January 27, 2019
Joanna Harader

When I was in college, I had an opportunity to attend an anti-racism workshop. There were three of us driving to the workshop—my boyfriend (now husband) who is white; our friend Reggie, who is black; and myself (I’m white). We spent a few hours on the road together, driving the winding roads of southwestern Virginia in the heart of Appalachia. This was before cell phones with GPS, so when we inevitably got lost, we had to stop and ask for directions. We pulled into the parking lot of a run-down gas station in a little mountain town. Reggie started to get out of the car to go in and ask directions. I cheerfully called from the back seat: “Hey, I’ll come with you!” A look of dread crossed Reggie’s face and he told me in no uncertain terms that I would NOT go into the gas station with him. That it was not safe for him to even be seen traveling with a white woman in this part of the country and I should probably scrunch down and hide in the back seat until we left town.

Several years ago, I got to attend a gathering hosted by the Brethren Mennonite Council for LGTB Interests. It was a wonderful time of fellowship and worship. At one point I was chatting with someone I had just met and she said something that made me realize that she thought I was married to a woman. I wasn’t sure what to do. If I said, “Oh, no. My partner is male,” I thought I would sound defensive, like I thought there was something wrong with two women being married to each other. But I also felt like saying nothing was kind of an implicit lie and it could be really awkward in the future if I let this person think I was married to a woman and she later realized I wasn’t.

I’m pretty sure both of these stories have made appearances in previous sermons. I feel like I tell them a lot. Because they are important to me. You know in cartoons when a character figures something out and there’s a lightbulb in the little thought bubble? Those moments don’t happen often in real life, but when they do, I notice. These are both moments when I felt something turn on in my brain; when a realization came suddenly: I live a privileged life. I have advantages that I did nothing to earn and that I am not even aware of. I tell these stories because these events changed the lens through which I view the world and my own place in it.

And so I wonder . . . I wonder if Jesus ever began a sermon with: “There was one time I was in the region of Tyre and Sidon when this Canaanite woman came up to me and said . . .”.

Because surely this is a moment of revelation for Jesus. You can practically see the lightbulb in the thought bubble over his head when the woman says, “Yes, Lord, yet even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their masters’ table.”

This woman’s comment does a couple of important things for Jesus.

First, her words condemn the racism in his statement to her: “It is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.” In continuing the metaphor Jesus began, the woman calls him out on his rhetoric; she lets him know that she knows he just called her a dog.

We hear an awful lot of politicians—and other leaders—these days use racist language and then, when someone suggests they are racist, they try to re-frame and re-phrase what they said. “Of course I didn’t mean that white nationalism is good.” “Of course I didn’t mean that immigrants are dangerous because they are not white people.” “Of course I didn’t mean it like that.”

But this Canaanite woman is not going to let Jesus out of the racist rhetorical hole he has dug for himself. “So, you just called me a dog. Well . . .”. She is keeping him honest.

Here’s the thing about Jesus. And me on my trip with Reggie. And probably you as well. We’re not overtly racist. We don’t mean to be racist. We have friends of color. And we read books by people of color. And besides, we can’t be the oppressors because we are the marginalized ones—we are female, we struggle with a disability, we are low income, or, at the very least, we are part of a religious group that has a history of persecution and martyrdom.

Jesus was not of the highest socio-economic class. He was a Jewish man in a Roman empire. He had three Canaanite women in his genealogy: Rahab, Tamar, and Ruth. He spoke out for the rights of marginalized people—for the poor, for women, for children. Jesus was too good to be racist.

Except he pointed out to this desperate Canaanite woman that she was not an Israelite. Then he called her a dog. Then she called him out on calling her a dog.

So, the first important thing the woman’s comment does is alert Jesus to the fact that he just said something racist. He invoked his privilege to dismiss her as “other.”

The second important thing her comment does is something I just learned about this week through a commentary by professor Mitzi J. Smith. The Canaanite woman’s comment points out to Jesus that his reality is not everyone’s reality.

In Jesus’ day, Greeks and other Gentiles were probably more likely than Jewish people to have dogs as household pets. So when Jesus says, “It is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs,” he is thinking of his own cultural situation where dogs are strays, wandering the streets. In that case, of course, no one would take the children’s food and throw it out in the street to the dogs.

But the woman’s response conjures up a different image: “The dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their masters’ table.” Suddenly, we are in a Gentile household where a beloved pet dog is laying under the table—probably closest to whichever child is most likely to drop food. And when Jesus hears her comment—lightbulb! “Oh, right.” He might have thought, “Some people live lives that are very different from mine.”

This is the lightbulb that went off for me in both of the stories I shared. In those situations, I didn’t say or do anything that was disparaging to people of a different race or a different sexuality. I was just completely oblivious to the fact that their reality was different from mine. I took my own particular life experience as a universal norm.

I would be safe walking into a gas station in Appalachia and asking for directions, so of course Reggie would be safe.

I am straight, so of course everyone will know that without me telling them. And can’t everyone just assume other people will correctly intuit their accurate sexual orientation and gender identity?

I was living within one story, within my life, but was gifted with these glimpses into other people’s stories, other people’s lives. Apparently not everyone feels safe walking into a gas station in Appalachia—and my presence makes them less safe. Apparently some people have to deal with others mis-identifying their sexual orientation or gender identity on a daily basis—and then face the dilemma of whether to correct people and seem antagonistic, or let it slide and risk being thought a liar later.

And apparently, some families keep dogs as pets in the house and manage to feed the children and the dogs.

In one sentence, this woman—whose name we never know—gives Jesus a great gift.

And Jesus, with grace and humility, receives that gift and gives her one in return: “He answered her, ‘Woman, great is your faith! Let it be done for you as you wish.’ And her daughter was healed instantly.”

And maybe, as Jesus continues his teaching ministry, he opens up a sermon or two with the story: “There was one time I was in the region of Tyre and Sidon when this Canaanite woman came up to me and said . . .”.

May we all be blessed by people like this woman who are willing to show us the truth of our prejudices and show us perspectives beyond our own.

May we follow the example of Jesus and graciously receive these gifts, offering our own love and support in return.

Amen.