On the Occasion of Our W.I.S.E. Covenant
Matthew 15
1.
What I most appreciate about the W.I.S.E. initiative we celebrate today—and all the wonderful work our team has done in making it ours—is its recognition that mental health is community health. Mental health is community health. We are not individuals fighting for sanity against great odds in a hostile world. We are human beings in human communities; and we face complex and sometimes unnerving challenges together. We are siblings, beloved of God, created for communion and service and celebration. Together. Martin Luther King, Jr. famously said: “[We] are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny…I can never be what I ought to be until you are what you ought to be, and you can never be what you ought to be until I am what I ought to be...”
So it is in a world where you and I are created in the image of God. Created in the image of One whose passion is justice, peace and right relationship. Created in the image of One in whom many are made whole. In a universe that is indeed “an inescapable network of mutuality.”
Which is to say, of course, that mental health is community health. We are human beings in human communities; and we face complex challenges together. And as you and I lean into our W.I.S.E. covenant—day by day and year by year—we promise God and one another that we’ll resist rugged individualism and embrace God’s image. As a deeply connected, mutually affirming and beloved community!
What strikes me in our Gospel this morning is this particular Canaanite woman and her deep, intuitive grasp of just this. That her daughter—suffering terribly, even tormented—can somehow be relieved of that suffering and restored to wholeness through Jesus’ prayers and (perhaps) the compassion of his community. That her Canaanite daughter and this decidedly Jewish rabbi are clothed “in a single garment of destiny.”
And what makes her approach, her fierce approach, even more stunning is the familiar boundary she crosses in coming to Jesus in the first place. Because the boundary she crosses marks the limits (they say) of God’s love, and not just God’s love, but human responsibility as well. Even Jesus falls for the ruse. That peace is promised to the chosen and the chosen alone. That good bread is reserved for true believers.
And he says as much, right? “It’s not good,” Jesus snarls, “to take the children’s bread and toss it to dogs.” In first century culture, in the first century ‘street,’ his meaning couldn’t be any clearer. You are nobody to me. This is what he’s saying to her: You are of no concern to me.
After all, she is a Canaanite, and not an Israelite. A non-believer in a world of strict distinctions, a world that does not—in many ways—recognize her as worthy of care, or her daughter as worthy of healing and wholeness. But she crosses that blasphemous boundary. She challenges conventional wisdom and generations of religious practice. And she defies—in just a couple of moments—she defies supremacist ideology and any and all theological justifications for it. And the best Jesus can do is: “It’s no good to take the children’s bread and toss it to dogs.”
2.
So, the twist in the story, then, is that Jesus is the one possessed. Right? Jesus is the one possessed by a demon that divides human beings, one from another, believer from non-believer, Israelite from Canaanite, worthy from unworthy, pure from impure. Don’t miss what this story means, in the larger context of the Gospel. This is the genius of scripture, I think: it confounds our expectations. Here, Jesus is the one possessed. Jesus’s the one in need of healing, exorcism and wholeness.
And that, my friends, is exactly what happens. In this story. She heals him. If you’re looking for some version of first century feminism in the Gospel, look no more. Here you go. In a patriarchal culture—and it is a patriarchal culture—this is about as subversive as a story can be! He—he meaning Jesus—finds unexpected wholeness through her ministration and witness. He—he meaning Jesus—is transformed for messianic service through her guile and courage and love. Jesus may be the only begotten son of the father from the beginning. But Jesus becomes Jesus right here.
And love is the axis of all this action. Love shakes Jesus loose for his purpose, for his vocation, for his one precious life. Because this Canaanite woman loves her daughter so much, because she refuses to succumb to any version of religion that judges or eviscerates or denies her daughter dignity, because she loves her daughter so much—she calls the demon out of Jesus and offers Jesus a vision of ministry and community that is radically inclusive and resistant to all prejudice and bigotry. At last. “Woman,” he says, “you have great faith. It will be just as you wish.”
And it’s not in the text, of course, but can’t we imagine her then saying to Jesus: Yes and yes! Because I can never be what I ought to be—and my daughter can never be what she ought to be—until you are what you ought to be. And those oddball disciples—who just moments ago were doing everything in their power to shut her up, to keep her away—are leaning in now. For every word. Their eyes and hearts wide open now. And they’re saying, “Amen and Ashe!” “Amen and Ashe!” Like it was all their idea in the first place.
3.
If I may, I’d like to draw out just three insights here—three insights that pertain, I think, to our W.I.S.E. covenant and our commitment to mental health and wellness in and beyond the church.
