Homily: Year A, 20th Sunday in Ordinary Time

Here's another unpreached homily...but I was ready, more or less, just in case. That's something I've learned to do over the years: always be ready to preach. Anyway, it focuses on one of my favorite healings, so well described by Matthew, so I decided to share my imperfect thoughts with you all.

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Readings: Is 56:1, 6-7; Ps 67; Rom 11:13-15, 29-32; Mt 15:21-28

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It would be easy to overlook this brief encounter depicted in today’s Gospel reading from Matthew. It would be easier still to discount its importance. After all, Jesus cured hundreds, probably thousands, during His public ministry. What makes this one so special?

But this encounter with the Lord was special because it was different…very different. First of all, it took place in the region of Tyre and Sidon, outside the land of Israel. And the woman he meets there is a Canaanite, a non-Jew, a pagan. Jesus, Matthew tells us, is withdrawing from Israel, and she is coming out of her own land, searching for what? It appears they are searching for each other, a meeting the Father has scheduled. And we know that Jesus never misses an encounter at the precise time and place arranged by the Father.

We can also see what the disciples thought of her: "Send her away, for she keeps calling out after us." Yes, the simple word, “Canaan,” evokes everything contrary to Jewish faith and tradition, everything they have been taught to despise.

And yet this pagan woman comes to Jesus, a Jew; and she comes to Him as her Lord and Savior: “Lord, Son of David…” Yes, each has left something behind to fulfill a deep yearning: Jesus yearning to save, and the woman’s to be saved. No power on earth can thwart this encounter.

Are our encounters with Jesus like this? For Jesus is seeking each one of us you just as He sought the Canaanite woman. He will gladly leave the holy places; He will enter into the unholy land of our sinfulness, in search of lost sheep.

But like the woman, we must turn to Him. And turn to Him she does. Yes, her only business that day was to find Him and to express her desperate need in the strongest possible terms. And in doing so she becomes the very embodiment of fervent intercessory prayer.

She screamed out her need, a parent agonizing over the suffering of her child, a daughter possessed by a demon. Without knowing it, this earthly mother appeals to the compassion of the heavenly Father, who understands well the agony of a child’s suffering. Her daughter’s distress is her distress: “Have pity on me,” she begs. “Lord, help me,” she pleads, as if she and her daughter are one, as if her daughter’s distress reverberates through her very being.

She is on a mission; one her daughter cannot complete. She must become her daughter’s voice, her daughter’s hands…just as Jesus became the Father, His hands, His feet, His voice, His Word. Does Jesus recognize in this woman and her attitude a mirror image of His own mission?

And yet, despite all this, Jesus responds with silence…the same silence that often greets our own prayer. Does this mean she should turn away, and just hope for the best? Does it mean she should address Jesus differently? Did she shout too loudly, or not loudly enough?

Should she have realized, as the disciples apparently thought, that Jesus was on a greater mission, a mission to save the world? That He really couldn’t be troubled with one woman’s problems? Was this saving, this healing of His strictly a Jewish thing? Did all this pass through her mind?

We can almost picture her, face flushed, eyes frantic, hands reaching out, pleading, as her mind jumps from one concern to the next…but she too says nothing, her pain muted by Jesus’ seeming indifference.

And yet, God’s silence, His silence in us is one of the choicest works of His grace. Her speculation and worry are no different from that which we experience when faced with God’s silence. But eventually, if we stop speculating, stop worrying, and become silent ourselves, we can come to hear God’s Word in the silence.

The disciples can’t stand it. In effect they tell Jesus, “For crying out loud. This woman’s driving us nuts. Do something, will you?”

But Jesus just says, "I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel." He dismisses them just as He seems to have dismissed her. But this comment only causes her to plead once more, “Lord, help me.”

Her only solution is to throw herself at Jesus’ feet and cry for mercy. Although she’s probably never heard a single line of Scripture, her entire being is intuitively reduced to the cry of the psalmist: “Let thy mercy come to me and I will have life.” For she realized that day what St. Bernard realized a thousand years later, “The torrents of grace do not flow upward to the heights of pride…but downward into a humble, low-lying heart.”

