It could happen to you
Commentary
There is a chain of tradition. You can trace its links across the centuries and through the pages of the Bible. The chain connects seemingly disparate events to one overarching purpose -- God's purpose.
This morning our chain takes us from the original promise of God to the patriarchs through the ultimate fulfillment of the promise in Jesus Christ. The promise to Abraham is still the promise for Paul and for Matthew, but neither New Testament author limits the promise to its original situation or beneficiaries. The promise of land and descendants becomes the promise of community and eternal life. While this may seem to some to be a sharp turn for the promise, Paul and Matthew have their reasons, which they argue cogently. Their treatment of the promise indicates that it is part of a living tradition, that grows and changes rather than stagnates. They look back and see something that Abraham could not have foreseen, had he the ability to look ahead. The promise given to him is not only kept, it is expanded.
The living tradition means that the gift of God cannot be restricted to those who claim blood kinship to the dysfunctional family units of the Genesis narrative. Even a dysfunctional Pharisee appealing for money to a group of Romans he had never met can now claim to be a part of the family. Even a woman driven almost to hysteria by a strange illness can join the brothers and sisters of the promise.
Genesis 45:1-15
The preacher who focuses on today's reading from Genesis faces an initial choice: Do I tell the story, or summarize? Last week's lection told the story of how Joseph's brothers sold him into slavery, and next week's will pick it up again with Moses. The preacher could just wade in where the brothers left off with a few words about how Joseph made good in Egypt. But the story itself, the longest sustained narrative cycle in the book of Genesis, provides some roaring good sermon material. It begins with Joseph's favored status with his father, Jacob, his naive reportage of his dreams, and his brothers' angry and violent reaction, through Joseph's rise, fall, and rise again in Egypt. Joseph finds himself first a trusted aide to Potiphar, then in prison with a baker, and finally moving via the baker to the highest position in Pharaoh's court. His administrative and prophetic ability led him to high office, for he could both interpret Pharaoh's dream about seven years of famine, and also do something about it. The famine brought his brothers to his door in Egypt, through a series of ironic encounters that culminate in the scene we read today. Only the preacher can decide how much weight to give this material, but suffice it to say that it is more than mere "background," for without it, today's story would be the climax of nothing.
This recognition scene is in fact the climax of the Joseph story; the whole plot becomes clear at once. There is a reason it looks like a theophany scene, with its elements of self-identification, the command against fear, and the announcement of God's purpose (cf. 26:24) -- this is in fact God's revelation of how the story holds together. When Joseph reveals himself, he reveals God's plan.
This is a human drama with a theological point. At issue is the covenant promise to Abraham of land and descendants. The land has been given, and the descendants are living on it, but how will this land support them through the seven years of famine to come? God's solution involved the convoluted means by which Joseph went to Egypt to prepare a place for his brothers. Thus this scene is not only the climax of the Joseph story, but of the entire book of Genesis, because only here, in retrospect, does God's utter faithfulness to the promise become clear. Just as God rescued Noah (Genesis 6:8-22), just as God rescued Abraham and Lot (chs. 18-19), so now God is rescuing the whole people. God can even make use of the criminal actions of the brothers, even of the official deeds of the Egyptian Pharaoh, and even of the wayward naiveté of Joseph. When Joseph articulates the goodness of God's plan for the first time, it comes as a shock of good news, for it is revealed that they all have been a part of something larger than themselves (vv. 5-8). The personal drama of the family of Jacob takes on a national significance, when the brothers are called to relocate to Egypt. A "remnant" of "survivors" will preserve the people of God, no matter what (v. 7; cf. Exodus 32:9-10; 1 Kings 19:17-19; Isaiah 4:3). Thanks to God's work in Joseph, the children of Israel will be able to graze their flocks in the land of Goshen, trading seven bad years in the dust bowl of Palestine for 400 good years in the fertile Nile delta.
Yet, there is still a human drama at work here. The poignant speech of Judah discloses the change the brothers have undergone since they threw Joseph into a pit and sold him to slave traders. The Hebrew text begins a major section at 44:18, titled "And he went up" (an allusion to the Abraham story, 18:23). Like Abraham, Judah argues for mercy over judgment, but rather than appeal to the innocent minority (18:23-32), Judah does not even try to prove Benjamin's innocence of the charge against him. Rather, he offers himself in his brother's stead, for the sake of his father and his family. The irony here is that Judah, who had been the prime advocate of selling Joseph into slavery, now offers himself as a slave to Joseph in order to save the youngest brother. The special attention given to Benjamin, Joseph's only full-blood brother, is thus doubly poignant (vv. 13-14).
