Against the Commodified Jesus

            Matthew 15

I've never liked the term "Jesus freak."  Maybe because, aside from name-calling, it suggests that anyone who loves Jesus is automatically a fanatic.  At the same time, I get it.  If we're talking about a commercial production of Jesus, one that we wear or drive or chew loudly like so much stale gum, well, I don't like that either.

For a lot of society, Jesus is a commodity.  He takes the shape of whatever is convenient or trendy at the time, whatever we want him to be.  Hippie Jesus is heavy on the sandals and long hair.  Rebel Jesus revels in spitfire comebacks and, when he's not staging revolutions, spends his time as a loner in the mountains.  Peace Jesus just wants us all to love each other, hold hands, and sway to the music.  "Don't judge" Jesus doesn't want us to judge anyone.  Ever.  (Though I'm not sure how the "by their fruits ye shall know them" and "pearls before swine" comments factor in.  I guess they don't.)  Then there's the Jesus who is boiled down to almost slapstick one-liners paraded on church signs  ("2 nails + 2 boards = 4given" or "today's forecast: heavenly reign").   Bite-size Jesus hangs out on bumper stickers or bobbles from dashboards, an accessory next to mufflers or candy wrappers.  Funny Jesus is the butt of jokes but a good sport because, hey, he loved everybody.  There is, as always, the Jesus who offends.  My nephew was once talking about Jesus to his friend, a 9 year old whose parents have taught him to distrust religion.  My nephew innocently tried to explain why he likes church, but his friend curtly replied, "Jesus is creepy."  So, apparently there's even a Creepy Jesus.  (Okay, the images all over Google of Jesus with the flaming red heart on his chest.... those are kind of creepy.) 

Even people who have read his words over and over again, who have tried to live his teachings, who have taught other people his sermons and parables, still misunderstand Jesus and, without realizing it, try to fit him into a mold that has grown comfortable and comforting.  I know because I've been one of them.  For two weeks I've been mulling over something that happens in this chapter that is surprising to me each time I read it because I'm not sure where it "fits."

A woman comes to Jesus begging him to heal her daughter of an evil spirit.  This seems almost run-of-the-mill by now in the record of his ministry.  But this woman is a Canaanite, and rather than turning to her and saying any one of his now famous lines of forgiveness and healing, Jesus says nothing to her.  In fact, when she persists, he explains that she isn't one of the people he is sent to teach.  She's a Gentile.  His mission is to work with "the lost sheep of the House of Israel."  He's not being cruel, but that's his calling, and he's obedient to it.  The Gentiles will get the gospel later.  But right now, Jesus is teaching and healing his people, the ones who've had all those prophecies about him and who are supposed to accept him and tell the world about it.  And yet, this woman will not take "no" for an answer.  She continues to plead with him.  And when she says, "Lord, help me," he replies with a metaphor that almost stings.  He tells her "it is not meet to take the children's bread, and to cast it to dogs."

That this woman has been compared to a dog is not lost on her, or me.  For years this response has shocked me.  Where's the love, Jesus?  How can you say something like this?  Up to now, these kinds of comments have been reserved for the "hypocrites" who tout the Law of Moses like bling in public and then patently disregard it in private.  The guys who, at the beginning of this chapter, get after Jesus because his disciples aren't washing their hands before they eat bread.  The guys who are so jealous of Jesus and his disciples -  healing, casting out evil spirits, drawing out thousands into the desert -  that their childish defense is to nitpick everything they do. So, logically, Jesus puts them in their place.

But this woman is begging, and there is no indication that her purpose is anything but selfless and loving and faithful.  Particularly so because she isn't even Jewish.  And above all of that, she isn't offended.  Instead, she agrees with him and says, "yet the dogs eat of the crumbs which fall from their masters' table."   In other words, she'll take what she can get, even if she's not "worthy."

I could easily write about this woman's humility, how she is a perfect example of not being offended at the word.  In the end, she got what she wanted.  Her faith was so great that her daughter was healed immediately.  I could write about how Jesus had a mission, how his life was organized (teach Jews, not Gentiles) and how he was obedient to that but also compassionate.  He did heal her daughter.

But what draws me to this is the conversation itself.  It is intimate and ironic.  It is surprising and emotional.  It's almost as if you can hear them talking to each other, see them turn and face one another and recognize one another for who they are.  It is an encounter between two people who are as real and as individual as anyone.

And when Jesus says to her "O woman, great is thy faith," there is a profound sense of respect there that is both mutual and divine.  "Lord," she says to him. And he replies, "O woman."  She worships him, and he understands her.

I can't say I understand everything Jesus said and did.  He is a god, the Son of God, and what he does might not always make perfect sense to me.  But I can honestly say I prefer that living, breathing, honest, complex and still surprising Jesus over any two-dimensional representation of him.  Maybe that's why, in Isaiah and all those prophecies that celebrate him, he has dozens of names.  He is many things.  Not the least of which, he's real.