First, your pain is important within the church, among siblings in your beloved community. And you do not have to bear that pain alone. There’s a myth—and a misperception—that pain is merely personal and most often our own dang fault. But in this place, in our circle, your pain is our pain; and you do not have to bear it alone.
Who knows what that mother in today’s story has heard? That her daughter’s despair is of her own maternal making. That her daughter’s suffering is somehow God’s design for her life. That strong women endure their sadness in private.
And yet, she persists, right? She is relentless in her commitment not only to her daughter’s healing, but to her community’s worthiness and her community’s wholeness. And she insists on a vision—a godly vision—of that “single garment of destiny” within which all families dwell, within which all families ache, within which all families heal. She is Wisdom. She is Sophia. Challenging old, tired, no-good narratives. Imagining a world that is wise and wonderful. She is our muse, our sister, our mother. An advocate for us all.
So whatever your pain, however trauma weighs heavy in your heart: it does not, it cannot diminish how important you are to all of us. And it does not, it cannot mean you are meant to bear that pain alone. And I know it feels that way sometimes. But your pain is our pain. And we are church that we might name it together, and hold it among us, and find light and hope in one another. We can be W.I.S.E. together.
And second, then, is this.
We can and will be healed, transformed, even transfigured—together. It is not God’s intention that you are denied joy, that you are forbidden ordinary wonders and extraordinary beauty. It is not by God’s design that your days are marked by weariness and despair. My friend, you too are created in the image of God. As are we all. In this place, in this circle, we are instruments of God’s grace, all of us, vessels of lovingkindness and affirmation. And we experience God’s hand—in conversation and service—guiding us, blessing us, and even transfiguring our pain into something like gratitude, something like peace, something like praise. Not always so dramatically; but relentlessly just the same. Guiding us. Blessing us. Transfiguring our pain.
And indeed, it is the Canaanite mother’s courage in naming her anxiety, in identifying her daughter’s suffering—that opens Jesus’ heart to the extraordinary transformation possible between them. And so it may be with us: that our courage in speaking of our own mental health experiences will reveal in the church new possibilities for connection and growth; that our vulnerability in naming our weariness, our depression, will open new doors to friendship, collaboration and even delight. Yes, my friends, delight! Yours and mine.
Third, and lastly, then.
Mental health may also mean letting go of habits or attitudes that only diminish our sense of wonder and limit God’s freedom and movement in our lives. And again, this is precisely what happens to Jesus himself in the story today. He seems to be stuck—as all of us are, from time time—in a mindset where God’s love is limited, where God’s grace is constrained, where some are worthy and others are not. (And let’s be completely honest. This isn’t a liberal or conservative thing. We all get stuck there sometimes.) And that mindset has to affect Jesus’ worldview, as it affects ours, Jesus’ ability to mix it up, as it does ours, Jesus’ openness to a world of complexity and diversity. And it has to affect his hope for the future too, his confidence in a world made whole by justice, love and blessing.
And yet, and yet, Jesus is first challenged, and then, liberated by the Canaanite’s fierce and deliberate and joyous love. He is challenged to release his bigotry, to set loose his prejudice, to see her as fully, delightfully and profoundly human. His neighbor in the world. His sister on this planet. Claiming in these holy moments his attention, his devotion and his love. And so it is. That Jesus is himself transfigured in community. That Jesus is himself made whole in relationship. That he too can release habits shaped by anxiety and despair. That he too can see God’s purpose in his life in a whole new way. And as it is with Jesus here, so it can be, so it will be for you and me.
4.
Next Sunday will be special for me. I’ve invited four women to join me here in worship for a conversation about our act of civil disobedience on Mother’s Day weekend two years ago. And we’ll have that conversation right here on the chancel.
Now I don’t think of myself as a particularly brave person. But I want to tell you: these four women—two of whom are 80 years old and another of whom was five months pregnant at the time—called the courage out of me that day. Identified it in me, and then called it out of me. So that we could stand up for love. So that we could speak out for peace. So that we could embody—in nonviolence and clarity—solidarity with suffering peoples half a world away. Because not one of these wars, not one of these catastrophic and genocidal campaigns has made the world a safer place. And it needs to be said. So we did.
And when I saw Dover policemen arrest Em Friedrichs—pregnant for the first time in zir life—and then walk zir out of that congressional office, I knew that I could do the same. As anxious as I was. That our shared commitment to children in Gaza was strong enough that we could follow through on our intention. Together. That our shared commitment to de-militarize our own government was true enough—that we could follow through. Together.