Joseph, prompted by the self-sacrifice of Judah, is overcome with emotion for the third and decisive time (cf. 42:24; 43:30-31), and clears out the servants and court functionaries in order to make the reunion a private, family affair (vv. 1-2). His first question is about his father (v. 3), even though he has already heard the answer (43:27-28). Joseph invites them to step closer and cross the official boundaries between Egyptian vizier and Hebrew brother, while cautioning them against negative emotions (vv. 3-4); his ascription of blame is muted, and he asks them for no penitence (vv. 4-5). Even though his prophetic dream about ruling his brothers has been fulfilled (cf. 37:5-11), and even though Joseph has taken no little pride in his own advanced achievements (vv. 5, 8), he is not going to give them any reason to be dismayed. Joseph breaks the brothers' conspiracy and the family's dysfunction by offering them forgiveness and renewed purpose. Where once they had been driven by fear and envy, Joseph offers them a new way of living together, in forgiveness rather than revenge. They can now do what they previously could not do: speak to their brother "in peace" (v. 15; cf. 37:4). How great a distance has been overcome is underlined when we realize that until this scene, he has spoken to his brothers through a translator ("it is my own mouth that speaks to you," v. 12; cf. 42:23).
Romans 11:1-2a, 29-32
Paul picks up where Genesis leaves off: Is the covenant promise still viable for Israel? His answer is a resounding, "Yes!"
Chapters 9 through 11 of Romans form the climax of Paul's argument about how God has made things right for humanity in Jesus Christ. The great problem for Paul's argument is this: If Jesus is the way God has chosen to make good the promise of new life through faith, why have the Jewish people not accepted him en masse? If he really were the Messiah foretold by the scriptures, would not the people of the "Book" embrace him without qualification? Paul's answer is that God's very way of making human beings righteous shows God's faithfulness to the covenant promise (3:26).
God shows no partiality (2:11), and yet the good news did come first to the Jews (3:1), even though they did not necessarily flock to it (3:3; 9:6). That the offer of new life came first to the Jews is in keeping with God's revelation in history. Further, God's continued faithfulness to Israel can be shown in the very scripture that details that history. In Romans 10, Paul shows how the Hebrew Scriptures (particularly Deuteronomy 30 and Isaiah 53) can be interpreted so as to show that the story of Christ is already implicit in them. Had they read their Bibles closely enough, the Jews would have recognized the suffering servant, Jesus, as their Messiah. Why didn't they?
Paul has a number of answers. A remnant did, in fact, believe, as Paul himself illustrates -- he is an Israelite, descendant of Abraham, of the tribe of Benjamin, and if there is even a remnant of one, then God's promise stands (v. 2). The remnant lives by grace; for example, everyone who receives God's gift of Jesus Christ becomes a part of the remnant (v. 5). Some, it is true, were hardened against God's gift (11:7, 25; an obvious allusion to the Exodus story). However, the rejection by Israel has had a positive result, in that it led to the mission to the Gentiles (11:11-12), who are like a wild shoot grafted onto the olive tree of Israel (vv. 16-24). In the same way, the mission to the Gentiles will eventually provoke Israel to jealousy (vv. 11-15), and eventually -- in the "mystery" of the last days -- will lead all Israel to God (vv. 25-29).
Thus "the gifts and calling of God are irrevocable" (v. 29; cf. 9:6). God's nature is not defined by the human response to it, but solely by God's own sovereign will. Despite the human, "No" (a response not by any means limited to Jews), God keeps offering a "Yes." God gives mercy in the face of disobedience, in the hope that mercy will one day trump disobedience. The very thought of God's careful dealings with fickle human beings leads Paul into a doxology to the inscrutable and unsearchable God (vv. 33-36).
Matthew 15:(10-20) 21-28
Matthew works out in narrative form the theological issue of universality, that left Paul, particularly, in such doxological ecstasy. He follows the same theological path as Paul: the good news properly came first to the Jews, and only later to the Gentiles. The issue in Matthew's Jewish-Christian community was how to continue to be faithful to Jewish tradition, while living in this new situation with Gentiles. Matthew's answer was to reassert the community's faithfulness to the Mosaic tradition, but only as interpreted by Jesus. That the message came first to "the lost sheep of the house of Israel" was regarded as a simple fact of God's work in Jesus, which could not be overcome by sentimentality (v. 26). The new community formed by Jesus was the fulfillment of the promises to Israel. However, Gentile believers were welcomed into the community, as long as they recognized the premiere and prior position of the Jews, which in no way would restrict them from claiming their own place in the economy of salvation. Matthew spells this theology out in narrative fashion, by showing Jesus first in a critique of the Pharisaic tradition (15:1-20), and then in an encounter with the Gentile woman (15:21-28).
