Go and Learn What This Means | Saying Goodbye to Christ Church, Georgetown
A Sermon for the people of Christ Church, Georgetown, for the Eleventh Sunday after Pentecost (Year A), August 16, 2020.
Matthew 15:(10-20) 21-28
May I speak in the name of the living God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.
At my ordination in September these words were read, “Go and learn what this means, ‘I desire mercy, and not sacrifice.’” (Matt. 9:13). My good friend preached that morning, and she noted that Jesus knew when he uttered these words that, as human beings, we often focus on all the wrong things, endlessly tinkering with all the ways we think we please God. Instead, Jesus makes clear: the point is mercy, translated often as steadfast love.[1] Unending and faithful. The love that comes alongside, that journeys with, that never fails. The love that is of God, Emmanuel.
Perhaps what I just said sounds familiar. It serves as the introduction to my recent letter to you, the people of Christ Church, announcing my departure at the end of the month. As my time with you comes to an end, I can’t help but think about the words uttered within the sanctuary of Christ Church at the beginning of my priestly ministry:
“But when he heard it, he said, ‘Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick. Go and learn what this means, ‘I desire mercy, and not sacrifice.’ For I came not to call the righteous, but sinners.” (Matt. 9:12-13).
As I explored this morning’s Gospel, there it was again, that word: mercy.
Have mercy on me, Lord, the Canaanite woman pleads.
In some ways, today’s Gospel aligns easily with the passage read at my ordination. Both are from the Gospel according to St. Matthew. Both happen during or closely follow encounters with Pharisees, encounters that challenge Jesus’ approach to ministry.
Why does your teacher eat with sinners? Why do the disciples eat with unclean hands? Why are you not following the rules?!
And Jesus responds in a manner that we’ve come to expect: I came not to call the righteous, but sinners. It is what comes out of the mouth and from the heart that defiles; eating with unwashed hands does not defile. The rules are not an end unto themselves.
There is a certain clarity in messaging.
Go and learn what this means, I desire mercy and not sacrifice.
And yet, at first glance, today’s Gospel muddies the water so to speak, discordant and severe.
The Canaanite woman approaches Jesus and calls for mercy. She is a mother with a suffering child and she has thrown herself at the feet of Jesus. And the very same Jesus at first ignores her. And when he does speak, well, it’s hard to hear. He essentially says that He isn’t for her, He didn’t come for her, she is not within the purview of His mission. And He calls this woman a dog.
What are we to make of this?
Interpretations of this passage abound, of course, because it is unsettling. Attempts have been made to domesticate it, contain it, to frankly make it less embarrassing. Many of them are theologically sound and Spirit-led. And yet, seemingly at odds with one another like this passage is seemingly at odds with so much we know about Jesus.
In seminary, we were taught Biblical exegesis; to thoroughly examine a text from every possible angle and then to submit a singular thesis-driven, well foot-noted, paper of considerable length to our professors. As a former attorney, you can trust that both the length and number of footnotes in my papers exceeded expectations.
In rabbinical schools, the exegetical process is a bit different. Students are asked not to develop a singular understanding from their research but a dozen understandings of the same passage to the end of approaching the Word of God from a variety of perspectives, including understandings that may be diametrically opposed.
Rabbi Jonathan Sacks takes this exegetical discipline to the next level when he applies it to the practice of living in community. He says, “The supreme religious challenge is to see God’s image in one who is not in our image.”
Go and learn what this means: I desire mercy. And she pleads, Have mercy on me, Lord.
In this moment, the Good News of Jesus Christ intersects with a particular claim on that Good News. A claim that the Good News should be and is truly Good News for everyone, even those to whom the world wants us to believe that we are diametrically opposed. Not our people. Not our way. Not our mission.
Have mercy on me.
a Canaanite, not of the house of Israel
a woman, with little status or protection
alone, no protector or representative, all propriety out the window
undeserving, needy
Have mercy on me.
She is not in their image, and she demands to be seen. Sure, I’m not one of you. Not even close. Perhaps I am a dog, yet even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their masters’ table.
Where’s my Good News?
Where’s my seat at the table?
Isn’t there enough to go around? I’m in desperate need of what only you can give.
But thou art the same Lord, whose property is always to have mercy (BCP, 337).
And it is in this broken and vulnerable posture that she herself extends mercy and preaches grace to Jesus Himself.
In the words of one preacher: “Sometimes it takes a nobody to remind somebody that anybody should be loved by everybody.”
“Sometimes it takes a nobody to remind somebody that anybody should be loved by everybody.”[2]
Bryan Stevenson, founder of the Equal Justice Initiative, writes:
“There is a strength, a power even, in understanding brokenness, because embracing our brokenness creates a need and desire for mercy, and perhaps a corresponding need to show mercy. When you experience mercy, you learn things that are hard to learn otherwise . . . You begin to recognize the humanity that resides in each of us.”[3]
Jesus sees the Canaanite woman, hears her, and changes his mind, both about her and about his mission. As if in gratitude he notes, Great is thy faithfulness.
Her faith which embraces her brokenness provokes mercy on the part of our Lord.
Jesus who had just traveled far from home into foreign and potentially unsafe lands, putting himself and those around him in a vulnerable position, allows her, an outsider, an other, to teach him that God’s purpose for Him was far more expansive than he thought.
Go and learn what this means: I desire mercy and not sacrifice. And Jesus went and Jesus learned.
And, thanks be to God, this is the Jesus we follow; a Jesus who throws open doors and widens gates; a Jesus who calls us to open our hearts to a mercy that will transform us; a Jesus who says Go and learn and then shows us what that looks like.
In the words of today’s hymn:
There’s a wideness in God’s mercy; Like the wideness of the sea;
There’s a kindness in His justice; Which is more than liberty.
There is grace enough for thousands; Of new worlds as great as this;
There is room for fresh creations; In that upper home of bliss.
If our love were but more simple; We should take Him at his word;
And our lives would be all sunshine; In the sweetness of our Lord.[4]
Friends, my time at Christ Church has been full of life, beauty, learning, and joy. Most importantly, it has been full of God. I have worked alongside some of the best people I know, lay and ordained. It has been a joy and a privilege to be formed a priest at Christ Church. And, I leave immensely grateful for every moment, even the hard ones.
It is time for me to “go and learn” in a new way. We are, not one of us, finished products. Not one of us has it all figured out. We are all called to go and learn continually: how to come alongside, to journey with, to love without fail. Thanks be to God who unceasingly invites us to bind the knowledge of Him around our necks and to write mercy on our hearts (Proverbs 3:3) and who reminds us that every day we begin again, never complete but always in process.
Amen.
[1] Grateful, as always, for the wisdom of the Reverend Elizabeth Henry-McKeever.
[2] James L. Brewer-Calvert, “The Supreme Religious Challenge,” May 8, 2016, http://www.decaturdisciples.org/wp-content/uploads/2016/05/The-Supreme-Religious-Challenge.pdf.
[3] Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption (London: One World, 2015).
[4] Frederick William Faber, 1854.
