A Meditation for Monday after the Fourth Sunday in Lent
To Gather Up the Crumbs
Mark 7:24–37
By Paul Gutacker
Lent is a season of humility. It’s a season when we pay more-than-usual attention to our sins, failures, and weaknesses. This is right and fitting, but, if you’re like me, you might struggle with understanding what humility really is—what it should look like. Humility is that most slippery virtue, the one we lose as soon as we think we have it.
Worse, for some of us, humility can easily become an excuse for spiritual apathy. We fixate on our unworthiness, concluding that we don’t deserve anything good. Thinking we’re pursuing humility, we lower our expectations, keep our heads down, and withdraw into ourselves. This self-abasement is, of course, just a different form of pride.
What does true humility look like? Today’s gospel reading helps us begin to answer this question. We read of a strange encounter: the meeting between Jesus and the Syrophoenician woman. Jesus has traveled to Tyre, trying to find solitude and stay hidden, but “he could not escape notice.” Word gets out, and next thing you know, he’s being asked to perform another miracle.
The supplicant at Jesus’ feet is, by any measure, unworthy. To begin with, she’s a woman! According to the social mores of the day, she should not be out in public, but safely sequestered at home. As a woman, she certainly shouldn’t seek out a strange man, let alone pester him with loud cries—as St. Matthew describes her doing.
She’s not only a woman, but also a Gentile. Not numbered among God’s chosen, she does not belong to the sheep of Israel, those whom Jesus has come to save. What’s more, her daughter is demon-possessed, and one might be concerned about interacting with someone whose home is infested with evil. On multiple counts, she is not worthy of Jesus.
If we were watching her approach, if we were among the disciples, we’d expect Jesus to do the right thing: refuse and dismiss this unworthy supplicant. A sixteenth-century painting by Annibale Carracci captures our mood: St. Peter looks aghast, eyebrow raised, at the woman casting herself at Christ’s feet.
At first blush, Jesus’ response meets these expectations. To the disciples’ relief, Jesus initially ignores her, at least in St. Matthew’s telling. Eventually, as she persists, relief turns into annoyance, and they ask him to “send her away!”
When he speaks, Jesus seems to confirm that he sees her just as they do: “Let the children be fed first, for it is not fair to take the children's food and throw it to the dogs.” It’s among the more bewildering lines in the gospels, and much ink has been spilt on it. But I’m more interested in the woman’s reply—and what it tells us about humility.
* * *
What went through this woman’s mind that morning? We can only imagine the awful experience of seeing her beloved daughter “suffer terribly” from a demon. Imagine the initial confusion, the sickening moment of realization, the sleepless nights that followed. Imagine the many remedies already tried, and the growing despair after each one failed.
Then, imagine the moment she learned Jesus was nearby. What rumors had she heard? Apparently enough to take action. Leaving her home was more than a little risky (What might happen while she was gone? To what horror might she return?). And, like the disciples, she knew the conventions, knew she was overstepping several boundaries. Why would a man listen to a strange woman? A Jew regard a Gentile? And of what value is a little girl’s life anyway, in a world in which daughters are disposable? This was a last-ditch attempt of a weary, desperate mother.
One wouldn’t blame her for trying, but only timidly—keeping her expectations low, apologizing for asking at all. One would admire the attempt if she asked once, and then, in the face of Christ’s indifference, gave up. That would be properly humble.
But it’s not what she does. She crosses the line, keeps crying out, until he finally spells it out: you’re not one of the children.
Was there something in his voice that betrayed him? Even as his words sounded like rejection, did Jesus have a tell? A smile, a look, that conveyed compassion, that gave her hope?
Her reply is astounding: “Sir, even the dogs under the table eat the children's crumbs.” This is clever, of course, and also profoundly true—those whose place is under the table or out on the streets will eventually be invited to the marriage supper. And Jesus agrees with her: “For saying that, you may go– the demon has left your daughter.” As St. Matthew adds, “Woman, you have great faith!”
Her response shows a radical kind of humility. After all, everyone there is certain she isn’t worthy. And, in one sense, like all of us sinners, she isn’t worthy of God’s grace, which comes to each of us even though we don’t deserve it. (Think of another Gentile who came to Christ asking for healing: “Lord, I am not worthy that you should come under my roof.”)
But rather than her unworthiness playing out as we’d expect—with her staying home and suffering in silence—it leads her to Christ’s feet. She realizes something true about Jesus, comes to believe he is her only hope, and thus is unrelentingly and even embarrassingly persistent. Of course I’m unworthy, she admits, I’m just a dog under the table, but I’m here and I need to be fed. And, Jesus, I believe you’re the kind of person who won’t let a begging dog go hungry. She refuses to take no for an answer—she will not leave Jesus alone, she won’t depart without a blessing.
Her humility is actually quite bold. It’s a boldness that comes not from who she thinks she is, not from a strong sense of self-confidence, but from who she believes Jesus to be.
* * *
We use the words of this nameless Gentile woman in our liturgy, in the “prayer of humble access.” Every time we’re preparing to go to the altar, we must first remember that we aren’t worthy, we don’t even deserve the dog’s share. But we find ourselves kneeling at the feet of One whose “character is always to show mercy,” and so we boldly ask to be fed.
Here, in this season of Lent, we know we need healing. As we pray, fast, and give alms, we’ll only become more acquainted with our own sinfulness and frailty. And, as Holy Week draws nearer, and we struggle (and fail) to keep the fast, we’ll know more than ever our unworthiness.
The work of humility is not to deny our neediness, or to self-justify; it’s also not to wallow in unworthiness, to stay home and suffer in silence, or to make only half-hearted requests. Rather, may we, like the Gentile woman, run to Christ, kneel at His feet, refuse to leave Him alone until we receive the mercy we so desperately need.
Paul Gutacker serves as executive director of Brazos Fellows, a post-college fellowship centered on common prayer, theological study, vocational discernment, and life together. Paul holds the Ph.D in History from Baylor University and Th.M and MA in Theological Studies from Regent College (Vancouver, B.C.). He is the author of The Old Faith in a New Nation: American Protestants and the Christian Past (Oxford University Press, 2023). Paul, his wife Paige, and their children James, Marianne, and Matthew enjoy life in Waco, Texas, where they like to fish, go camping, and cheer on the Buffalo Bills.The readings for the preceding devotional may be located here from Forward Movement.
