I wrote a story. It will only be relevant to you if you were born in any time and place; if you were raised in any culture; if you were ever taught; if you have been exposed to thousands, millions, of messages both subtle and overt about who is lovable and who is not. In other words, it will only be relevant to you if you are a human being, living in history. I hope it will make you think about how God sends you the gift of an unclean nobody. Here is the story:

The Audition

When you’re unsure of why you’re there, or what’s going on, so that you feel like a klutz on the inside, it’s funny how often you act like a klutz on the outside. That’s what happened to him as he struggled to open the door. He was pretty sure it was the right door because it had a sign taped on it that said, "Auditions Today — By Invitation Only."

He wasn’t sure why he had gone, except that his curiosity had certainly been pricked, and, he had to admit, it was a bit flattering to be included among "the best and the brightest." He had been awarded his doctorate in theology only a short time ago, and he was still a bit puffed up about it.

But as he struggled to open the door and hold the stack of books he had brought, suddenly he was full of doubt and insecurity, not knowing why he was really there. His stomach felt sick. Inside, he felt like a klutz. And so, naturally, as he got the door open the stack of books began to slide, and (with one hand on the door) he couldn’t stop it, so his collection of impressive theological treatises crashed to the floor and lay there in various poses, like pictures of battlefield dead.

He blushed as all the others sitting in the room looked up. "Well," he thought as he gathered the books, "that was certainly an impressive entrance." Books gathered, he stood up and looked around the room for a place to sit. Scanning, he saw that the walls were lined by men who were giants in their fields. Rabbis with long beards who were, even now, studying the Torah. Philosophers, preachers, titans of commerce, noted philanthropists, educational theorists, counselors. All famous men. All leaders in their fields. All serious, solemn, and impressive. He felt proud to be included and terribly intimidated.

He looked for a seat. There were only three open. One was between a rabbi and a philosopher. The other two were on either side of the only person in the room who did not fit the pattern. A woman in a room full of men. When he saw her face, he was momentarily distracted. It seemed full of pain, full of anxiety. He felt a tug, but he quickly recovered. Clearly this woman was not the leader of any field. Clearly a woman had no place here. And not just a woman, but one look at her attire and her features told him that she was a foreigner as well. A Gentile. Unclean. "No wonder the rabbis are on the other end of the room," he thought. "No wonder the seats next to her are empty. No wonder the men in the seats next to the empty seats next to her are leaning away. No wonder. I wonder why in the world she is here?"

He took the seat between the rabbi and the philosopher. He sat for a moment, then, in his discomfort, pulled out his invitation and studied it again, hoping that it would somehow tell him why he was here. He didn’t know from whom it had come. It just appeared under his door one day. He read it again for the hundredth time: "You are requested to appear," it said, "at an audition to play the principal part in a scene to convert the Son of God. Only the best and the brightest, the leaders in their fields, are invited to audition. By invitation only." And then, in small print at the bottom of the page: "This invitation is non-transferable."

He read the line over and over: "A scene to convert the Son of God." What did that mean?

He was just working up the courage to ask one of the stern visages on either side of him whether they knew what was going on when the door opened, and, to his alarm, his name was called. All the men looked up as he gathered his books and apprehensively stepped through the door into what turned out to be a the dark wings of a large theater. As he looked through the curtains at the brightly lit stage, bare except for a microphone on a stand and a chair, he felt a slight pat and gently was told, "Go ahead."

He walked with small steps onto the stage and discovered that he was virtually blinded by the spotlight bearing down on him. Squinting, he placed his books on the chair and stepped up to the microphone — for what he had no idea.

A voice came from behind the light. "Before we begin, do you have any questions?" it said.

"Thank God," he thought. "Yes, actually, I do," he said. "I really don’t know why I’m here. I don’t know what this means, ‘to convert the Son of God.’ Could you explain that to me?"

"Certainly," the voice behind the light said. "I can understand your confusion. Simply put, I’m looking for someone who can help my Son see his own prejudices, the ways in which he has been taught to love . . . narrowly."

Now he felt a little more competent. After all, he had a Ph.D. in theology. "If you don’t mind me asking," he said (shading his eyes didn’t help; he couldn’t see behind the light), "why would the Son of God have any prejudices? I mean, he is, after all, the Son of God."

"Yes," came the reply, "and — he is a human being. He was born in a certain time and place. He was raised in a certain culture. He was taught a certain way. He has been exposed to thousands, millions, of messages both subtle and overt about who is lovable and who is not. It seems to be the case that every single human being, because they are planted in history, has to deal with the prejudices of their culture. I’m looking for someone who can help him to see that and offer him the opportunity to change, to convert, to show a wideness in his mercy, a broadness in his love. Do you understand?"

"I think so," he said.

"All right," said the voice, "would you mind telling me how you would go about that?"

Looking back on it later, he was sure he had done well. Not just well, but very well. This was, after all, like taking an exam, and the one thing he had been prepared to do and do well in his years of training was to take exams. As was often the case when one remembers a stressful performance, he could recall only snatches of what he had actually said, but he did recall that it seemed right, that his answer drew on numerous sources, all of which he cited, and that he had skillfully referred to the books he had brought without fumbling or having to waste time looking for misplaced quotations. Everything he said had been supported by Scripture, Tradition, and the very latest scholarship. And it had all fit together like the pieces of a fine Swiss watch.

When he had finished, he felt exhausted, but proud. When put on the spot, he had performed well, shown what he knew, and created out of nothing an answer that, for anyone with an open mind who was willing to listen and follow his logic, had to be very convincing.

"Very impressive. Very impressive indeed," the voice said.

"Thank you," he said, "but may I ask one more question?"

"Certainly," the light said.

"Well," he said, "why is that foreign woman out there with the best and brightest of our culture?"

"Ah," said the voice. (He thought he detected a note of affection.) "I started with you because of your training. I’m saving her until last." The tone became businesslike: "Thank you for coming. We’ll be in touch."

A few days later he received a note: "Thank you for your time. You are to be congratulated on your accomplishments. The part has been awarded to the Gentile woman of Syrophoenicia." He was shocked and disappointed. He had felt so good about how well the audition had gone, and he was so used to getting good grades. But he felt more than shock and disappointment; he felt his blood rising in humiliation and shame. He would have understood losing to one of the stern faces and long beards of the dignitaries in the room, but to lose to this unclean, disgusting nobody! It was too much. "How in the world could she, of all people, a Gentile, a woman, a foreigner, an unclean person with no education, how in the world could she have gotten that part?"

Later, he read about it. Here is what he read:

A woman whose little daughter had an unclean spirit immediately heard about him, and she came and bowed down at his feet. Now the woman was a Gentile, of Syrophoenician origin. She begged him 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 him, "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."

He read the passage again and again and again. Read about how she had absorbed his insult (calling her a dog) without anger or retaliation; had insisted on her personhood, her right to ask; had almost playfully used his own metaphor (the bread reserved for the children) to insist on her status as a child of God, and had turned it on him in a way that shamed him with his own narrowness ("even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs."). Again and again he read it. Again and again, he saw the Son of God change. Again and again, he saw the Son of God change.

"Could I change?" he wondered. Even the suggestion of it was painful and terribly unsettling (threatening, in fact, his whole view of order and propriety). "But," he thought, holding back his fears, "if the Son of God could change, could I?"

And he began to change in this way: he looked at his books for a long time, and he became aware of the ways he had been deaf to the cries of God’s children, of the ways he had spoken a narrow, closed love. And he felt God saying to him "Ephphatha!" Be opened! And then he smiled and thought to himself, "Thank God for sending her to him — and to me."