The washing of hands to avoid ritual impurity was not required for all Jews or even for all Pharisees; it was definitely above-and-beyond normal religious duty. Jesus' problem was not with the scriptural law, which he thought -- in Matthew's view -- to be eternally valid (5:17-20). The problem was the tacking on of human traditions that could move in directions contrary to the intent of scripture. The issue was the tradition of interpretation that had grown up around scripture, not the scripture itself. Matthew subtly edits his version of the story to preserve the priority of Jewish Law for his community; for example, he omits the line in Mark's version that assures his Gentile audience that "Jesus declared all foods clean" (Mark 7:19; if Jesus had indeed been that clear on this matter, there probably would have not arisen the great debates in early Christianity over the issue, cf. Acts 10:14-15; Romans 14:19-21; Galatians 2:11-14). Further, Matthew introduces a question-and-answer session with the disciples that makes it clear that Jesus is only critiquing the Pharisaic tradition (15:12-15). For Matthew, Christians do not throw out the Jewish Law, but try to interpret it as Jesus himself did, in order to discern the greater righteousness inherent in it (cf. 5:20).
The prime example of tradition gone awry is not the relatively trivial matter of ritual handwashing (15:1-2), but the practice of declaring material goods as korban or "sacred," thus shielding them from the claims of others. The korban rule could be used to circumvent one of the most basic commandments, to honor one's father and mother by supporting them in their old age (15:3-9).
It is no accident that the story moves directly to the issue of Jesus' response to a Gentile woman. The disciples now know that mere contact cannot make them ritually or spiritually "unclean," since uncleanness comes from within and not from without. Armed with Jesus' demand that scripture be interpreted on a deep, rather than surface, level, they can open themselves up to a representative of Israel's traditional enemy, the Canaanites (this designation, along with the archaic reference to "Sidon," helps highlight the traditional enmity between Jew and Gentile. It is a bit like calling a German a "Kraut," as if we were still fighting World War II. Note that Mark 7:26 does not use either name). Matthew's version of the story is edited in a way that highlights the theological movement of the story: the mounting suspense of Jesus passing by, the disciples' confusion, the woman's near-hysterical persistence, and finally her prayer and worship of Jesus that lead to an eloquent statement of faith.
That being said, Matthew does hold the Canaanite woman at a certain arm's length. The story can be read as if Jesus merely "came near" to the Gentile territory rather than entering it, as the woman "came out" to meet him (vv. 21-22). Certainly, Matthew did not picture Jesus as entering a Gentile house, as Mark did (7:24). The woman is much more emotional in Matthew's version, as she shouts and implores (v. 22). Yet, she is theologically correct to call Jesus both "Lord" and "Son of David."
Despite her use of the correct Jewish terminology, Jesus refuses to engage her at all, walking right past her. At best he deals with her secondhand, through the disciples (who want to get rid of her whether the daughter is healed or not, v. 23). His word about "the lost sheep of the house of Israel" is spoken to the disciples, not the woman. When he does speak to her, it is only after she throws herself to her knees and stops him in his tracks, so that he can hardly avoid running over her. Despite her posture of prayer, he speaks dismissively to her, implying that she is a dog scrounging for food (v. 26). Her reply cannot be understood as the winning zinger in a rhetorical contest (which is what it looks like in Mark), but only as a statement of true faith. She recognizes the priority of the children of Israel, and yet claims Jesus as Savior for her own child (vv. 27-28). Her words encompass the universalism that Matthew has grounded in particularism: because Jesus is the Jewish Messiah, he is the Son of God, and therefore the Savior of all nations (cf. 20:18-20). The healing of her daughter provides yet another instance of the positive results of prayed faith (15:28; cf. 7:7-11).
Application
"Fairy tales can come true, it could happen to you...."
But it's no fairy tale.
Joseph really did lead his brothers into Egypt, Paul really did gather Jews and Gentiles into one church, and both Matthew and Mark agree that Jesus really did heal the daughter of a Gentile woman.
Yet, each of these instances has become paradigm as well as event, a way of looking at the larger picture of faith. They each mean more than they say.
That's good news for us, because it means that each of us can find our own place in the tradition. We can fit ourselves in the paradigms, because they are flexible enough to allow for more than one way of looking at things. Their promise can become our promise, their Savior our Savior.
It could happen to you.
An Alternative Application
Matthew 15:21-28. This text can reduce squirming preachers to artful dodgers: Surely Jesus -- the friendly, happy, helpful Jesus we all know and love -- did not tell this poor woman who came to him on behalf of a sick child that she was no better than a dog!
