THE SILENCE OF JESUS
Isaiah 56: 1, 6-7; Romans 11: 13-15, 29-32; Matthew 15: 21-28
Do you have a favorite story from the Gospels? Maybe the story of Jesus’ birth, or an account of one of his miracles – healing someone, changing water into wine at the wedding feast at Cana, the multiplication of the loaves and fish, walking on water? Maybe a parable of Jesus – the Lost Sheep, the Prodigal Son, the Good Samaritan?
What about lines of Scripture? Do you have any favorites? Most of us do. Maybe “Ask and you shall receive, seek and you will find, knock and the door will be opened to you.” Or “A new command I give you, love one another as I have loved you.” John 3:16 is a popular one (at least among football fans) – “For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life.
The reason why I ask is because what we just heard is probably not on anyone’s list. As a matter of fact, it’s my least favorite passage in all four Gospels. In it, we meet a Jesus that I’m not really sure I like. He seems arrogant, prejudice, rude, insulting, sarcastic and downright mean. Far different from the one we’re accustomed to. And for me, it contains the most devastating line in all of Scripture: “But he did not say a word in answer to her.”
It’s this silence of Jesus that sends one's mind and heart spinning when we read today's Gospel. “But he did not say a word in answer to her.” He certainly heard the plea of the Canaanite woman, for the disciples begged him to get rid of her because she was being so loud. “But he did not say a word in answer to her.” Can this be the Jesus whom we call merciful? Can this be the one who was known for his wonderful deeds of compassion? Yes, it’s he. It’s none other than Jesus, "Lord, Son of David," who is silent.
The silence was unmercifully disconcerting, but the words that then came from his mouth sounded like the ultimate in thoughtless mercilessness. ‘I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel.'" To her it sounded like, "I want nothing to do with you, for I have not come for anyone such as you. I have a mission, but you’re not part of it."
But she just wouldn't give up! She then confronted him directly, "Lord, help me." It was the voice of the most helpless of all the helpless ones. "Help me." I have no other recourse. Only you can help me. Have mercy.
"It is not right to take the children's bread and throw it to the dogs." Oh, the heartlessness of that response! Perhaps better the silence than this, to be called a "dog." Yet, she had heard this "title" bestowed upon her before. It was typical of a Jew to speak thus of the Gentiles. To hear that in the face of this need, though, was truly a sign that all was now over. What more was there to be said?
She would gladly be a dog, she said to Jesus, if he would just do what dog owners do - let some crumbs fall from the table for the dog to lick up. It would be enough to have some crumbs! She asked for nothing more. And there was one thing she was determined she would not do, and that was to go away without at least some crumbs from the master's table. If this was, indeed, the Lord she had heard about in the many rumors flying about - and if, indeed, he was "Lord, Son of David," he could and, in fact, had to give her what she requested. Why? Because he was who he said he was! That was the beginning and the end of her plea. "Be who I know you to be and I will be satisfied!"
Then . . . at last! . . . the word she had been yearning for with all her heart! "Be it done for you as you desire." She had broken through all those "defenses," had endured all those "rejections," had insisted that Jesus be who he truly was - "Lord, Son of David"! "O woman, great is your faith!"
What about you? Have you ever experienced this awful silence when you prayed . . . and prayed . . . and prayed . . . and nothing seemingly happened? Have you ever experienced what St. John of the Cross called “the dark night of the soul,” or the "hiddenness of God," as Martin Luther spoke of it? The God who asks us to pray is silent as we watch our resources dwindle to nothing while we ask him to help us find a job; as we watch a beloved father, mother child, friend continue to suffer from cancer; as we pray in desperation for safety from terrorism, and we hear the devastating news from Barcelona; as we beg God to turn the hard heart of a wayward child back toward the love and help of a parent who watches her waste her life away; as we hold up our hands in supplication for rain while our fields bake in the sun - or ask for relief from the rain as the floods pour over our land and our homes.
Having exhausted all your resources, having presented the total helplessness with which you approached the throne of God, have you felt rebuffed, as though your petitions fell on ears that wanted nothing to do with you? Have you ever felt as though out of the silence came an even more terrifying sense of sinking into the quicksand of the troubles that were so besetting you? The one who supposedly was hearing you spoke, instead, a word exactly opposite that which you wanted to hear. If you’re like Job, or the Canaanite Woman, or Mother Teresa, or me, probably you have.
And so what do we do? It seems to me there are two options: We can retreat in anger, feeling abandoned and let down by God. Or we can pester God to be who he claims to be, “a God merciful and gracious, longsuffering, and abounding in goodness and truth” (Exodus 34:5-7). That’s exactly what the Canaanite woman did, so maybe we need to take our cue from her. Although we feel so guilty doing this, when we dare quarrel with God, he is delighted that we enter into dispute with him. For that is the mark of faith. We will not stop speaking with him, no matter what the circumstance, for that is the precise sign that we do, indeed, believe that he can be trusted to listen and respond. Faith is not mere submissive receptivity to someone beyond our understanding. Faith is a relationship that God initiated through our baptism. He draws us up into that relationship in such a way that he actually invites us to enter into it as a willing disputant by making it plain that we not only can, but that we should, expect him to be what he has said he is and that he will do what he promises to do. Faith is to take God so seriously that, when he hears us, he knows that we trust him so implicitly that we can say whatever is on our mind with the confidence that he will take it seriously, believing that even "in the silence" and "behind the hiddenness" he is still present, still promising, still acting in our behalf, still working out circumstances in our lives in a way ever so obscure to us, but ever so plain to him.
And yes, God will make up his own mind about what to do concerning the contention we have with him when all is said and done. The woman's daughter was healed. But it doesn't always work out that way. Jesus' urgent request to let the cup pass from him wasn’t granted. His cross is the mark that the Father's will shall, in the end, be done. But that’s not as though he hasn’t heard and listened and taken seriously what the woman, what Jesus, or what we have to say. He made great good come out of Jesus' denied request! He relishes the times when we pour out our every wish before him, for it is the sign that we take God as seriously as he takes our situation seriously.
Matthew tell us about the woman in today’s Gospel because she is a model of faith for all who stand alongside her with that stirring cry, "O Lord, Son of David, we are severely oppressed by demonic powers. Lord, help us." There may be a terrifying silence for a while. It was so with her - and with Jesus. But when faith persists speaking into the face of that silence, the Word will eventually break the silence and demons will be sent away and the dead will be raised. For even in the silence we are in the hands of a gracious Lord who never fails to hear the cry "Lord, help us."
