“Who do you think you are?!”
It was one of the more humbling moments of my young adulthood. I had invited myself to a meeting of a local support group for trauma survivors. But as I took a seat in the circle of chairs, a woman a couple chairs over sternly said, “Who do you think you are, coming in here?!” This response was startling and off-putting, especially within the context of a support group—after all, shouldn’t inclusivity be the priority?
But I think it was actually a very appropriate response, because this group was specifically for women. I had a legitimate need for support, but this group wasn’t for me. I’m not a small guy, and in many ways, I look like precisely the people who had inflicted the wounds many of these women were recovering from. So waltzing in and plopping myself down was extremely presumptuous. They were right to ask, “Who does this guy think he is?”
This incident was (and is) more than a little embarrassing. But I bring it up because, as embarrassing as it was, the response of those women was also a great gift. They held up a mirror and forced me to take a long, hard look at who I was… and who I thought I was. And I think this mirror can help us as we reckon with Jesus’ sharp words in a Gospel reading today which many find uncomfortable.
At a certain level, this Gospel should make us uncomfortable. But not because it shows Jesus inexplicably lapsing into chauvinistic xenophobia and being put in his place by the brave retort of a Syrophoenician girl-boss. This Gospel reading should make us uncomfortable, because it prompts each of us to wrestle with the spirit of entitlement which many of us (including myself) exhibit in our attitude toward the promises of God. This Gospel holds up a mirror and asks us with striking frankness, “Who do you think you are?”
Remember the scene: Jesus has arrived in the region of Tyre, in modern-day Lebanon, populated by the Phoenicians or Syrophoenicians—Gentiles descended from the Canaanites. One of the Gentile women from the region hears that he’s in the area and tracks him down to ask him to heal her daughter. But Jesus replies, “It is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.”
At first glance Jesus’ reply might seem uncharacteristically harsh—perhaps even offensive and small-minded. Calling somebody a dog certainly isn’t the warmest welcome. And it’s tempting to read it as Jesus callously dismissing this woman based on her gender or ethnicity. But when we consider the setting of the story—Jesus’ historical and social context—quite a different picture emerges.
Jesus and his disciples are Jews from the rural hinterland of Galilee. And now they’re on the ‘home turf’ of this Syrophoenician woman—a Gentile lady with a privileged position in an already privileged society. Her hometown of Tyre was a city known for its wealth and power in the region. It was a metropolis whose economy centered on trade. And the Syrophoenicians had grown rich from the labor and resources of the surrounding regions, including Galilee, where Jesus was from. The relationship between Tyre and Jesus’ native Galilee was one of economic extraction and even exploitation. And it was not uncommon in the centuries leading up to Jesus’ time for the Syrophoenicians to be well fed on grain that came from regions like Galilee, while the inhabitants of those regions had to make do with the crumbs that Tyre left over. This was the backdrop against which Jesus meets the Syrophoenician woman—and the context in which the first generations of Christians would have heard today’s Gospel passage.
For years, the Syrophoenicians have taken away the literal bread from the children of Israel. And now this lady from Tyre waltzes in and stakes a claim on their spiritual bread too?! Who does this woman think she is?! After all, isn’t Jesus the Messiah that God promised to the children of Israel? Isn’t it the Jews who the God of Jacob promised would see their prisoners freed, their sick restored, and their widows and orphans cared for? Didn’t the Lord promise to give justice to the oppressed and food to those who hunger? Who does this woman from Tyre think she is, presuming to ask for a share in the promises which God made to the very people her nation has exploited?
In light of this history, Jesus’ rebuff starts to take on new significance. For 1st century Jews, it would’ve been outrageous for a Gentile (let alone one from Tyre) to lay claim to the promises of a Messiah who was sent to vindicate the children of Israel. And in this context, Jesus’ reply is not so much an insult as a challenge—similar to the woman who challenged my presumption of inviting myself to a support group for women. With his sharp remark, Jesus reminds this Syrophoenician that the promises of God were made first to Israel. Jesus is testing her intentions, using a metaphor to ask, “Who do you think you are? For years, your people have taken bread out of the mouths of children at the table. Do you think you have a right to the bread of life that God promised Israel the Messiah would bring? Who do you think you are?”
The brilliance of this story—and the reason it’s one of my favorite Gospel passages—is the woman’s response to this challenge Jesus poses testing her heart. This woman from Tyre doesn’t rest on her privilege or assert her rights. She doesn’t claim any entitlement to the blessings of Israel’s Messiah. Instead, she acknowledges her position by adopting the same metaphor Jesus uses: “Even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.”
This is a moment of profound humility. She looks in the mirror of Jesus’ retort, sees herself clearly, and effectively says, “You’re right. I don’t have a right to the promises of God’s Messianic kingdom. Those promises were made to the children of Israel, and my people have taken far more than our fair share of bread from those children. I’m not entitled to even a crumb of their spiritual bread—the bread of life that is offered in you, Jesus. But I have faith in the super-abundance of God’s mercy. I believe that the bread of life which God promised to Israel is so extravagant that even once the mouths of the children are filled—once the hungry are fed and the oppressed receive justice—I believe that even the crumbs left over are rich enough to feed all the nations, including mine, with the promises of God.”
Jesus asks this woman who she thinks she is. And she acknowledges who she is: someone fully dependent on God’s grace. She isn’t entitled to the Kingdom of Heaven on the basis of her own righteousness or worldly status or privilege. She acknowledges this when she is challenged by Jesus. But she also has faith that, even though she and her people are part of the problem, fed on physical bread taken from the Jews, the mercy of God is big enough, wide enough, that God’s promises can extend even to her, and that even the crumbs of God’s spiritual bread are enough to heal her daughter.
Friends, who do you think you are?
Because you and I—here, today, in the 21st century—are far more like the Syrophoenician woman than we are like the metaphorical children at the table. One, because most, if not all, of us are Gentiles—grafted, not born, into God’s promises to Israel. But two, because we are human. We are finite creatures, marked by sin, and living in a broken world. We have no entitlement to the promises of God’s New Creation. We can never earn or purchase or debate our way into a share in the bread of eternal life.
This reality can be deeply uncomfortable for us. But our Gospel today shows us that there is tremendous freedom in acknowledging our utter dependence on the Source of all being. And this Syrophoenician woman invites us to remember our unworthiness before God—not because we are worthless—but because God’s grace is a gift. All that we have and all that we are is pure gift. And a gift can never be earned or demanded—only freely given and received.
So when we come before Jesus and are asked who we think we are, will we try to waltz into God’s kingdom in a spirit of pride, claiming we’re entitled to the promises of God? Or will we approach Jesus in a spirit of humility and faith, acknowledging that we stand in need of the gift of God’s grace—a gift by which we live and move and have our being—a gift which is so abundant that even a crumb will heal our sin-sick soul?