Well, says the dodging preacher, Jesus didn't actually say "dog" but "doggie" -- isn't that cute (Jesus the Nice Guy)? Or, perhaps he was testing her faith, drawing her to the limits of her endurance in order to show her what she was made of before he did was he was going to do anyway (Jesus the Faith Therapist). Or Jesus was giving his disciples a case study in how not to treat people from other cultures (Jesus the Multicultural Guru). Or perhaps Jesus (the Sensitive Guy, Surprised by His Own Chauvinism) couldn't quite make up his mind at first, and gives us a reason to be more decisive about helping out the needy. At the bottom of the barrel for the squirming dodger: Jesus the Stand-Up Comic (he didn't mean it!) rolling his eyes with his disciples as they clutch at their jiggling bellies.
Albert Schweitzer closed his famous study of the historical Jesus by noting that the original questers wanted to bring Jesus straight into the modern age as Teacher and Savior, but they found it impossible. "He does not stay," Schweitzer wrote. "He passes by our time and returns to his own." (Albert Schweitzer, The Quest of the Historical Jesus: A Critical Study of Its Progress from Reimarus to Wrede [New York: Macmillan, 1968, p. 399].) Similarly Jesus the Nice Guy, the Faith Therapist, the Guru, the Sensitive Guy, and the Stand-Up Comic, must look on in confusion as the Jesus of Matthew's Gospel walks right past them and back into Matthew's community, where Gentiles really were referred to as "dogs," and no one took that as a compliment. Only in their case, "Gentile" had become a way of referring to non-Christians, not just non-Jews (cf. 5:47; 6:7, 32; 20:25). Thus to be truly "Gentile" was defined in terms of faith, which knew no ethnic borders (15:28). If the dividing line between the faithful and the dogs seems a little rough, it is perhaps because we have politely papered over the line, when we should have thoughtfully observed it.
The majesty of Matthew's theological narration is that it allows us to confront the one who is our Teacher without the need to subsume the text under our own prejudices. Matthew reminds us that our own personal views and pet projects are never to be equated with those of Jesus. He speaks with the voice of an outsider, saying to us, "Listen to him" (17:5). Only then can we become scribes of the kingdom of heaven.
Preaching The Psalm
Psalm 133
This little gem of a psalm celebrates the joy of unity among comrades in the faith. While unity is a theme anyone can appreciate, the cultural setting of the psalm sounds strange to modern ears. A good bit of cross-cultural translation is needed to enable modern listeners to truly enter into the experience.
The chief homiletical obstacle is the presence of fragrant anointing-oil -- and lots of it. Apart from its culinary uses in salad dressings or to grease a frying pan, most of our people have scant familiarity with the many ways olive oil was used in ancient times, including anointing the human body. The psalm vividly portrays the greasy, pungent stream poured profusely upon Aaron's head and over his ears, coursing down his beard to form a puddle near the collar of the robe. The sheer abundance of valuable oil demonstrates that this, truly, is an occasion of deep gladness. Money is no object. (Aaron, of course, is the prototypical priest of ancient Israel. The psalmist, here, is perhaps thinking of the anointing of a priest as Aaron's liturgical successor -- see Exodus 29:7.) The oil functions, here, as a symbol of celebration -- although, to most of our listeners, the whole scene sounds more like a laundry nightmare.
In ancient times, the anointing of a guest with oil was a cherished act of hospitality. We read of this practice in Psalm 23:5. Anointing with "the oil of gladness" is also mentioned in Psalm 45:7; Isaiah 61:3; and Hebrews 1:9. Because the man referred to as "Aaron" is anointed with such a profusion of oil, it is clear that there is an excess of joy in this place.
One of the most difficult circumstances some families experience is a celebration in which not everyone is at peace with one another. Weddings and funerals, for example -- milestone occasions that ought to be characterized by peace, beauty, and solemnity -- can be marred by conflict, if two or more family members are feuding or estranged. How very much more good and pleasant it is when family members can sit side-by-side in unity!
There are few more important tasks for Christians than seeking to become agents of reconciliation. C. S. Lewis, in Mere Christianity, wisely observes that this unity is not found in positive emotions, but rather in hard work: "Do not waste your time bothering whether you 'love' your neighbor -- act as if you did. As soon as we do this, we find one of the great secrets. When you are behaving as if you loved someone, you will presently come to love him. If you injure someone you dislike, you will find yourself disliking him more. If you do him a good turn, you will find yourself disliking him less."
If the church, as a whole, could manage to accomplish this hard work of reconciliation more often, this would -- as Presbyterian preacher John Buchanan suggests -- make a world of difference in our evangelism efforts. "Wouldn't it be something," he writes, "if we could show the world the transforming power of a gospel that turns ideological opponents into brothers and sisters who love one another, who can't stop enjoying ... praying ... caring for ... protecting one another? If we did that, the world might even find us interesting again."
