Twelfth Sunday after Pentecost

​Rev. Shemwell
Matthew 15:21-28
08/20/23

Homily for the Twelfth Sunday after Pentecost

In the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
Dear brothers and sisters in our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, most unfortunately,
we currently live in a culture that appears to prize politeness above all else. The
chief, cardinal sin in 2023 is arguably being offensive, seeming callous and cold,
or ignoring the social mores and conventions about what is and isn’t allowed to be
said, suggested, or practiced in public. I don’t think I have to say very much at all
to make this point, do I? I imagine you all know precisely what I mean. It was
somewhat of a reality for me when I was up north in the Midwest, among all the
faultlessly courteous and uncontroversial Scandinavian stock, who’ve perfected
the Midwest nice, and it’s just as true here in the South as well with our well-
meaning privileging of hospitality no matter what. But now and again, we dread so
much hurting the feelings of others to the point that we from time to time even
shrink from the truth for the sake of avoiding an awkward situation or heaven
forbid so-called cancellation. We know deep down that it is wrong to keep quiet in
the face of evil and untruth, but sometimes we silence ourselves anyways simply
to stay safe, to remain well-respected. We keep our heads down. The corrupt
culture out there is doomed, we recognize this, and we do our best to protect our
own, our own household, our own church, but maybe we are also overly careful
not to rock the boat too much out there either.
I get it. I’m confident I do it too – we all do. We censor ourselves,
sometimes for the benefit of others, sometimes for our own. But the fact is, it is
often the case that the truth naturally, necessarily offends. Or every so often,
getting to the truth requires running the risk of offense and occasional outrage
even. And if for whatever reason you don’t believe me, then at least believe Jesus.
Take another brief look at our lesson today. This is another one of those difficult
narratives we’ve had an awful lot of lately – like the ones I seem to keep getting
tasked with this season as a brand-new pastor.

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But that’s okay. I appreciate the challenge the lectionary editors have presented
me. And what needs to be said needs to be said regardless. So here it is.
The account of our Lord’s conversation with the Canaanite woman this
morning very likely upsets our modern, pristinely hospitable sensibilities.
Theologians and interpreters have labored for centuries to understand what exactly
is going on here in this text. Why does Jesus sound so harsh in our reading? Was
He initially unconcerned entirely with that pagan woman? Why does He appear to
write her off at first? Didn’t He care? Didn’t He come to redeem the whole human
race, pagans and Canaanites included? And isn’t He pretty much calling her a dog
at one point? That’s clearly not very nice, right? Did Jesus even sin in doing so, in
ostensibly insulting the woman? I’ve heard liberal mainline Protestants suggest as
much, as blasphemous and absurd as that notion is. Notwithstanding all that
nonsense though, one can more or less understand why this has turned out to be
such a complicated text for so many. What exactly is Jesus up to here? Why does
He seemingly test the woman in the way that He does? What’s the deal? What’s
His point?
Well let’s start here, dear faithful. Our God, the true God, the only God, is
all-merciful, and as St. John writes, He is love. God Himself is love. There is no
hint of ill-will in our God. He is purely good and absolutely benevolent. Having
said that though, nowhere in Holy Scripture does it ever say that our God is always
nice. Niceness is not in and of itself a virtue. Niceness is only a virtue when it is in
the service of truth. But sometimes, in order to get to the truth, to unearth what
really matters, being nice is nothing but a hindrance, a hurdle, a distraction and an
excuse. And all you have to do is take a quick stroll through the Old Testament to
find out that God wasn’t invariably what we would call nice. He wasn’t. He was
loving, He is loving, to be sure. Always. And just and merciful, that’s obvious and
significant. But true love also entails frequent tough love, a father’s love, a love
that runs the risk of hurt feelings, a love shaped by justice and formed by genuine,
comprehensive, prudent mercy. A well-thought-out mercy.

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A mercy concerned with eternity. And Jesus, Who is God, in comprehensively,
prudently loving the Canaanite woman that day, He said what He said knowing it
might well have offended her. But God knows everything. He is omniscient, all-
knowing. He likewise knew that the risk of offense had a purpose. He well
understood that His momentary setting aside of niceness was in the service of
truth, a saving truth, a truth requisite, required for the sake of saving faith.
Jesus knew the faith of the Canaanite woman before she ever even uttered a
word. She came to Him, we are told, begging for His help, because her daughter
was demon-possessed. Now the disciples just wanted to send her away though,
right? Since they could not see nor sense her faith and they merely thought she
brought an unwanted disturbance to their day. But the very fact that she sought the
Lord for help is itself proof of her faith in Him. Her tears, her crying out, her
mother’s love manifested in seeking out the Savior were then evidence of her trust
in the true God. However, when our Lord saw this fledgling faith, He immediately
realized as well that it still needed to be strengthened, to be clarified, to be figured
out. It needed work. Faith always needs to be strengthened, it more often than not
needs a little work. And so, He said to the disciples, with her without question in
earshot: “Listen: I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel.” Or in
other words, He was saying this: “Woman, I am not responsible for you, nor for
any who are not of God’s chosen fold to whom I was explicitly sent.” Which is to
say, of the Hebrew fold. As a Canaanite – she was an outsider. And yet, she didn’t
listen to the Lord, did she? She didn’t take no for an answer. She continued to cry
out in desperation for help, a desperation that took on the form of worship, of
genuflection, St. Matthew tells us. “Lord, please help me. I need You. My
daughter needs you” Yet in reply, Jesus answered her with sternness and said,
“Dear woman, it is neither good nor right to take the children’s bread and to throw
it to the little dogs.” But that despairing Canaanite mother responded with a fierce
boldness, as is recorded in our Gospel, exclaiming: “Yes, Lord, you’re right. Yet
even the little doggies eat the crumbs which fall from their masters’ table.”

