Matthew 15:21-28 goes a little something like this:

Canaanite woman asks Jesus to heal her daughter. Jesus ignores her. Canaanite woman persists. Jesus implies Canaanite woman is a dog. Canaanite woman points out that even dogs get scraps. Jesus is impressed with the Canaanite woman’s response and heals her daughter.

Pardon?

This is the gospel passage for the Lectionary today. People have to actually preach on it. It’s a crazy passage because on the surface it undermines one of the most fundamental things that Christians have long believed about Jesus: that he was the compassionate, sinless human embodiment of God. Yet in this passage, he coldly shoots down the requests of a mother with a sick child; all because she was not one of his people.

²⁵ But she came and knelt before him, saying, “Lord, help me.” ²⁶ He answered, “It is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.”

That isn’t great! It’s disconcerting and troubling. It seemingly runs against a lot of what Jesus says/does when he encounters Gentiles in other passages. It seems to run counter Jesus preaching that we love our enemies. The problems are only amplified as we are presently having important cultural conversations about how certain people groups are discriminated against.

This is one of those weeks where I’ve written about five different versions of this post. I even recorded a rambling stream of conscious reflection while I drove home from getting lunch yesterday and almost published that. I’m not in writer’s block territory, but I’m driving through the neighborhood.

So let’s keep it simple.

Walking on water shouldn’t be possible. Anytime I was at the pool as a kid, I would hover my foot above water wondering if I could somehow catch something solid. But you go right through. Every single time. So say what you want about Peter, but that moment when he steps out onto the sea are one of the most inspiringly fearless moments in human history.

Or it could’ve been one of the most stupid moments. But honestly the margin between fearless and stupid is as thin as the water’s surface. And, yes, Peter got distracted. And, yes, he started to sink. But he hopped onto the waves when no one else would. There is something beautifully noble about this particular failure.

We’re going to talk about a Kanye West song for a second. We’re not going to talk about Kanye the person so don’t get distracted. But I really enjoy his song “Follow God” off of Jesus is King. It’s the only song on that album that has really stuck with me. It’s on my running playlist because it’s one of those jolt of adrenaline tracks. It also was the song that knocked Lauren Daigle off the top of the Christian Songs chart and sat at #1 for 8 weeks. Imagine going back in time a few years and telling someone Kanye topped Christian radio for multiple weeks. Their head would explode and it would be like the 73rd craziest thing you would tell them about our current world. But I digress.

There is one line on “Follow God” that always jumps out at me whenever I listen to it: “Wrestlin’ with God / I don’t really want to wrestle.” My reaction is always something to the effect of “Same, Kanye. Same.” If we’re honest with ourselves, it is such a universal feeling. All of us feel like Jacob in the Bible sometimes. We find ourselves grappling with God over something that doesn’t make sense. When friends are diagnosed with cancer or we see someone we care about suffer, we wrestle over why bad things happen to good people. Or we read the news and see corruption flourish and we wonder why good things happen to bad people.

The mustard seed was not a welcome addition to a garden. Yes, it was a tiny seed that grew to be a shrub so great that it was like a tree. But it was like a weed. You couldn’t get rid of it easily. Pliny the Elder said that when you tried to kill the mustard seed plant it would release more seeds into the ground. It kept coming back.

And those birds of the air that came to make nests in its branches? They would eat the crops of one’s garden or field. So if you were a farmer or gardener—a person with means—the mustard seed was not necessarily an enticing image of God’s community. It would actually be unsettling because the mustard seed plant brought disruption.

That Jesus would compare the kingdom of heaven to such plantarchy might be confusing to some. Within the cultural imagination the church is a prim and proper model of order and the status quo. Faith is a tidy little garden within one’s life that a person maintains on Sundays and maybe Wednesdays. It is an asset in becoming a better, more successful individual. It is an institution that advocates for how things have been.

Yet Jesus is implying something different here. God’s community takes everything over. It disrupts. It provides a home for the orphans of the air. It invites everyone in. People will try to uproot it and yet it keeps coming back. To borrow a popular phrase about truth-telling, it afflicts the comfortable and comforts the afflicted.

God has this knack for showing up in the places we don’t expect. For Jacob, it was in the middle of nowhere when he was on the run. He dreamt of a ladder (or a stairway or a ramp) going to heaven. Messengers of God were ascending and descending. The God stood beside Jacob and reminded this wayward man that the Almighty would be with him wherever he went. “I will keep you,” God said. And I think all that most of us really want is to be kept.

So instead of dissecting this passage or providing some sort of devotional thought, I am just going to share a few of the ladders that have popped up in my life recently. Without any real explanation, these are the places, the moments, and whatever other unexpected things that have reminded me that God is with me. I encourage you do to the same. Write them down even. Where have been those spots where you have felt God with you?

Esau comes in from the field. He’s hungry. Famished. Starving so much that he’s near death, he says. Anyone who is a parent will roll their eyes at that familiar line. His brother Jacob is cooking up a stew. “Let me eat some of that red stuff.” That’s what it says in the NRSV translation: red stuff. Esau doesn’t always come off as the sharpest knife in the drawer.

Jacob on the other hand is probably too sharp for his own good. Jacob says he’ll give his brother the red stuff if Esau sells off his birthright. We go from red to Burgundy because, boy, that escalated quickly. Yet Esau is unaware of the elevated stakes. Again, he just thinks he’s about to die and thus sells off his birthright for some of the red stuff. Esau sells off his leadership of the family, the carrying on of Abraham’s responsibilities for a quick meal.

Red stuff. That’s a really evocative image. Red connotes power, passion, and violence; that’s stuff for which people will readily sell out who they are. Red is the easy shortcut. Red is the stop sign we fly past. There are these things that in the moment seem like they will make life so much easier, they will satisfy us, but they never do.

2020 is just over half over and it has been a lot. I don’t have to list it out for you. You’ve felt it. You’ve experienced it. It is unbelievably overwhelming. Just thinking about the rest of the year can seem daunting.

We don’t know when this pandemic is going to turn in the right direction, but we’ve got to keep trying to do the right thing even as the others do not. We do know that there is a long road we must walk in fighting white supremacy in our country. And who knows what else this year might throw at us? All of which does not even mention all the personal heartaches and sicknesses and fears that each of us face as individuals. It can sometimes seem like too much to bear.

So hear this word from Jesus:

Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.