A few things to note,
When
Jesus talks of the dogs in this passage he is referring to Gentiles and
Syrophoenician who are disposed by the Jews like Jesus. In like manner,
the children to whom Jesus refers are his own people.
Mark 7:24–30
From
there Jesus set out and went away to the region of Tyre. He entered a
house and did not want anyone to know he was there. Yet he could not
escape notice, but a woman whose little daughter had an unclean spirit
immediately heard about Jesus, and she came and bowed down at his feet.
Now the woman was a Gentile, of Syrophoenician origin. She begged Jesus
to cast the demon out of her daughter.
He said to her, “Let the children be fed first, for it is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.”
But she answered Jesus, “Sir, even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.”
Then he said to her, “For saying that, you may go—the demon has left your daughter.”
So she went home, found the child lying on the bed, and the demon gone.
***
I’m
going to tell you a story of breaking up, because firstly, and most
importantly, it mirrors the scripture, but also because heartbreak,
though a universal feeling - from anyone past age of middle school, is
rarely preached on, and hopefully in the telling, we can enter this
crazy text, in a way that is approachable rather than reproachable, as
our gut feeling leads us to believe about Jesus.
It
happened awhile ago, I had been watching his plants while he was
abroad, watering them as if caring for him, a quarter turn to the left
each time, that the sun might round them out into a bouquet to welcome
him home. Its unclear whether for him these plants were parting gift or
good riddance, but he needed neither they or I when he came home. What I
knew was I needed parting gift, as well as good riddance, or in other
words - closure; I needed to heal the unclean spirit of heartbreak, and
this required finishing final things and removing reminders of blooming
bouquets cultivated for other intents. I asked to meet up and hand them
off, and he said keep them, and I said I had questions, and I heard no
answer.
He
didn’t have to answer. He could hole up and not want anyone to know he
was there. Jesus had sent the disciples, fed the 5,000, cured the sick
and lame throughout Israel and been persecuted by the Jewish
authorities, and now finally, was attempting to rest. The man I loved
had done the thousand things that happen when you move away, move back
and moved on, and his desire for peace was also fair. Yet, I likewise,
could do what I wanted, and I wanted him to have his plants, whether or
not I saw him. I, and the Syrophoenician woman, knew enough that he
could not escape notice. So I cautiously packed them behind the front
seats in the car and drove north with the windows up and the AC on to
keep them fresh and unfurled for the drive. I wonder about the
Syrophoenician woman’s walk toward Jesus. What was her intent? Did she
want healing, the kind that turns things back the way they were to a
daughter running in play, or did she just want acceptance and
understanding for the way things are for a daughter who will never play?
What did she carry, a drawing of her daughter on the slide, or the
description of her disease, or memories that sat with questions
unanswered? What did she bring to Jesus’ door?
Arriving
at my his office building, I carried each plant. First was Grumpy, his
favorite, who never liked me much after the day I tried to put him in
the sun because I think sun heals everything, and he wilted, never
looking the same. Then two at a time I brought the vine one that sat in a
giant brown coffee cup and saucer, along with the pretty variegated one
of which I was most proud, it having looked the worst on stringy stalks
now having sat in direct sunlight for a year blooming full with dozens
of new leaves. Finally hefting in the now giant coffee plant in its neon
pot shaking with oncoming tears I made my last trip. I wonder if the
Syrophoenician woman also made several trips around the place where he
might be. Did she leave the drawing of the daughter and the slide, or
the description of the disease, or walk the perimeter with the stories
of her daughter, noting them as they circled around her memory. Each
time, carrying plants, I walked passing his darkened office window and
around through three hefty doors, feeling their and my heaviness. I
arranged them like a display just outside the door and if you had walked
up it would have been a mis-en-scene of beauty and bounty.
Respecting
the silence of the unanswered e-mailed, and perhaps the unanswered door
-with my walks past and the sound of potted plants clinking to set on
the tile ground, I looked at them about ready to leave. I wonder if the
Syrophoenician women too tried to leave it up to chance. If I see him I
see him, if I don’t I don’t, and thought of simply leaving Jesus that
drawing, that description, that memory spoken to the wind, but in the
end she came and bowed down at his feet, and I knocked on the door. I
see both as a sign of respectful boundaries, no one has to answer. I see
both as women with nothing to loose because everything is already lost,
and the only thing to be gained is a little healing for the present.
He
looked at me, crying, sliding the mis-en-scene precariously into the
office - a mess of overflowing plants. “You okay?” “No, but I am going
to be.” I said. “I needed to bring them, for me. Since you are here can I
ask a question.” At this point it was the match of wits, two people
with counseling backgrounds, knowing the rules,
He
said, “I didn’t think it would be helpful, often questions aren’t and
they just create more questions and continued hurt.” He might as well
have said, “Let the children be fed first, for it is not fair to take
the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.” Both were the responses
of a tired man who didn’t feel he had more to give.
I said, “They are not that kind of questions, and I realize you don’t
have to answer but I can also ask.” We leveled off. Likewise, the
Syrophoenician woman answered Jesus, “Sir, even the dogs under the table
eat the children’s crumbs.” They were the responses of women equally
tired but with nothing to loose. And I asked one question, and then
another, and then two more and I was done. They were things I was too
afraid to ask before because I didn’t want to know the answer. Now I
just needed to know that I already did. In the asking, and hearing I
felt resolve and I wonder too if in articulating what her daughter
deserved the Syrophoenician woman also felt resolve. Resolve that told
her the answers that she already knew but was afraid to ask. That
sometimes people get broken, but that healing can come through accepting
the brokenness and moving on. The daughter deserved a mother who
sought her healing in understanding. Then Jesus said to the
Syrophoenician woman, “For saying that, you may go—the demon has left
your daughter.”
So
she went home, found the child lying on the bed, and the demon gone. It
didn’t cure the girl, who still remained on the bed, but the demon was
gone, the demon that hoped for a healing of a different kind, that
wanted things the way they were, a child running and a play and a future
that matched the bouquets of plants at the door. But I imagine the
mother looked with new eyes, there was still possibility and future even
with a daughter who could not run, there would be other ways to play.
There was a daughter and a future, and new eyes. We hugged, I said, “I
never intended to knock,” He said, “Its always better to say goodbye.”
and I got out to the car, and rolled the windows down and felt the hot
sun on my face because it heals everything, and I felt myself beginning
to grow a new leaf.