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Those words, that confession of a faith marked by an unusual humility, a
modesty and meekness generally foreign and unknown to sinners, that profession
of faith was exactly what Jesus intended to tease out from her from the get-go. He
wanted to bring this incredible confession into human language, out in the open,
into the light, to make it spoken and public, real and fleshly, for both the woman’s
benefit, to strengthen her faith in actuality, to clarify it for her own good, but also
for the sake of the disciples nearby, who would then be able to see through this
admittedly awkward but eye-opening interaction that yes, the Son of God did
indeed come for the whole world, for both Jew and Gentile, chosen and heathen,
to redeem all flesh through His incarnate, holy, obedient life and sacrifice.
Profoundly, our Gospel reading continues with our Lord now commending
the Canaanite stranger: “And then Jesus answered and said to her, ‘O woman,
great is your faith! Let it be done for you as you desire.’ And her demon-possessed
daughter was healed from that very hour.” From that moment. This is how God
works faith, beloved. Sometimes it is a miraculous conversion experience,
something that happens all at once. That’s been the case for many in church
history, for countless saints, Paul included at Damascus, and even my own
theological hobby horse and teacher, Johann Georg Hamann, his conversion was
similarly sudden. So it happens. But for most of us, faith takes time. And it can be
a challenge, even a pain, a struggle and something far from comfortable. I mean,
the law is rarely a welcomed thing for sinners. So the working of faith, the work of
the Holy Spirit within us, it can take an apparently roundabout route, a catechetical
detour, so to speak. It might have to be tested, teased out over time and through
however many tough trials. And maybe, or probably, that process entails hearing
stuff that by our common standards of decency and politeness would be regarded
as rude, considered harsh and uncaring. But the truth is, sometimes the truth is
rude, and harsh, and seemingly uncaring.

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When we cling to our sinful nature, for instance, the truth in fact does not care for
us one bit, it is uncaring with respect to us insofar as we are sinners and inasmuch
as we aim to remain so in our impenitence, our lack of repentance. And yet the
truth ultimately wants to set us free from all that. Christ desires to liberate us from
the sinner’s fate. And not surprisingly, now and again He has to remind us that we
are, in reality, dogs, no better than dogs, in order to get the point across.
So that’s the first lesson, brothers and sisters. Expect the Word of God to
upset your sensibilities at times. It will happen and it will happen for your own
good, to wake you up from your sinner’s slumber, to force you to confront your
fallenness and your need for continual forgiveness. Anticipate that not everything
in the Christian life will be determined by politeness. That’s a lesson for our faith,
but it is additionally a lesson for how we are to live our lives in the world as well.
God pulls no punches with us. And in imitation of our Lord, we ought not pull
punches either with the sinful flesh and with the wicked world. We must stand up
for truth and reject falsehood at every turn. We are called to proudly defend our
faith and the whole counsel of God, even if that means hurting other’s feelings.
Yes, we should be gentle, as gentle as possible, as gentle as doves, which our Lord
encourages – and being patient and understanding is, of course, important and
nothing short of virtuous. But the need for understanding and patience never
justifies tolerating sin and untruth for any period of time. Our Lord further
encourages us to be as shrewd as serpents, remember? Instead of being
accommodating and capitulating, we must aim to be considerate but firm. And we
must be willing to cause offense if need be.
I mean, after all, we preach Christ crucified and nothing but – that which is
a stumbling block and which is itself the greatest offense and scandal in world
history. God Himself gives offense to the worldly-wise and to their sophisticated
sensibilities through the very nature of His means of redemption, through the
beaten and bloodied body of the Christ.