Strive for unity!
This morning our chain takes us from the original promise of God to the patriarchs through the ultimate fulfillment of the promise in Jesus Christ. The promise to Abraham is still the promise for Paul and for Matthew, but neither New Testament author limits the promise to its original situation or beneficiaries. The promise of land and descendants becomes the promise of community and eternal life. While this may seem to some to be a sharp turn for the promise, Paul and Matthew have their reasons, which they argue cogently. Their treatment of the promise indicates that it is part of a living tradition, that grows and changes rather than stagnates. They look back and see something that Abraham could not have foreseen, had he the ability to look ahead. The promise given to him is not only kept, it is expanded.
The living tradition means that the gift of God cannot be restricted to those who claim blood kinship to the dysfunctional family units of the Genesis narrative. Even a dysfunctional Pharisee appealing for money to a group of Romans he had never met can now claim to be a part of the family. Even a woman driven almost to hysteria by a strange illness can join the brothers and sisters of the promise.
Genesis 45:1-15
The preacher who focuses on today's reading from Genesis faces an initial choice: Do I tell the story, or summarize? Last week's lection told the story of how Joseph's brothers sold him into slavery, and next week's will pick it up again with Moses. The preacher could just wade in where the brothers left off with a few words about how Joseph made good in Egypt. But the story itself, the longest sustained narrative cycle in the book of Genesis, provides some roaring good sermon material. It begins with Joseph's favored status with his father, Jacob, his naive reportage of his dreams, and his brothers' angry and violent reaction, through Joseph's rise, fall, and rise again in Egypt. Joseph finds himself first a trusted aide to Potiphar, then in prison with a baker, and finally moving via the baker to the highest position in Pharaoh's court. His administrative and prophetic ability led him to high office, for he could both interpret Pharaoh's dream about seven years of famine, and also do something about it. The famine brought his brothers to his door in Egypt, through a series of ironic encounters that culminate in the scene we read today. Only the preacher can decide how much weight to give this material, but suffice it to say that it is more than mere "background," for without it, today's story would be the climax of nothing.
This recognition scene is in fact the climax of the Joseph story; the whole plot becomes clear at once. There is a reason it looks like a theophany scene, with its elements of self-identification, the command against fear, and the announcement of God's purpose (cf. 26:24) -- this is in fact God's revelation of how the story holds together. When Joseph reveals himself, he reveals God's plan.
This is a human drama with a theological point. At issue is the covenant promise to Abraham of land and descendants. The land has been given, and the descendants are living on it, but how will this land support them through the seven years of famine to come? God's solution involved the convoluted means by which Joseph went to Egypt to prepare a place for his brothers. Thus this scene is not only the climax of the Joseph story, but of the entire book of Genesis, because only here, in retrospect, does God's utter faithfulness to the promise become clear. Just as God rescued Noah (Genesis 6:8-22), just as God rescued Abraham and Lot (chs. 18-19), so now God is rescuing the whole people. God can even make use of the criminal actions of the brothers, even of the official deeds of the Egyptian Pharaoh, and even of the wayward naiveté of Joseph. When Joseph articulates the goodness of God's plan for the first time, it comes as a shock of good news, for it is revealed that they all have been a part of something larger than themselves (vv. 5-8). The personal drama of the family of Jacob takes on a national significance, when the brothers are called to relocate to Egypt. A "remnant" of "survivors" will preserve the people of God, no matter what (v. 7; cf. Exodus 32:9-10; 1 Kings 19:17-19; Isaiah 4:3). Thanks to God's work in Joseph, the children of Israel will be able to graze their flocks in the land of Goshen, trading seven bad years in the dust bowl of Palestine for 400 good years in the fertile Nile delta.
Yet, there is still a human drama at work here. The poignant speech of Judah discloses the change the brothers have undergone since they threw Joseph into a pit and sold him to slave traders. The Hebrew text begins a major section at 44:18, titled "And he went up" (an allusion to the Abraham story, 18:23). Like Abraham, Judah argues for mercy over judgment, but rather than appeal to the innocent minority (18:23-32), Judah does not even try to prove Benjamin's innocence of the charge against him. Rather, he offers himself in his brother's stead, for the sake of his father and his family. The irony here is that Judah, who had been the prime advocate of selling Joseph into slavery, now offers himself as a slave to Joseph in order to save the youngest brother. The special attention given to Benjamin, Joseph's only full-blood brother, is thus doubly poignant (vv. 13-14).
