There are so many great stories about Jesus. Jesus curing the blind;
Jesus feeding the multitude; Jesus embracing children; Jesus the
consummate contemplative in prayer; Jesus sensitive to the point of
knowing when someone in a crowd touches his garment; Jesus reading
people’s hearts like a book. Jesus giving his life away like bread and
wine.
And then we have today. How many preachers have profoundly
wished this story wasn’t here. And maybe skipped it, or tried to
explain it away by saying Jesus was really just joking with the lady.
But when a child is sick, you don’t joke with a mother. Or when he
used the word dogs, he meant “little puppies”. Or he was just
pretending to be blunt and grumpy, but really that was just to elicit
deeper faith and deeper seeking from the woman, or maybe from the
apostles.
Possible….but it sounds like rationalization. And maybe the true
sense of the scripture is the plain sense. But if that’s so, what in here
is edifying or saving?
First, a detail. The Gospel doesn’t say Jesus went to the district of
Tyre and Sidon. He withdrew. Withdraw is what people do when
they’re tired, spent, drained. Withdraw mentally, withdraw
emotionally, even downright physical withdraw. And Jesus had his
reasons to withdraw. In the previous chapter, Herod beheaded John
the Baptizer. The apostles reported that the Pharisees were getting
shocked by Jesus’ teachings. Jesus is getting a clearer picture of what
lies ahead. And he needed to withdraw, to some anonymous place so
God could restore him.
Human beings get tired. Jesus’ divine nature was unlimited, but his
human nature was limited. So he needed to withdraw. For us – a
question. Do you have enough sense to withdraw when you’re spent?
A little blue? A little tired? Let the world turn without you. Can you
humbly admit it when there’s nothing more you can do right now? Do
you notice when people around you are spent? Do you give them
permission to withdraw? Do you help them if necessary, with some
mad money, or an offer to baby-sit, or make a meal?
But there’s more here than just that. Jesus once told a story about
two sons. The father says to the first son—go to the fields and work.
“Yes I will”, comes the answer, but he doesn’t. So the father says to
the second son, “You go to the field and work”. “No, I won’t”, comes
the spontaneous first response, but after mulling it over, the second
son goes and toils. Who is doing the will of his father, Jesus asks?
The one who ended up doing right. It’s not your first response that
counts; it’s your last and final response.
Even Jesus got tired, spent, blue…even Jesus had to struggle to
make the most godly loving tender response and had to change his
response when he could, to come from a deeper more loving part of
him…then that’s a great lesson of challenge and hope for us.
Sometimes our first responses to a request, a situation, and
unattractive person, like the response of Jesus, aren’t our best
response. But we don’t have to leave things there. We can lighten up
on others and on ourselves. We can give grace time to work. We can
be humble enough and free of stubbornness enough, to say…well,
that’s my first response. But, I’m capable, in God, of something
better.
What would happen if parents always stuck with their first response
to a nagging kid, in the middle of anger? We can change responses.
And today, that’s what Jesus himself does.
So we can ask, “Is my response to people I’m upset at, sometimes
over a long stretch of time, really my best response, my deepest
response, from Christ in my heart? Is my reaction to the immigrants
who come to fill our city streets and use our services really my best
reaction – my most Christian reaction? Is my aversion to people who
question me, contradict me, or stymie my desire for a simple
uncomplicated life, really my best reply – my Christian reply? Am I
so stubborn that I haven’t changed, deepened, and matured my
response to things for a long time?
Jesus wasn’t like that. We don’t have to be either.
Tags: 8-20-2023