Jesus now utters what to our ears seems a horrible insult: "It is not right to take the food of the children and throw it to the dogs."

How can He say such a thing?” we ask. Where’s the voice of the Good Shepherd? Where’s the Jesus who consoled the woman of Samaria? Where’s the Savior who died to set all people free?

Well, he's right here, right here in this encounter. He's the teacher goading the student. He's the coach pushing the player to give his all. He's the debater throwing down the verbal gauntlet so the argument can begin, and the truth can be seen by all.

The woman is no fool. She seems to recognize this. She may have no claim on the inheritance of Israel, but she still needs God’s promises to be fulfilled in her. And so, she doesn’t disagree, but in effect declares that Jesus speaks the truth, that she is, indeed, among the least of His creatures, nothing more than a dog in search of its master.

We can almost hear her joy as she plays this trump card on Jesus and realizes what its effect will be. For in her deep faith, and filled with the Spirit, she knew all along that Jesus would answer her prayer. After all, how could the Son of God turn her down?

After all, had she wanted to risk sounding insolent, she could have asked Him what on earth He was doing in pagan territory to begin with if, as He claimed, He had come only to redeem Jews? Why indeed had He come to this place, to encounter those in need, if He intended to do nothing about it?

You see, brothers and sisters, it is this wonderful woman’s genus to have understood the truth, the divine secret, that in order truly to win – that is, to be overtaken and sheltered and saved – she must allow herself to be defeated by Jesus.

She and you and I win only by submitting to God, by adoring God, and by finding that adoration accepted. The whole drama is shot through with an indestructible passion of faith, with her inability to conceive of God in Jesus as anything but an inexhaustible fountain of mercy.

Yes, it’s all about faith. “Kyrie,” [Lord] she cries out four times in this brief encounter.

“If you’re indeed Lord,” she seems to say, “the all-powerful Lord, then you must be the loving Lord of all, of the high and the low, of the sheep of Israel and the dogs of the pagans. I don’t care which I am, only that I am with you. If you’re truly the One Son of the One God, then you’re the Lord of all, then you’re my personal Lord too, and my rejoicing over it will never end.”

Unlike so many who demand that God serve them at their table, she has no problem abiding on the floor under His table. She has no problem with crumbs, glorious crumbs from that table, heavenly crumbs falling from the hands of Jesus Himself.

For she knows that wherever Jesus is, there is abundance; that wherever sin is, God’s compassion ensures that grace is there too, superabundantly. Just as we know that here, at this very altar, at the Eucharistic table, Christ’s mercy will forever be raining those crumbs of life.

"You’ve got great faith, woman," he says, "You’ve got remarkable faith!"

Won't it be wonderful when he says the same thing to you and to me?

Dogs as Comfort Critters

When I was a mere child, our family, like many families, enjoyed a number of different pets. We were pretty much a dog family and shared our home with several wonderful canines. 

The other day, while driving on back roads to conduct a cemetery committal service in rural Beverly Hills, Florida, I noticed two young children playing with a large dog in their front yard. I think the dog was one of those labradoodle mixed breeds, a good-looking animal. The children were young, a boy and a girl, maybe seven or eight years old, and they were really enjoying themselves, as was the dog. I sat at that stop sign and watched the three of them for maybe a half-minute before a pick-up pulled up behind me and leaned on his horn. That broke the spell, and off I went to bury the dead. But as I drove the rest of the way, I thought of all the dogs who blessed our family and my childhood with their presence. Dogs are truly wonderful creatures, just another gift from a God who loves us. I think He gives us dogs to teach us how to love unconditionally, just as He loves.

