"Jesus got up and went away from there to the region of Tyre. And when He had entered a house, He wanted no one to know of it; yet He could not escape notice. But after hearing of Him, a woman whose little daughter had an unclean spirit immediately came and fell at His feet. Now the woman was a Gentile, of the Syrophoenician race. And she kept asking Him to cast the demon out of her daughter. And He was saying to her, “Let the children be satisfied first, for it is not good to take the children’s bread and throw it to the dogs.” But she answered and *said to Him, “Yes, Lord, but even the dogs under the table feed on the children’s crumbs.” And He said to her, “Because of this answer go; the demon has gone out of your daughter.” And going back to her home, she found the child lying on the bed, the demon having left." - Mark 7:24-30
I am struck by the faith of this unnamed Syrophoenician woman. Jesus' rejection of her petition and his insult leaves me agape, but even more remarkable is her reply: "Yes, Lord, but even the dogs under the table feed on the children's crumbs." It's like saying, "Yes, Lord Jesus, I am a dog. But to whom shall I go? You have the words of eternal life."
Her words carry a spirit of beautiful desperation, a kind of unnerving contrition before Jesus. Her will is for an exclusive loyalty, not because other choices offer something as valuable, but because this is the only sane choice--to follow Jesus, to track Jesus down wherever he goes, whatever it takes.
When Jesus calls me a dog, will I respond with same humility, or will I be ticked off and walk away with a wounded pride? I am often ticked off even with a small trial, like my 4 year-old who intentionally annoys me. I am untrusting even when the most inconsequential plans go awry. It takes me a while to get back on track to believe Romans 8:28 (it can be a most annoying verse when my plans fail).
It strikes a chord in my materially prosperous, vaguely discontent, lukewarm heart this evening and makes me burn inside for that kind of desperation. I want that kind of needfulness for Jesus. I want to make that admission of complete inadequacy, not just in my mind but in my spirit and heart, hour after hour.
May it be so. May I never grow unfeeling or vaguely happy in the passing shadows of this life.
Amen.
I never understood that story. Your beautifully-written commentary gets me part way there. Thank you, Dream.
ReplyDeleteHi Dad, I'm glad it was helpful. Your comment made me go back and recall my resolve as well. Thank you.
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