and certainly not me.
As it turned out,
he was secretly lodged just along the street,
in the home of one of the few true friends
I have found here in this difficult place.
And I learned of his presence
well before folk began to congregate about her door.
Sara knew all about my poor Diana
and the spirit that would seize her little frame
and shake her until her teeth seemed ready to shatter,
her eyes about to roll out of her head.
She sent word to me – saint that she is –
to bring my little one round to meet the healer
and then led us in the back way,
behind his watchful guardians.
He appeared, at first, so worn out and weary
that he was none too pleased to see us.
In response to my plea for help
he muttered – almost to himself –
one of those traditional Jewish sayings
about charity beginning right at home,
and how the banquet feast was set
for the children of the household,
not for the kitchen dogs.
I had heard this kind of thing so many times
since my husband’s work required us
to dwell as aliens here, far from our native land.
In the earliest days, I would simply have accepted
such an insulting word, and kept my mouth shut.
But no good ever did come out of that.
And so, of late, I’ve taught myself
to give back just as good as I get,
and, to tell the truth,
people do seem to pay me, now,
a little more respect.
So it came about that,
when Jesus compared Diana and me
to the dogs that crouch under the table,
I took no offense,
but seizing on his family table image,
responded, Yes. But even the dogs
get to eat the crumbs that fall to the floor.
He looked astonished for just a moment,
and then he burst out laughing.
He threw back his tired head
and let fly a peal of hearty, healthy laughter.
And with that, he seemed completely renewed.
Well said, woman.
he beamed at me, raising me to my feet.
I suppose I had that coming to me.
Now let me meet your little girl.
And, still smiling broadly,
he laid his two hands on her head
and said – I remember it quite clearly –
a quiet prayer of thanks to God
for opening his weary eyes
to the presence of the sacred
wherever it might be made manifest.
Then he moved out into the waiting crowd,
and as we walked back home together
we caught his distant laughter ringing still
as he told the people gathered round
what had just happened,
and how God had set him right through the wisdom
and sheer wit of a daring Gentile mother.
That lively laughter echoes still throughout my days.
And never more clearly than when I watch
my healthy daughter, Diana,
jumping a rope,
or catching and throwing a ball,
romping like a puppy with her playmates.
Barrie Shepherd retired from historic First Church in New York City in 2000. He currently lives in Wallingford, Pa., and is a parish associate at Wallingford Church.
