How Not to Know What We Know

Sermon for Aug. 20, 2023
Isaiah 56:1,6-8; Matthew 15:21-28

It is good to see you!  I have to say – having a sabbatical is one of the greatest blessings I’ve ever experienced, and I thank you so much for the opportunity.  I’ve been back a grand total of six days now, which is almost nothing; but I do know this much about what happened while I was gone.  The staff and clergy, led by Mtr. Jean, did an amazing job continuing God’s holy and life-giving work in this place, so please give them a hand.  Similarly, I came back to a Vestry meeting at the end of my first day in the office, so I know the Vestry members, led by Paul Wurth and Susan Paynter, have also done an amazing job working on the ministry priorities we set in February and March.  So please give your Vestry members a hand, too.

This sabbatical was all about pilgrimage – in explicit and implicit terms.  I went to the Holy Land in May; and then in June, Ann and I took a pilgrimage to places in Britain that members of our families had left to come to the United States.  I’ll resist the temptation now to go into these trips in detail, but I will say this:  At a deep level, I think pilgrimage is great lens for seeing the Christian life.  At least for me, being a pilgrim is all about going somewhere outside your normal experience, inviting Jesus to come along, seeing what God does with that encounter – and knowing, for sure, that you’ll be surprised.

As it turns out, Jesus is on the move in today’s Gospel reading, intentionally heading into foreign territory – to “the district of Tyre and Sidon” (Matt 15:21), which today is in Lebanon just north of Israel.  We aren’t told why.  Maybe he’s off to connect with a Jewish minority population living there.  Or maybe he needs a break from Israel’s religious leaders, who’ve been criticizing him for failing to observe the “tradition of the elders” (Matt 15:2). Just before today’s reading, Jesus has been arguing with the Pharisees, who want him to follow strictly the ritual practices of Jewish life.  They can’t see past the boundaries of their tradition, their own received truth.  You might say the religious authorities know what they know, and they know it very well.  So Jesus tells them, look – what you eat or when you wash your hands – that’s not what separates you from God.  What separates you from God is what comes from your heart – a focus on yourself, a disregard for the needs and interests of the people around you.  That’s what defiles you, Jesus says.  So, don’t worry about the particulars of religious practice; worry about whether your own practice reflects a right relationship with God.

Anyway, Jesus has this confrontation with the Jewish authorities and then takes off for a place where their closed-mindedness carries no weight.  Maybe he’s going to Tyre and Sidon to clear his head.  Maybe he wants to see beyond the constraints of his own culture, beyond the presumptions and expectations of his tribe.  Maybe it’s a little pilgrimage – a chance for Jesus to go somewhere outside his normal experience and see what God does with it.

So, in this foreign territory, a woman comes alongside Jesus and his friends.  Matthew’s Gospel describes her as “a Canaanite” woman (15:22) – in other words, about as “other” as it gets for a bunch of good Jews.  Calling her a “Canaanite” categorizes this woman along with Israel’s ancient enemies, the folks who were in the Promised Land first and against whom Israel battled for centuries.  These are the roots of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict even today.  Of course, Jesus has nothing against this specific Canaanite woman.  Instead, he treats her with benign neglect, ignoring her so he can keep to his mission.  He understands that the kingdom is coming for God’s people first, not for Israel’s historic enemies.  So, that means Jesus sees what this woman is, not who this woman is.  In truth, he really doesn’t see her at all.  The disciples take this othering one step further, asking Jesus to get rid of the annoying outsider.  And, surprisingly to us, Jesus agrees with them, saying, Right; “I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel” (Matt 15:24). That’s my mission, after all.

Well, the woman is coming from a very different place.  She’s not thinking about categories or ethnicities; she just wants her daughter healed.  So, when Jesus ignores her cries, she comes and gets in his face, kneeling and asking for the healing that she trusts he can provide.

In that awkward moment, Jesus tries to explain why he’s been ignoring her, but he frames his explanation in fairly insulting terms.  He says, Listen, I’ve got nothing against you; it just “isn’t fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs” (Matt 15:26).  Now, it’s an endearing term for “dog” that he uses – the Greek word means “small dogs” or “puppies.”  But here’s what she’s thinking: In this scenario, you all are God’s children, and I’m God’s puppy?  Thanks so much.  Of course, Jesus doesn’t mean to hurt her, but his language does hurt because it comes from a place of superiority and implicit judgment.  