Joseph, prompted by the self-sacrifice of Judah, is overcome with emotion for the third and decisive time (cf. 42:24; 43:30-31), and clears out the servants and court functionaries in order to make the reunion a private, family affair (vv. 1-2). His first question is about his father (v. 3), even though he has already heard the answer (43:27-28). Joseph invites them to step closer and cross the official boundaries between Egyptian vizier and Hebrew brother, while cautioning them against negative emotions (vv. 3-4); his ascription of blame is muted, and he asks them for no penitence (vv. 4-5). Even though his prophetic dream about ruling his brothers has been fulfilled (cf. 37:5-11), and even though Joseph has taken no little pride in his own advanced achievements (vv. 5, 8), he is not going to give them any reason to be dismayed. Joseph breaks the brothers' conspiracy and the family's dysfunction by offering them forgiveness and renewed purpose. Where once they had been driven by fear and envy, Joseph offers them a new way of living together, in forgiveness rather than revenge. They can now do what they previously could not do: speak to their brother "in peace" (v. 15; cf. 37:4). How great a distance has been overcome is underlined when we realize that until this scene, he has spoken to his brothers through a translator ("it is my own mouth that speaks to you," v. 12; cf. 42:23).
Romans 11:1-2a, 29-32
Paul picks up where Genesis leaves off: Is the covenant promise still viable for Israel? His answer is a resounding, "Yes!"
Chapters 9 through 11 of Romans form the climax of Paul's argument about how God has made things right for humanity in Jesus Christ. The great problem for Paul's argument is this: If Jesus is the way God has chosen to make good the promise of new life through faith, why have the Jewish people not accepted him en masse? If he really were the Messiah foretold by the scriptures, would not the people of the "Book" embrace him without qualification? Paul's answer is that God's very way of making human beings righteous shows God's faithfulness to the covenant promise (3:26).
God shows no partiality (2:11), and yet the good news did come first to the Jews (3:1), even though they did not necessarily flock to it (3:3; 9:6). That the offer of new life came first to the Jews is in keeping with God's revelation in history. Further, God's continued faithfulness to Israel can be shown in the very scripture that details that history. In Romans 10, Paul shows how the Hebrew Scriptures (particularly Deuteronomy 30 and Isaiah 53) can be interpreted so as to show that the story of Christ is already implicit in them. Had they read their Bibles closely enough, the Jews would have recognized the suffering servant, Jesus, as their Messiah. Why didn't they?
Paul has a number of answers. A remnant did, in fact, believe, as Paul himself illustrates -- he is an Israelite, descendant of Abraham, of the tribe of Benjamin, and if there is even a remnant of one, then God's promise stands (v. 2). The remnant lives by grace; for example, everyone who receives God's gift of Jesus Christ becomes a part of the remnant (v. 5). Some, it is true, were hardened against God's gift (11:7, 25; an obvious allusion to the Exodus story). However, the rejection by Israel has had a positive result, in that it led to the mission to the Gentiles (11:11-12), who are like a wild shoot grafted onto the olive tree of Israel (vv. 16-24). In the same way, the mission to the Gentiles will eventually provoke Israel to jealousy (vv. 11-15), and eventually -- in the "mystery" of the last days -- will lead all Israel to God (vv. 25-29).
Thus "the gifts and calling of God are irrevocable" (v. 29; cf. 9:6). God's nature is not defined by the human response to it, but solely by God's own sovereign will. Despite the human, "No" (a response not by any means limited to Jews), God keeps offering a "Yes." God gives mercy in the face of disobedience, in the hope that mercy will one day trump disobedience. The very thought of God's careful dealings with fickle human beings leads Paul into a doxology to the inscrutable and unsearchable God (vv. 33-36).
Matthew 15:(10-20) 21-28
Matthew works out in narrative form the theological issue of universality, that left Paul, particularly, in such doxological ecstasy. He follows the same theological path as Paul: the good news properly came first to the Jews, and only later to the Gentiles. The issue in Matthew's Jewish-Christian community was how to continue to be faithful to Jewish tradition, while living in this new situation with Gentiles. Matthew's answer was to reassert the community's faithfulness to the Mosaic tradition, but only as interpreted by Jesus. That the message came first to "the lost sheep of the house of Israel" was regarded as a simple fact of God's work in Jesus, which could not be overcome by sentimentality (v. 26). The new community formed by Jesus was the fulfillment of the promises to Israel. However, Gentile believers were welcomed into the community, as long as they recognized the premiere and prior position of the Jews, which in no way would restrict them from claiming their own place in the economy of salvation. Matthew spells this theology out in narrative fashion, by showing Jesus first in a critique of the Pharisaic tradition (15:1-20), and then in an encounter with the Gentile woman (15:21-28).