And this is of a piece with my mental health journey. That in community—with friends like Em and all of you—I can open my all too human heart to transformation and encouragement and even a kind of wholeness. And when despair creeps in—as it does, believe me, from time to time—when despair comes knocking, I can accept the sadness for a season, knowing in my bones that my beloved community will shine a light through the darkness. And I’ll see my way—with all of you—into a world that is brightened by wonder and quickened with love. And shining, always shining, in the grace of God.
So let’s be that for one another, my friends. Let’s be brave together. Let’s be kind and generous with our time and our love. And, by God, let’s be W.I.S.E. together. Like the uninvited but divinely inspired woman—who sets Jesus free.
Amen and Ashe!
1.
So it is in a world where you and I are created in the image of God. Created in the image of One whose passion is justice, peace and right relationship. Created in the image of One in whom many are made whole. In a universe that is indeed “an inescapable network of mutuality.”
Which is to say, of course, that mental health is community health. We are human beings in human communities; and we face complex challenges together. And as you and I lean into our W.I.S.E. covenant—day by day and year by year—we promise God and one another that we’ll resist rugged individualism and embrace God’s image. As a deeply connected, mutually affirming and beloved community!
What strikes me in our Gospel this morning is this particular Canaanite woman and her deep, intuitive grasp of just this. That her daughter—suffering terribly, even tormented—can somehow be relieved of that suffering and restored to wholeness through Jesus’ prayers and (perhaps) the compassion of his community. That her Canaanite daughter and this decidedly Jewish rabbi are clothed “in a single garment of destiny.”
And what makes her approach, her fierce approach, even more stunning is the familiar boundary she crosses in coming to Jesus in the first place. Because the boundary she crosses marks the limits (they say) of God’s love, and not just God’s love, but human responsibility as well. Even Jesus falls for the ruse. That peace is promised to the chosen and the chosen alone. That good bread is reserved for true believers.
And he says as much, right? “It’s not good,” Jesus snarls, “to take the children’s bread and toss it to dogs.” In first century culture, in the first century ‘street,’ his meaning couldn’t be any clearer. You are nobody to me. This is what he’s saying to her: You are of no concern to me.
After all, she is a Canaanite, and not an Israelite. A non-believer in a world of strict distinctions, a world that does not—in many ways—recognize her as worthy of care, or her daughter as worthy of healing and wholeness. But she crosses that blasphemous boundary. She challenges conventional wisdom and generations of religious practice. And she defies—in just a couple of moments—she defies supremacist ideology and any and all theological justifications for it. And the best Jesus can do is: “It’s no good to take the children’s bread and toss it to dogs.”
2.
So, the twist in the story, then, is that Jesus is the one possessed. Right? Jesus is the one possessed by a demon that divides human beings, one from another, believer from non-believer, Israelite from Canaanite, worthy from unworthy, pure from impure. Don’t miss what this story means, in the larger context of the Gospel. This is the genius of scripture, I think: it confounds our expectations. Here, Jesus is the one possessed. Jesus’s the one in need of healing, exorcism and wholeness.
And that, my friends, is exactly what happens. In this story. She heals him. If you’re looking for some version of first century feminism in the Gospel, look no more. Here you go. In a patriarchal culture—and it is a patriarchal culture—this is about as subversive as a story can be! He—he meaning Jesus—finds unexpected wholeness through her ministration and witness. He—he meaning Jesus—is transformed for messianic service through her guile and courage and love. Jesus may be the only begotten son of the father from the beginning. But Jesus becomes Jesus right here.
And love is the axis of all this action. Love shakes Jesus loose for his purpose, for his vocation, for his one precious life. Because this Canaanite woman loves her daughter so much, because she refuses to succumb to any version of religion that judges or eviscerates or denies her daughter dignity, because she loves her daughter so much—she calls the demon out of Jesus and offers Jesus a vision of ministry and community that is radically inclusive and resistant to all prejudice and bigotry. At last. “Woman,” he says, “you have great faith. It will be just as you wish.”
And it’s not in the text, of course, but can’t we imagine her then saying to Jesus: Yes and yes! Because I can never be what I ought to be—and my daughter can never be what she ought to be—until you are what you ought to be. And those oddball disciples—who just moments ago were doing everything in their power to shut her up, to keep her away—are leaning in now. For every word. Their eyes and hearts wide open now. And they’re saying, “Amen and Ashe!” “Amen and Ashe!” Like it was all their idea in the first place.