Well, the woman still wants her child healed, so she sets aside her frustration with the demeaning language.  She says, Yessir, but “even the dogs eat the crumbs from their masters’ table” (Matt 15:27).  In other words: Are you really so wrapped up in your own culture’s priorities that you can’t bother to share a little healing love with me?  

Well, her deep trust in his power to heal and her willingness to speak the truth make Jesus do a spiritual double-take – and make him see his own mission more clearly.  Ironically, the messiah who critiques the Pharisees for getting hung up on tradition comes to see how his tradition, and his own expectations, might limit even his revealing of God’s love.  Even Jesus grows in his understanding of how God might ask him to see the people around him.  Even Jesus grows in his understanding of who might come faithfully knocking on God’s door.  It’s not just the people whom our tribes tell us are good and blessed – conveniently, other people like us.  Even Jesus gets surprised by what he learns about his tribe, and about himself, and about God’s purposes.  It’s amazing what God shows you when you journey somewhere as a pilgrim.

I believe we are similarly afflicted today with the spiritual malady of knowing what we know and knowing it way too well.  And the certainty that “my way is right” grows all the more virulent when we’re afraid.  If we think “the other” isn’t just different from us but a threat, then “we know what we know” with a vengeance.  

On my pilgrimage to the Holy Land in May, I saw this vividly in an otherwise lovely woman giving an otherwise lovely tour. Our group was visiting Hadassah Hospital in Jerusalem to see the beautiful Marc Chagall stained-glass windows in the hospital’s synagogue.  But before taking us there, the guide took us to the hospital’s visitor center to tell us about Hadassah’s healing work.  People travel there from many other countries just to seek treatment.  And the guide proudly told us about Hadassah’s mission even to Palestinians from the occupied West Bank and Gaza.  The hospital has arrangements with health-care providers in the occupied territories who transport patients to Hadassah clinics.  She was saying Palestinians are the people many Israelis see as their worst enemies, but even they can come to Hadassah for world-class treatment.

That’s a great ministry.  And … as I looked at the map on the wall showing where those Hadassah treatment sites are located, that map looked very much like the map of Israel with the occupied territories effectively carved out.  Clearly, there are no Hadassah clinics in Gaza or the West Bank.  So, I asked a question that my status as a stupid, naïve tourist allowed me to ask:  Could Hadassah open clinics in the places where the Palestinians live? After all, it’s a huge ordeal to cross a military checkpoint to get from the West Bank or Gaza into Israeli territory – especially if you’re sick or injured.  

Well, the guide looked at me as if I’d said the sky is green.  She informed me that those areas are under the control of the Palestinian Authority.  I said I knew that, but I wondered whether it would be possible to offer services in those locations.  She looked at me sternly and said, “No. That’s a no-go.”  Clearly, she didn’t want to talk about it further, so I let it go.  But – regardless of whether the hospital can’t offer services there, or won’t offer services there, or has made a business and security decision not to offer services there, it’s a tragedy – and one that undermines the hospital’s work toward God’s mission of healing.

One of the blessings of pilgrimage is that it challenges us to ask ourselves, “What am I missing?”  What do my personal and cultural blinders keep me from seeing?  And more to the point for us as Christians:  Who do my blinders keep me from seeing?  How does my understanding of “neighbor” need to grow?  If someone lives in a different part of town, or comes from a different race or ethnicity, or loves people differently than I do, or believes the political spin from the “wrong” news channel – do I see them as God’s beloved children or as dogs under the table? 

To share God’s healing love, to reach across what divides us, we have to see “the other” as a sibling instead.  And I believe that here at St. Andrew’s, we have a particular calling, in this moment, to be a place where pilgrims can gather with people they might never talk with otherwise.  In the deepening divisions of our once-common life, where else but the church are we invited to cross boundaries and really listen to another point of view – to go outside our normal experience, and invite Jesus to come along, and see what God does with that encounter?  Indeed, we just might find that one of our most powerful pilgrimage sites is right here, this big tent of ours – this “house of prayer for all peoples” (Isaiah 56:7) that stands in contrast to a world where we know what we know and know it way too well.