The washing of hands to avoid ritual impurity was not required for all Jews or even for all Pharisees; it was definitely above-and-beyond normal religious duty. Jesus' problem was not with the scriptural law, which he thought -- in Matthew's view -- to be eternally valid (5:17-20). The problem was the tacking on of human traditions that could move in directions contrary to the intent of scripture. The issue was the tradition of interpretation that had grown up around scripture, not the scripture itself. Matthew subtly edits his version of the story to preserve the priority of Jewish Law for his community; for example, he omits the line in Mark's version that assures his Gentile audience that "Jesus declared all foods clean" (Mark 7:19; if Jesus had indeed been that clear on this matter, there probably would have not arisen the great debates in early Christianity over the issue, cf. Acts 10:14-15; Romans 14:19-21; Galatians 2:11-14). Further, Matthew introduces a question-and-answer session with the disciples that makes it clear that Jesus is only critiquing the Pharisaic tradition (15:12-15). For Matthew, Christians do not throw out the Jewish Law, but try to interpret it as Jesus himself did, in order to discern the greater righteousness inherent in it (cf. 5:20).
The prime example of tradition gone awry is not the relatively trivial matter of ritual handwashing (15:1-2), but the practice of declaring material goods as korban or "sacred," thus shielding them from the claims of others. The korban rule could be used to circumvent one of the most basic commandments, to honor one's father and mother by supporting them in their old age (15:3-9).
It is no accident that the story moves directly to the issue of Jesus' response to a Gentile woman. The disciples now know that mere contact cannot make them ritually or spiritually "unclean," since uncleanness comes from within and not from without. Armed with Jesus' demand that scripture be interpreted on a deep, rather than surface, level, they can open themselves up to a representative of Israel's traditional enemy, the Canaanites (this designation, along with the archaic reference to "Sidon," helps highlight the traditional enmity between Jew and Gentile. It is a bit like calling a German a "Kraut," as if we were still fighting World War II. Note that Mark 7:26 does not use either name). Matthew's version of the story is edited in a way that highlights the theological movement of the story: the mounting suspense of Jesus passing by, the disciples' confusion, the woman's near-hysterical persistence, and finally her prayer and worship of Jesus that lead to an eloquent statement of faith.
That being said, Matthew does hold the Canaanite woman at a certain arm's length. The story can be read as if Jesus merely "came near" to the Gentile territory rather than entering it, as the woman "came out" to meet him (vv. 21-22). Certainly, Matthew did not picture Jesus as entering a Gentile house, as Mark did (7:24). The woman is much more emotional in Matthew's version, as she shouts and implores (v. 22). Yet, she is theologically correct to call Jesus both "Lord" and "Son of David."
Despite her use of the correct Jewish terminology, Jesus refuses to engage her at all, walking right past her. At best he deals with her secondhand, through the disciples (who want to get rid of her whether the daughter is healed or not, v. 23). His word about "the lost sheep of the house of Israel" is spoken to the disciples, not the woman. When he does speak to her, it is only after she throws herself to her knees and stops him in his tracks, so that he can hardly avoid running over her. Despite her posture of prayer, he speaks dismissively to her, implying that she is a dog scrounging for food (v. 26). Her reply cannot be understood as the winning zinger in a rhetorical contest (which is what it looks like in Mark), but only as a statement of true faith. She recognizes the priority of the children of Israel, and yet claims Jesus as Savior for her own child (vv. 27-28). Her words encompass the universalism that Matthew has grounded in particularism: because Jesus is the Jewish Messiah, he is the Son of God, and therefore the Savior of all nations (cf. 20:18-20). The healing of her daughter provides yet another instance of the positive results of prayed faith (15:28; cf. 7:7-11).
Application
"Fairy tales can come true, it could happen to you...."
But it's no fairy tale.
Joseph really did lead his brothers into Egypt, Paul really did gather Jews and Gentiles into one church, and both Matthew and Mark agree that Jesus really did heal the daughter of a Gentile woman.
Yet, each of these instances has become paradigm as well as event, a way of looking at the larger picture of faith. They each mean more than they say.
That's good news for us, because it means that each of us can find our own place in the tradition. We can fit ourselves in the paradigms, because they are flexible enough to allow for more than one way of looking at things. Their promise can become our promise, their Savior our Savior.
It could happen to you.
An Alternative Application
Matthew 15:21-28. This text can reduce squirming preachers to artful dodgers: Surely Jesus -- the friendly, happy, helpful Jesus we all know and love -- did not tell this poor woman who came to him on behalf of a sick child that she was no better than a dog!
