Our text introduces us to a remarkable woman. She is courageous. She is clever. She is cool. But most of all she is a loving momma who will do anything to help her sick baby girl.
The story itself has always been one that I would just as soon skip over because, at first blush, it makes Jesus come off like some insensitive jerk. This does not sound like the Jesus I know. In fact, I wonder why such a story was preserved in the gospel record anyway. But then the lectionary drops it in our homiletical lap and says handle it! Can we "rescue" Jesus here, find some way of explicating this conversation that will put him in a bit more flattering light?
The commentators have tried to explain. Some have said that Jesus was just having a bad day — he and the twelve had gone north, out of Galilee (the only time the gospels have Jesus leaving his native land) for some rest and relaxation. But instead, he is discovered and confronted by this insistent mother, admittedly, a most uppity woman who was violating every standard of acceptable feminine behavior by publicly conversing with a man who is not even her husband. Instead of reacting to her as he normally might, Jesus tries to blow her off with an insult, then finally, wises up and acts decent again. It was a bad day, uppity woman or not. Even the Son of God is entitled to one every so often. That is what some commentators say. I have trouble with that.
Others suggest that this event was part of the Lord's growth and development — a learning experience for him. If, as the account of his boyhood attests, "Jesus grew in wisdom and stature, and in favor with God and men" (Luke 2:52), we may presume that his growth continued as an adult. Being raised a Jew (and being taught by heritage that Gentiles like this lady are nothing more than fuel for the fires of hell), Jesus learns here that divine love knows no boundaries, racial or otherwise. This was a "learning experience" for him. Perhaps, but I am still not comfortable.
Other commentators? Some say that this bantering back and forth between Jesus and the woman was merely the Lord's way of teaching something. By his initial reluctance to care for any Gentile, he was simply giving voice to the not-so-quietly harbored feelings of his Jewish followers. By finally acceding to the woman's cry for help, Jesus was demonstrating the inclusiveness of God's love and thereby taught his disciples that racism had no place in the kingdom. This encounter was simply one more of Jesus' parables, this time, come to life.
That is possible, but it is still a stretch, though. How about the language of the encounter? At first glance, Jesus sounds awfully rough. "It is not right to take the children's bread and toss it to their dogs." Mom knew the ill-feeling between Jews and Gentiles. But calling her a dog to her face? Umm!
Again, folks explain that away, and they had better! After all, calling someone a dog, even a pet puppy dog (as the Greek here suggests) is a term of abuse, if ever there was one. But this lady was sharp enough to realize that this was only playful banter, she responded in kind, and it worked — her daughter was healed.
Okay, I can live with that (although still a little reluctantly). I live with it best when I remember that I am reading and hearing with Western eyes and ears. One of my cyberfriends, Susan O'Shea, explained it best for me when she recalled a similar encounter during her days as a physician's assistant in India almost a half-century ago.
We had been trying mightily for a long time to encourage the Harijan (the outcastes) to come to the clinic, as they (being toilet sweepers) were at high risk for disease. [Despite terrible reluctance caused by their status as the lowliest in the caste system,] one day a Harijan finally did come to the clinic. The very fact that he appeared there, among the 280 casted persons in the waiting room, told us that he was unusual. His good grooming, his body stance, and his speech told us that he was a man of dignity, self-respect, and appropriate entitlement.
Speaking what was on everyone's mind, I said to him loud enough for everyone to hear, "What's a pig's son (standard form of address) doing here? I thought only casted people got sick."
"Even pigs bleed red," he replied, holding up a bloody hand, "like Americans." (Americans like myself were considered to be outcaste; also "red-blooded American" and "Yankee pig" were phrases that were well known.)
Conclusion: If folks took caste seriously, why were the casted people willing to come to an outcaste [Susan] for treatment? They could jolly well welcome another outcaste who came for treatment. It was an absolutely brilliant reply on his part and brought the house down.
From then on we had no trouble with the Harijans hanging back from seeking medical care.[1]
Bingo! There is our true explanation of this story. We must read this text through the culture of the Middle East or even the Orient. Otherwise, we are victimized by our ethnic blinders. It was a truly wonderful encounter that used the playful banter of the day (that is unfortunately lost on modern readers). The gospel writer understood it (even if we do not), and that is why it is with us still today.
Come to think of it, perhaps its placement in the narrative right next to the healing of the deaf man should have given us a clue all along. Two things jump out at me from the gospel account. First, the reference to spit. Indelicate, yes, but in the ancient world, it was believed that the spittle of a famous person had magically curative powers. Even today my own children know (and have known since they were little) that a father's spit is the most powerful cleaning agent in the world. ("Come ‘ere; let me clean that off for you" — patooey. "No, Daddy, No!") Necessary for healing this man? I doubt it, but Mark reports it anyway.
The second thing that grabs me is this untranslated Aramaic command: "Ephphatha ... Be opened." Perhaps this is the inspired writer's way of lighting it up, setting it in flashing neon, insuring that no one would ever miss it. We have just been reminded that the gospel knows no boundaries — not geographic, not sexual, not racial, not any.
"Ephphatha ... Be opened!" Can the good news be limited by race? The story of a certain Gentile who sought healing for her daughter says no. "Ephphatha ... Be opened!" Can it be limited by geography? Not in Jesus' day, and certainly not in ours. "Ephphatha ... Be opened!" What about sex? Sorry, not even sex. "Ephphatha ... Be opened!"
The word of Jesus to the church is loud and clear: "Ephphatha!" BE OPENED! The gospel is not the exclusive province of one group or another, one denomination or another. If we would ever hope to heal the divisions that separate us, we will remember and obey the command, "Ephphatha!"
The word is not just for the healing of the church. Remember, it came first to a man who needed help. The Spirit of Jesus is speaking again and saying to us who need help:
"Ephphatha! Be opened." Let your ears be open to Christ's word of forgiveness for your sin.
"Ephphatha! Be opened." Let your eyes be open to see the opportunities God is making available in your world.
"Ephphatha! Be opened." Let your mind be open to new ways of thinking that will expand your understanding of God's will for you and yours.
"Ephphatha! Be opened." Let your mouth be opened to share with your friends what God is doing in your life.
"Ephphatha! Be opened." Let your life be open to the movement of the Spirit, open to release from whatever is scaring you, stopping you, holding you back, from becoming the person you want to be, the person God wants you to be.
"Ephphatha ... Be opened!" It is a word we need to hear ... over and over and over again.
1. Susan O'Shea, via PresbyNet, "Sermonshop 1996 08 18," #124.