In John’s gospel, you don’t see much of Jesus’ humanity. He knows everything and is all-powerful, and when he appears to be weak, it’s only because he’s staying his hand. Mark’s gospel is different, though, and here we see much more of the human Jesus. As one of my professors said, “In Mark, we see Jesus’ dusty feet; in John, not only are they clean, but they never touch the ground.” These two gospels show is that sometimes its hard to hold together our Christian believe that Jesus was completely human and completely God. But this morning, we see some of both.

Jesus sets out for the region of Tyre. That’s pretty amazing in itself. Tyre is way to the north, a city on the coast of what is now Lebanon. It is definitely not part of Israel. This is Gentile country. Jews like Jesus who grew up in Israel were very uncomfortable in Gentile country. They would find themselves in crowds of people who were heathens, who were ritually unclean. I’d like you to think of a group that you’re uncomfortable being around, or, maybe you’ve never actually been around them, but you know you would be uncomfortable if you were. Think of yourself in a big crowd of them, vastly outnumbered. They’re in their element; you are out of yours. Maybe people of a different race, or a different ethnic group, or nationality, or religion, or political group. Think about how it would feel to be in their element as an uncomfortable outsider.

One of the times when I was uncomfortably out of my element was the first time I went to a gay bar. Some of you have heard me tell this story before, but I was there as part of the Vocational Testing Program, which I went through before going to seminary. My assignment was to pick a subculture that would make me uncomfortable, and go and learn.

Now, I had gay friends. I knew I’d be fine. But I went alone to a gay bar late at night. And I can tell you, I was plenty uncomfortable. I was way, way, way out of my element. In Tyre, a land of Gentiles, Jesus is way, way, way out of his element, and he is plenty uncomfortable.

But his reputation precedes him, and he doesn’t want to be mobbed by these people. So he enters a house and tries to keep his presence there a secret. But it doesn’t work. And, low and behold, in this Gentile country, Jesus encounters a Gentile. And not only a Gentile, but a Gentile woman. Talk about two strikes against you! In addition to being raised to believe that all Gentiles are damned, Jesus had been brought up in a culture and religion in which women literally did not even count. In order for Jews to have a prayer service, there had to be a minyan, or quorum, of ten Jewish men. If you had a thousand Jewish women and nine men, no minyan, no service. The women simply didn’t count. One of the prayers of thanksgiving handed down by the Rabbis was, “Thank you, God, for not making me a woman.”

And that was Jewish women. Gentile women, Jesus had been taught all his life, were ritually unclean from birth to death. He was not to touch them; he was not to be alone with them; he was not to speak to them.

And now here is this Gentile woman. We never get her name. History remembers her as the “Syrophoenician woman,” which just means that she was a local. But we quickly learn this: she is desperate. And she does something very dramatic. She comes to Jesus and bows down at his feet and begs him to cast a demon out of her daughter. Imagine having someone come up to you and bow at your feet. And any parent who has known the fear and frustration of your child being seriously ill can hear the tone in her voice. “Please. Please. I’ll bow lower. Please.”

And Jesus, probably feeling pretty awkward, looks down at this woman prostrating herself before him, looks at her dark hair and her bent back, and resists the tug of his heart as he remembers all that he has been taught all his life about who is clean and unclean, who is worthy and unworthy, who is acceptable and unacceptable. And this unclean, unworthy, unacceptable woman has committed an affront by speaking to him. So he looks down at her and says, “Let the children be fed first, for it is not fair to take the children’s food — and throw it — to the dogs.”

Jesus looks down at her dark hair, at her bent back, at her pitiful “Please,” and he does what he’s been taught all his life to do; he refuses her and calls her a dog.

Welcome to Jesus’ humanity.

I wish I knew her name. I’d like to say it. I’d like to keep her in my prayers by name. I’d like to have a feast day in her honor. Because what she does next, I believe, changes the Son of God.

The best minds of his day, the great leaders of his faith, had tried to trap Jesus, and they had plenty of time to think up their questions. They always showed up loaded for bear, and Jesus consistently dispatched them with their tails between their legs. And now this woman, this unclean, unworthy, unacceptable Gentile whom he has called a dog, responds on the spot, and something happens that has never happened before and will never happen again anywhere in the Scriptures: Jesus is beaten at an argument. “Sir,” she says, “even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.”

Silence. Jesus stares down, amazed. She has done what Jesus usually does. She had absorbed the insult and refused to respond in kind, seek revenge, mirror insult for insult. Instead, she has responded in a way that causes the one who insults her to face his own shame. In this remarkable story, she plays the role of the Christ, teaching a very human Jesus what it means to be filled with the Spirit of God.

And now, his heart is breaking. His heart is melting. He is ashamed. He is convicted. And I believe that at that moment, he changes.

“Then he said to her, ‘For saying that, you may go–the demon has left your daughter.’”

Welcome to Jesus’ divinity.

What happens next cannot be a random event, a mere haphazard juxtaposition of stories; it just cannot, it seems to me, be mere happenstance that it happens next. What happens next, it seems to me, is a story that provides commentary on this remarkable Gentile woman changing the heart of the Son of God and showing him that people whom he had been taught to treat as dogs actually deserve to eat at God’s table.

Now, before we get to what happens next, let’s think about how that message (that the “dogs” deserve a place at God’s table) is going to play at home. He will be called “unorthodox.” He will be accused of caving in to pressures. People will say he’s part of the “cultural captivity” of the faith. He will be accused of disobeying the Holy Scripture. He’ll be accused of dishonoring the traditions that set moral guidelines, moral guidelines that are needed if we are to remain pure and holy, if we are to stand for anything, if we are going to avoid diminishing God’s love, diminishing our sense of being special, by diluting it, buy letting “those people” in.

That’s how this story of the Syrophoenician woman is going to play at home. And so it just cannot be a coincidence that after Jesus hears the Word of God in a new way, after he speaks words of acceptance and healing, after he is open to God’s love going to people he thought were unclean, the next man Jesus encounters is unable to hear and unable to speak and is closed. And Jesus heals him. When he does, what he says is so important that the tradition kept it in the original Aramaic, the language Jesus spoke: “Ephphatha!” he tells the man. Ephphatha! It means, “Be opened!” “Be opened,” he says. Ephphatha! And the man can hear, and the man can speak.

Now I want you to remember the exercise we did a few minutes ago. I want you to remember how uncomfortable it is to be among “those people,” whoever they are for you. “Those people.” “Those people.” Isn’t it so easy for us to think of “Those People?” Jesus did. But his heart was changed (by a Gentile, by a women). Whenever we think of “Those People,” we are called to listen to our Savior. Listen to him. What is his convicted, converted heart saying to us?

Ephphatha! Ephphatha! Ephphatha!

Be opened! Be opened! Be opened!

And, when we hear that, we have to decide.

Open, or closed? Your move.

The Rev. James H. Pritchett, Jr. St. John’s Episcopal Church, College Park, GA. If you would like to comment on this sermon or receive these sermons by email, contact me at rector@stjohnscollegepark.com.