Well, says the dodging preacher, Jesus didn't actually say "dog" but "doggie" -- isn't that cute (Jesus the Nice Guy)? Or, perhaps he was testing her faith, drawing her to the limits of her endurance in order to show her what she was made of before he did was he was going to do anyway (Jesus the Faith Therapist). Or Jesus was giving his disciples a case study in how not to treat people from other cultures (Jesus the Multicultural Guru). Or perhaps Jesus (the Sensitive Guy, Surprised by His Own Chauvinism) couldn't quite make up his mind at first, and gives us a reason to be more decisive about helping out the needy. At the bottom of the barrel for the squirming dodger: Jesus the Stand-Up Comic (he didn't mean it!) rolling his eyes with his disciples as they clutch at their jiggling bellies.
Albert Schweitzer closed his famous study of the historical Jesus by noting that the original questers wanted to bring Jesus straight into the modern age as Teacher and Savior, but they found it impossible. "He does not stay," Schweitzer wrote. "He passes by our time and returns to his own." (Albert Schweitzer, The Quest of the Historical Jesus: A Critical Study of Its Progress from Reimarus to Wrede [New York: Macmillan, 1968, p. 399].) Similarly Jesus the Nice Guy, the Faith Therapist, the Guru, the Sensitive Guy, and the Stand-Up Comic, must look on in confusion as the Jesus of Matthew's Gospel walks right past them and back into Matthew's community, where Gentiles really were referred to as "dogs," and no one took that as a compliment. Only in their case, "Gentile" had become a way of referring to non-Christians, not just non-Jews (cf. 5:47; 6:7, 32; 20:25). Thus to be truly "Gentile" was defined in terms of faith, which knew no ethnic borders (15:28). If the dividing line between the faithful and the dogs seems a little rough, it is perhaps because we have politely papered over the line, when we should have thoughtfully observed it.
The majesty of Matthew's theological narration is that it allows us to confront the one who is our Teacher without the need to subsume the text under our own prejudices. Matthew reminds us that our own personal views and pet projects are never to be equated with those of Jesus. He speaks with the voice of an outsider, saying to us, "Listen to him" (17:5). Only then can we become scribes of the kingdom of heaven.
Preaching The Psalm
Psalm 133
This little gem of a psalm celebrates the joy of unity among comrades in the faith. While unity is a theme anyone can appreciate, the cultural setting of the psalm sounds strange to modern ears. A good bit of cross-cultural translation is needed to enable modern listeners to truly enter into the experience.
The chief homiletical obstacle is the presence of fragrant anointing-oil -- and lots of it. Apart from its culinary uses in salad dressings or to grease a frying pan, most of our people have scant familiarity with the many ways olive oil was used in ancient times, including anointing the human body. The psalm vividly portrays the greasy, pungent stream poured profusely upon Aaron's head and over his ears, coursing down his beard to form a puddle near the collar of the robe. The sheer abundance of valuable oil demonstrates that this, truly, is an occasion of deep gladness. Money is no object. (Aaron, of course, is the prototypical priest of ancient Israel. The psalmist, here, is perhaps thinking of the anointing of a priest as Aaron's liturgical successor -- see Exodus 29:7.) The oil functions, here, as a symbol of celebration -- although, to most of our listeners, the whole scene sounds more like a laundry nightmare.
In ancient times, the anointing of a guest with oil was a cherished act of hospitality. We read of this practice in Psalm 23:5. Anointing with "the oil of gladness" is also mentioned in Psalm 45:7; Isaiah 61:3; and Hebrews 1:9. Because the man referred to as "Aaron" is anointed with such a profusion of oil, it is clear that there is an excess of joy in this place.
One of the most difficult circumstances some families experience is a celebration in which not everyone is at peace with one another. Weddings and funerals, for example -- milestone occasions that ought to be characterized by peace, beauty, and solemnity -- can be marred by conflict, if two or more family members are feuding or estranged. How very much more good and pleasant it is when family members can sit side-by-side in unity!
There are few more important tasks for Christians than seeking to become agents of reconciliation. C. S. Lewis, in Mere Christianity, wisely observes that this unity is not found in positive emotions, but rather in hard work: "Do not waste your time bothering whether you 'love' your neighbor -- act as if you did. As soon as we do this, we find one of the great secrets. When you are behaving as if you loved someone, you will presently come to love him. If you injure someone you dislike, you will find yourself disliking him more. If you do him a good turn, you will find yourself disliking him less."
If the church, as a whole, could manage to accomplish this hard work of reconciliation more often, this would -- as Presbyterian preacher John Buchanan suggests -- make a world of difference in our evangelism efforts. "Wouldn't it be something," he writes, "if we could show the world the transforming power of a gospel that turns ideological opponents into brothers and sisters who love one another, who can't stop enjoying ... praying ... caring for ... protecting one another? If we did that, the world might even find us interesting again."
Strive for unity!
