11th Sunday after Trinity by Neil McIntyre
Genesis 45.1–15, Romans 11.1–2a, 29–32, Matthew 15.10–20 21–28
There are passages of Scripture that really unfold for us what God's mercy looks like.
In today's readings, we had Joseph forgiving the brothers who betrayed him; we heard Paul explaining that God’s gifts are irrevocable, not earned or lost by specific groups of people; and in Matthew's gospel Jesus encounters a woman who's so full of faith she just won't go away until she obtains the mercy she seeks.
Three different stories. Three different sets of circumstances. Yet they point us toward one profound truth: that God's mercy is limitless. It's not bound by our failings, nor by the boundaries that we erect between different groups, nor by any obstacles that we might think stand between us and him. It's a mercy that restores relationships, that remains utterly trustworthy (unlike us), and it's a mercy that responds to persistent, humble faith. It's also a mercy that doesn't overlook or ignore our failings. Instead, God in his wisdom uses our sins and works with our brokenness to bring about salvation.
In the reading from Genesis, Joseph finally reveals his identity to his shocked (and presumably horrified) brothers. It's a moment of high drama. Father Jack mentioned last week that we are used to the slightly kitsch, singing and dancing Lloyd Webber version of this story, and perhaps this sometimes blinds us to the nastiness of some of its events. These are the men who were all set to beat their brother to death; instead they threw him into a pit, sold him into slavery, and (in some ways this is the cruellest part) they deceived their elderly father into believing that his most beloved son was dead. These are horrific sins. They're obscene. By human standards they're unforgivable, and Joseph has every human reason to seek revenge.
Instead, in a hint of God's mercy, he weeps and embraces his brothers.
He doesn't deny what happened. He doesn't pretend the betrayal didn't matter. But he sees God's hand at work even amid the evil of what his brothers did. In fact, five chapters later, Joseph explicitly says: “You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good.”
There are evils in our lives that cause us great harm, and some things we do can seriously harm others. The wounds are real. Sins have consequences. God's mercy doesn't necessarily erase the past, but it does redeem it. He can take what was meant to be destructive and, by his grace, use it as part of the story of redemption. And it's a story that God is still writing, which is great news for us because it means our worst chapter doesn't have to be our final one.
Paul's letter to the Romans gives us another revelation about God's mercy: that it's not partial or capricious. Last week Father Jack made the point that people sometimes use Paul's quite positive and joyful declarations about which people are members of God's kingdom in order to identify which people therefore are not. But here Paul very clearly warns against making that kind of presumptuous, arrogant distinction in the case of these two groups in question here, Jews and Gentiles. On the one hand, through their unfaithfulness to God, many of the Israelites (despite being God's chosen people) have stumbled - this fits with what John the Baptist said to the Pharisees and Sadducees (you can't rely solely on your ancestry and assume 'We have God's favour because we're children of Abraham;' God's love should also shine through in the way you live your life). But on the other hand, Paul addresses Gentiles directly in this chapter and tells them, 'You also don't get to feel superior to the people of Israel. You're a wild olive branch that God's grace has grafted on to the cultivated tree that is his covenant people - you're not better than the other branches, and if you fall away from faith you'll be cut off from the tree, and the original branch, when it comes back to faithfulness, will be grafted on again.' Because although we may be fickle and break our promises, God's mercy is rocksteady; it's not given one minute and then removed the next. Just like with Joseph's brothers, God uses the failings (the disobedience) of some of the Jews to bring Gentiles (despite their disobedience) into his mercy, and Paul declares that God's mercy to the Gentiles will bring all of Israel back into covenant. We all fail and sin, but that's why God's mercy extends to all. Grace is not a reward for the people who through luck or judgement 'got it right'. It's the freely given hope of people who know they need God.
The Canaanite woman is one such person. Again, we are presented here with a representative of those who were born outside of God's covenant people. This is Jesus, a Jew, coming face to face with a non-Jew, and this distinction is not shied away from. She calls him 'Son of David,' which is a very Jewish honorific, so she is acknowledging a major point of difference between them. Yet nonetheless she has faith that he can help her. She is also very respectful - she calls him 'Lord.'
It's a funny passage, isn't it? His response comes across as jolly rude! At first he ignores her, then he rather pointedly says to his disciples that he's really not here for random Phoenician non-Jews but for the lost sheep of Israel. Then when she persists, he seems to make this quite unflattering comparison between her people and dogs. A lot here must have depended on his tone of voice and facial expression. It may even be an example of Jesus joking. Perhaps something is slightly lost to us in translation, or there is some cultural reference that we're not aware of. But whatever: he seems again to be making it clear that his work is with his own people.
Yet something in him must have made the woman sense that his word was not final, and she is quick to show that he can help her without giving up his primary mission to his fellow Jews. Again, it's not an 'either/or' situation - God's mercy is not limited to an in-group at the expense of an out-group, and it's not a finite resource that can really only be spent on the people of Israel. Yes, God's historic chosen people must first hear and respond to Jesus' message and become God's instruments, but that doesn't mean there's just not enough mercy left for this humble, persistent Gentile woman who has real faith.
She doesn't have any heritage to fall back on, but she won't let that apparent barrier end her trust.
She keeps coming to Jesus.
She keeps asking.
It's desperation joined to absolute, bloody-minded confidence in the character of Christ - 'If he is who I believe he is, then there is mercy in him.'
She knows he doesn't owe her anything, but she still says, “Lord, help me.”
That may be one of the simplest and most powerful prayers we can pray - “Lord, help me” - especially at times when our prayers seem to go unanswered. Our faith can cling to Jesus even when the answer is delayed or not what we expected, because faith doesn't promise to help us understand what God is doing or why. Faith says, 'But I know who Jesus is, and I'll turn to him today, and again tomorrow, and the next day.' Because we can rely on God's unchanging character.
That's why we dare in a few minutes' time to come to the table of grace and receive God's mercy in Holy Communion, because it doesn't depend on our merit, or being on some winning team. It's because, thankfully, mercy begins and ends with God, not us; with a loving father who forgives sinners and welcomes outsiders and honours persistent, humble faith. Amen.