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When we proclaim the death, resurrection, and ascension of God incarnate, we,
too, participate, in liturgical fashion, in this mighty offense and this serious
scandal. And yet, it is all in service of the truth, of God’s truth. For that reason,
proclaiming the scandal of truth, preaching what is folly to the world but wisdom
and the power of God to the faithful, this is not merely a justified effort but it is
moreover a sanctified duty. For us. So always be willing to listen in love, to even
walk alongside those struggling with sin and false teaching, but at the same time,
be ready, be good and ready to confront them with God’s Word, what may be
difficult for them to hear, although altogether necessary. Now I am in no way
whatsoever recommending that you should be eager to offend anyone. Not at all.
But yes, you very much should be willing to do so, if Holy Scripture demands that
of you. And more than anything else though, you ought to be ready and willing for
Holy Scripture to disturb and upset you yourself. Because it will, because it
should. Because it is right, and time and time again, we are wrong and wrong-
headedly set in our wrong ways.
Here’s another lesson for you, though. Not only should you be like our
Lord in His willingness to confront fallenness with an unabashed, audacious
articulation of truth, but you should furthermore be like the Canaanite woman in
our reading today as well. God reminded her of her sinner’s status, of her
unworthiness, her undesirability and littleness. And in response, what did she do?
She persisted and kept pestering Him. She kept begging Him for His salvation.
Dear saints, we are allowed to be bold with our God. To pester Him in piety.
That’s what this anonymous saintly woman teaches us. We are expected to be bold
with the Almighty God. We ought to never act entitled, to be certain, because we
don’t deserve any goodness and mercy from Him. And we surely should never
ever act entitled when it comes to His grace and the means through which He
delivers it to us, for example, in the Holy Supper. Because in reality, we have done
nothing at all to merit His grace.

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However, when we recognize this fact in repentance and when we come to Him in
humility, like that blessed Canaanite woman, then yes, we are wholly justified in
asking Him boldly for what we need and require.
He has promised to show mercy on the penitent. And even though we know
good and well that He keeps His promises without our pitiable promptings, we still
have every right to remind Him regularly of those promises, to hold Him to them
whenever, in prayer and petition. Look anywhere in Holy Scripture. All over the
Old Testament, the psalms especially. The Word of God is chock-full of instances
of believers confidently demanding love and concern and providence from their
God with no shame. Be blatant with your God. Don’t be afraid to say what you
mean. The cross and Christ’s misery and His pangs permit it. Demand what the
Lord has promised you. I give you further permission, as your shepherd. Come to
your Lord as a little doggie, begging solely for the scraps from His table. But
come just as much with boldness, with fearlessness, knowing that those scraps
belong to you, not because you have deserved them, but because your Master has
promised them to you in spite of your being undeserving. They are your
inheritance, after all, yours to claim. Not in an entitled way, of course. Entitlement
consists in assuming we have a claim to something that we don’t. But when
something is given to us in particular, promised to us, bestowed upon us, then by
all means, we may ask for it dauntless and without a trace of fear, guilt, reticence
or hesitation.
And a final quick lesson – three in one today. You guys are lucky to have
me. This Gospel reading should also be a reminder to us here that we have no
monopoly on salvation. God died nailed to a tree, hung like a macabre, unsightly
beast in a slaughterhouse. The Creator of the universe dangled like a piece of meat
before His scoffers and mockers. If you want to talk about offense, nothing could
ever be more offensive, more disgusting, derogatory, and disrespectful than that.
God became flesh, a man, only to be brutally butchered, His holy flesh flagellated
and flayed by none other than those He was sent to save.

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Our sinful nature and what it cost Him, a divine death, is itself an offense – an
offense to God, the most objectionable offense ever given. We fell from grace and
He very well could have left us in damnation, in our sad, wretched state those
many, many centuries ago. But He didn’t. He sent His Son to suffer all offense, to
bear all hurt feelings, to endure all unkindness and cruelty, to withstand the very
height or rather depth of the inhospitable, in order to deliver us from ourselves and
from the wages of our pitiful sin. The merits of the cross are gifted to us, salvation
is afforded us. But it doesn’t solely belong to us. The crucifixion at Calvary was
for all mankind, every man, woman, and child. Christ’s Passion was for the
redemption of all people. For the Jew and for the Greek, for the chosen and for the
heathen, for the disciples and for the Canaanite woman.
Apart from faith, from grace and mercy, you and I are not any better
whatsoever than every other sinner out there right now, period. God and God
alone has made us worthy. Therefore, in response to that mercy and truest love,
take the message – I urge you, take the Good News of undeserved deliverance, and
profess it to the world, friends, with audacity. All us flea-covered dogs, us sin-
ridden mutts, are kindly invited to huddle under the dinner table for the Master’s
plenteous scraps. So go out and call others to this generous table. They’re hungry
out there, dear flock. Desperate, despairing, and downtrodden. They need our Lord
as much as we do. Even if they don’t realize it yet, they, too, long for Him. So
speak the Gospel, whenever you get the chance. Give Him to them. Don’t be
greedy. And don’t waste any time either. Do not hesitate with what concerns
eternal fate. There is plenty of room at this rail for any and all in need of hope and
promise. And really, the only things that should ever offend us here within these
walls are empty pews. All thanks and praise for every bit of mercy shown us that
we never once earned be unto our gracious God, with all the glory, forever and
ever. In the Name of Jesus. Amen.