There is something particularly curious about how phrases and cultural ideas change and taken on new forms and meanings, and they move through the decades and centuries. Certain images or phrases tend to take on their own life and become essentially detached from the original culture and intended audience. The phrase “spill the beans” like comes from ancient Greece when secret voting would be done by two color beans, and to spill them, would be to reveal the secret ballot. To “butter someone up” is said to have come from a Hindu practice of tossing balls of butter to statues of their gods before they asked for something in their prayers, therefore, buttering them up, before the request. To use these or any other phrases like them is not to recall these particular origins exactly, but it is helpful to remember where they came from.
In the first half of our Gospel lesson, Jesus uses a phrase like “spill the beans” or “butter them up” might sound innocuous but is unsettling. Imagine a grief-stricken mother at Jesus’ feet and Jesus’ response is not to offer healing to her demon-possessed daughter, but instead to remind the woman that she is an outsider. To offer a healing to her daughter would, Jesus said to the Syrophoenician woman, would be like “throwing the children’s food to the dogs.” Words have meanings and impact. To the Greeks, beans were votes, to the Hindus, butter was an expression of devotion, and in Jesus’ time, to call someone a dog was not just an insult, it was an outright slur. This story from Jesus’ early ministry should leave us unsettled because it is unsettling.
Yet, in her grief and desperation, this woman whose name we do not know does not let this thinly veiled slur stop her, instead she leans in. She does not respond with anger or fear, though it would have been justified, instead she responds by asking Jesus to remember the table, because even the dogs are allowed to eat scraps from the table. She responds by reminding Jesus of the table, by reminding Jesus that the thing that was most central to his ministry is not just about who is at the table, but that the abundance of God’s grace and love is available, even to those who may be left off the guest list. In this brilliant example of her great faith, Jesus is convicted to change his stance and grant this woman’s request and her daughter is healed.
I wonder if in that moment when the woman heared Jesus comparing her a dog if Jesus was keenly aware that though he was fully divine, that he was also fully human. I wonder if he regretted his choice of words, and in a split-second thought of what his powerhouse of a mother might have said, had she heard him call this woman a dog. I wonder if after he healed her daughter if he thought about all the women who were part of his own lineage, and how though his life and work were oriented to the outsider, he was still a product of time and culture, biases and all. I wonder if the disciples gave a bit of side-eye at how Jesus’ ethnic slur contradicted what he had just said. I wonder if this woman of great faith pulled back in shock, or if life had continually knocked her down so much that even these words, even from the son of God didn’t surprise her. I wonder.
It is not hard to draw comparisons from our world today to this exchange between Jesus and the woman of great faith. Whether it is social or political or cultural, we draw lines around ourselves and others all the time. What does it look like for us to embody the roles of this text? Whenever I come to a text with the intention of preparing a sermon, one of the questions I ask is why does it matter? How are we going to be different tomorrow because we spent time thinking about this passage of our holy scriptures? Why does it matter that we hear this story of Jesus holding back healing, making assumptions, and calling this woman of great faith a name? I think that the answer lies not in looking not just toward Jesus and the role he plays in this story, but to the woman.
It matters because we see her relentless faith, even amid great and consuming grief. It matters because she leans into who she knows she is and calls Jesus to remember the table. And it matters because Jesus does just that; Jesus does not double down and call her a more amplified slur, but instead sees and hears her as she reminds him of the table.
Perhaps the lesson that we take away from this passage today is not how to have great faith, or that Jesus was fully human, but rather that in our darkest moments, we are better when we, too, remember the table. Because it’s at the table that all our welcome, that all have their place. It’s at the table that God’s abundance is well known, and the world of scarcity falls away. It is at the table that we remember that we are built for connection and are called to see, to really, fully, completely see others as they are: created beings loved and made in the image of God.
Friends, we will do well to follow Jesus this morning heed the call of this woman of great faith and remember the table, and remember that like Jesus, when we mess up, we can come back to the table, we can come back to who we want to be, to who God calls us to be. This passage matters because of the woman of great faith, and I’m so grateful for this woman, for the way she persisted and for the way she called Jesus back to the table, because to remember the table is to truly remember who we are. So, remember the table. Remember the table when you fail to include those who God has created to be there, remember the table when who others try to exclude you from God’s holy spaces, and may the voice of the Syrophoenician woman remind us of who we are called to be, because we are called to the table.
A sermon delivered on Proper 18B, September 8, 2024 to the people of Christ Episcopal Church in Bowling Green, Kentucky on Mark 7:24-37.
Becca Kello 