I May Not Have a Name

August, 2011
Matthew 15: 10-28

I May Not Have a Name

I may not have a name,
and yet,
my story is as real today, as it was the day I encountered Jesus.


My story doesn’t exactly cast Jesus in the best light, I know.
In fact, Jesus was downright rude to me. You probably noticed when you heard the text.
But I am getting ahead of myself.

Let me fill you in on some of the details of Jesus’ life right before we met.
Jesus was probably bone-tired exhausted and emotionally drained.

His cousin John had been recently beheaded.
So, Jesus tried to get away, on a boat, to grieve, to be by himself...

And yet the crowds followed him, he couldn’t get away, besides that,
he had compassion on all of these people seeking his healing touch.
That evening, his disciples wanted to send the crowds away, but instead, Jesus instructed the disciples to feed the people. Five thousand men, and women, and children were fed that evening with five loaves and two fish.

Finally, when evening broke, he sent his disciples away on a boat, and so he could be by himself, to pray and meditate all night long. he went up the mountain to pray. Right before daybreak, he went to meet his disciples on the boat by actually walking on the water. This was a bit disconcerting for them, and headstrong Peter, tries to walk on water too, but we all know how that ended. Then a storm brewed, but Jesus silenced that, and then JC and the disciples landed on the other side of the lake,
only to meet more crowds of needy people.
Honestly, Jesus was like a rock star, frankly, and people were crowding around him just to touch his cloak--they said that if you could just touch him,
you would be healed. Jesus had compassion on these little ones, too.

Later that day, there was a verbal scuffle with some Pharisees, challenging Jesus about some of the traditions he and his disciples were breaking....

Yes. Jesus was drop dead bone sucking tired. He really, really needed to get away for a spell. And so, you could imagine that perhaps Jesus was tired, and really, really needed to get away from it all. So, he came to my area of the country-the Gentile territory of Tyre and Sidon.
It made perfect sense--Jesus was really only famous in Jewish circles....
but I had heard the stories about this Jewish healer while drawing water at the well.

And now, this Jew was here!

And my baby was sick. So sick. You know what having a desperately ill child can do to a parent, right? 1 It transforms you into someone you don’t know, someone who is horribly rude to “receptionists who won’t give you an appointment until July 1st. It makes you very rude to doctors who run tests and then tell you their diagnosis. It makes you scream at the insurance company representative who tells you that your coverage isn’t adequate. It makes you stay up all night doing research on the web, finding out where the best clinics are, the best doctors, the nutritionists to cope with diet, the therapists to cope with stress, the banks to loan you money... 2 It makes you break all kind of cultural rules...because you are desperate.
..
I knew it was a risk to approach Jesus, as a woman in a public place. I know that doesn’t always make sense in your context, but you know how rigid some of the male-female boundaries are in much of the Middle Eastern countries, and Islamic nations today. The wearing of the birka is an example---not in a bad way, it is a custom, a belief, to respect those boundaries.

I was the first of many women who broke the rules to get close to Jesus. Remember, the woman who touched Jesus’ garment? She didn’t dare call out to him, and was terrified when he turned back to talk to her. Usually, the men in the family took care of the public business. Honestly, I have no idea where my husband was, and I didn’t know how long the Jewish rabbi would be there, so again, out of my mother’s heart,
I had to do what I could do in that moment.
So, I shouted. I created a scene. People, especially the disciples were embarrassed. They tried to silence me.
I shouted more, throwing my self down on my knees.
I even called Jesus “Lord” and “Son of David” even though these were strictly Jewish religious words that meant nothing to me.

Pah! Anything for my baby.


Did I care that Jesus basically told me that he was on a vacation, and plus he was only there to help HIS people, the lost sheep of Israel? I didn’t have a name, but I knew he wasn’t right. If Jesus had compassion on crowds that clambored for him, He would have compassion for me.

Jesus’ lack of compassion might bother some of you. Jesus was really biased, and didn’t appear to be inclusive at. all. This is a scary thought, because it appears that we might at time annoy God with our problems. There actually might be others more important than ourselves.

I wasn’t going to let him get away with his answer. I KNEW he could help my baby girl. I knew that Jesus just needed a little more perspective, and I appealed to his softer side by reminding him that even the dogs under the table deserve leftovers--like the leftovers from the great miracle feast he threw. All I needed was a crumb--a touch of his cloak, I knew.

Actually, I was pretty proud of my response to him--one Biblical scholar notes that my little conversation with Jesus is the only place in the Gospels where someone wins a theological argument with Jesus! It was me! Gentile, uneducated, crazed mother--not a learned rabbi!!

I may not have a name, but some say that I am a wonderful example of how to approach God with both humility and confidence, deference and boldness, a grounded trust in God’s grace despite all the human obstacles that stand in the way of relationship. (find reference here)

I think that is reading too much into my intentions, but if you learn that from me, than go for it. It’s a good point. I think it is good to approach the holy with all of who you are--even if it is against all of the odds.

I may not have a name, but I know you know who I am.
I am the Canannite woman who argued with Jesus in order that her daughter might be healed.
And she was.

Today, I do not have a name,
but I know you know who I am.

I am the two Middle Eastern men you see in the airport, and you briefly wonder for a second, “are they terrorists?”

I am the Pakistani family that lives around the corner from you (at least you think they are Pakistani, or Indian)

I am the nutball who accosts you in the drugstore, waving my hands and pointing at you and laughing at you....

I am the union worker on the picket line....
I am the hoarders, living next door to you in questionable healthy conditions,

I am the veteran, broken in body and mind from war.....

I am the undocumented worker,

I am.... I am..... I am....

I hunger for the crumbs of understanding and grace,
and sometimes, I will do anything to taste them.

I may not have a name,
but I have a face,
and a story that transcends time.

I wonder where you will meet me again?

---
1. Anna Carter Florence, Preaching Matthew 15, http://www.goodpreacher.com/shareit/readreviews.php?cat=28
2. ibid, direct quote