3.
If I may, I’d like to draw out just three insights here—three insights that pertain, I think, to our W.I.S.E. covenant and our commitment to mental health and wellness in and beyond the church.
First, your pain is important within the church, among siblings in your beloved community. And you do not have to bear that pain alone. There’s a myth—and a misperception—that pain is merely personal and most often our own dang fault. But in this place, in our circle, your pain is our pain; and you do not have to bear it alone.
Who knows what that mother in today’s story has heard? That her daughter’s despair is of her own maternal making. That her daughter’s suffering is somehow God’s design for her life. That strong women endure their sadness in private.
So whatever your pain, however trauma weighs heavy in your heart: it does not, it cannot diminish how important you are to all of us. And it does not, it cannot mean you are meant to bear that pain alone. And I know it feels that way sometimes. But your pain is our pain. And we are church that we might name it together, and hold it among us, and find light and hope in one another. We can be W.I.S.E. together.
And second, then, is this.
We can and will be healed, transformed, even transfigured—together. It is not God’s intention that you are denied joy, that you are forbidden ordinary wonders and extraordinary beauty. It is not by God’s design that your days are marked by weariness and despair. My friend, you too are created in the image of God. As are we all. In this place, in this circle, we are instruments of God’s grace, all of us, vessels of lovingkindness and affirmation. And we experience God’s hand—in conversation and service—guiding us, blessing us, and even transfiguring our pain into something like gratitude, something like peace, something like praise. Not always so dramatically; but relentlessly just the same. Guiding us. Blessing us. Transfiguring our pain.
And indeed, it is the Canaanite mother’s courage in naming her anxiety, in identifying her daughter’s suffering—that opens Jesus’ heart to the extraordinary transformation possible between them. And so it may be with us: that our courage in speaking of our own mental health experiences will reveal in the church new possibilities for connection and growth; that our vulnerability in naming our weariness, our depression, will open new doors to friendship, collaboration and even delight. Yes, my friends, delight! Yours and mine.
Third, and lastly, then.
Mental health may also mean letting go of habits or attitudes that only diminish our sense of wonder and limit God’s freedom and movement in our lives. And again, this is precisely what happens to Jesus himself in the story today. He seems to be stuck—as all of us are, from time time—in a mindset where God’s love is limited, where God’s grace is constrained, where some are worthy and others are not. (And let’s be completely honest. This isn’t a liberal or conservative thing. We all get stuck there sometimes.) And that mindset has to affect Jesus’ worldview, as it affects ours, Jesus’ ability to mix it up, as it does ours, Jesus’ openness to a world of complexity and diversity. And it has to affect his hope for the future too, his confidence in a world made whole by justice, love and blessing.
And yet, and yet, Jesus is first challenged, and then, liberated by the Canaanite’s fierce and deliberate and joyous love. He is challenged to release his bigotry, to set loose his prejudice, to see her as fully, delightfully and profoundly human. His neighbor in the world. His sister on this planet. Claiming in these holy moments his attention, his devotion and his love. And so it is. That Jesus is himself transfigured in community. That Jesus is himself made whole in relationship. That he too can release habits shaped by anxiety and despair. That he too can see God’s purpose in his life in a whole new way. And as it is with Jesus here, so it can be, so it will be for you and me.
4.
Next Sunday will be special for me. I’ve invited four women to join me here in worship for a conversation about our act of civil disobedience on Mother’s Day weekend two years ago. And we’ll have that conversation right here on the chancel.
And when I saw Dover policemen arrest Em Friedrichs—pregnant for the first time in zir life—and then walk zir out of that congressional office, I knew that I could do the same. As anxious as I was. That our shared commitment to children in Gaza was strong enough that we could follow through on our intention. Together. That our shared commitment to de-militarize our own government was true enough—that we could follow through. Together.
And this is of a piece with my mental health journey. That in community—with friends like Em and all of you—I can open my all too human heart to transformation and encouragement and even a kind of wholeness. And when despair creeps in—as it does, believe me, from time to time—when despair comes knocking, I can accept the sadness for a season, knowing in my bones that my beloved community will shine a light through the darkness. And I’ll see my way—with all of you—into a world that is brightened by wonder and quickened with love. And shining, always shining, in the grace of God.
So let’s be that for one another, my friends. Let’s be brave together. Let’s be kind and generous with our time and our love. And, by God, let’s be W.I.S.E. together. Like the uninvited but divinely inspired woman—who sets Jesus free.
Amen and Ashe!