The first dog who shared our home with me was Patches, a Boston Terrier, of whom I have absolutely no recollection. I have a photo of me as a baby with Patches standing guard, but I think she died not long after that. Our next dog, the first pet I can remember, was Clipper, a German Shepherd. I have many memories of Clipper who used to sneak into my room and climb into my bed after my folks had retired for the night. He knew my mom didn’t appreciate his shedding on my blankets and sheets, but he and I openly conspired to disobey. Mom eventually relented. I always felt privileged that Clipper chose my bed and not that of my brother, Jeff, although I suspect Clipper based his decision on the amount of room available in each bed. Jeff was four years older and took up a lot more space. Clipper was a terrific dog, even though he did enjoy chasing down the chickens raised by one of our neighbors in rural Nichols, Connecticut. As I recall Dad was frequently forced to pay for recently slaughtered fowl. Here's Clipper enjoying himself in the snow (probably about 1948):

When I was about five, we moved to Larchmont in suburban New York, and Clipper moved with us. He didn’t care much for suburban life since he was no longer allowed to roam freely. Fortunately for Clipper and the entire family, after a year or two we moved to Panama City Beach, Florida when my dad, an Army reserve officer, was recalled to active duty at Camp Rucker (now Fort Rucker) in Dothan, Alabama. Dad rented a small 2-bedroom cottage right on the beach. He would spend weekdays at Rucker and weekends with us. Jeff and I attended the local public school, Drummond Park Elementary School, which in those days was segregated. Of course, as young boys, this meant little to us. We simply enjoyed living right on the beach where we’d romp in the surf with Clipper and watch out for dangerous critters like Portuguese Man o’ War and sand sharks. Here we are in our sandy Florida backyard — I’m the little one — with our dad and Clipper…

Our next move took us to Heidelberg, Germany, again thanks to the U.S. Army. But first my folks had to see about finding a renter for our home in Larchmont. And since we couldn't take Clipper with us to Germany, Dad sold him to a man who owned a butcher shop on Long Island. I expect Clipper spent the rest of his days living and eating well. We all missed him.

Heidelberg was fascinating. We didn't live in Army housing but lived "on the economy," renting a flat in a small apartment house in town. Jeff and I also attended German schools, so we certainly got a taste for the country and its people. This was in 1951-52, not too many years after the end of the war. I remember asking my mom why we couldn't get a dog, and she laughed and said, "That would just make Frau Sauer [our landlady] even more sour."  

But Dad surprised us when we returned to New York. He had purchased a Weimaraner puppy and had it shipped from Germany to our home in Larchmont. The dog's name was Heidi, although her official Kennel Club name was “Arnheid von Geisberg.” I always thought this more elaborate name made her uncommonly regal, and she certainly lived up to it. Heidi immediately became one of the family. Although she was a rather large dog, she was very happy being a homebody and adjusted quickly to our family's odd lifestyle. 

When she was about three my folks decided to breed her with another purebred Weimaraner, resulting in eight wonderful little puppies. We sold seven but kept the largest male, whom Dad named, "Der Alte," the same name the Germans gave Konrad Adenauer, a name connoting age and wisdom. Unfortunately, he didn't live up to his name and simply refused to grow up. I think living with his mother simply spoiled him. We eventually sold him to a man who lived on a large rural estate where Der Alte enjoyed himself for years.

Heidi was especially close to my mom, and used to sit with her, or on her, or beside her whenever possible -- see the photos above and at left. Only when mom wasn't around would she condescend to spend quality time with the rest of us. 

Heidi lived with us for more than a dozen years and during that time learned to tolerate all of our strange idiosyncrasies. For example, Dad acquired a very clever parakeet named Heinz who used to land on Heidi's head and talk to her in his broken English. Heidi ignored him, assuming he was just another of the odd creatures who inhabited her home. 

I was almost 8 years old when Heidi joined our family, and she died when I was home on summer leave from the Naval Academy. It was heartbreaking. 

Will our dogs join us in heaven? Well, if the lion will lay down with the lamb, I don't see why God won't let the dogs who loved us and cared for us, probably more than we cared for them, also be with us eternally. St. Thomas Aquinas may disagree, but I'll bet he never had a dog.