Homily 52 — Matthew 15, verses 21 to 31

“And Jesus went away from there and withdrew into the region of Tyre and Sidon. And look, a Canaanite woman came out of that same region and cried out to him, saying, ‘Have mercy on me, O Lord, you Son of David! My daughter is severely tormented by a demon.’” [a]

But Mark says that “he could not be hidden,” even though he had gone into a house.

And why did he go into these parts at all? Once he had set them free from keeping the rules about foods, he goes on to open a door to the Gentiles as well, moving forward in due order — just as Peter was first directed to set this law aside, and then was sent to Cornelius.

But someone may say: “How is it, then, that he tells his disciples, ‘Do not go into the way of the Gentiles,’ and yet he himself lets her come to him?” First, our reply would be this: what he commanded his disciples, he himself was not also bound by. Second, he did not go away in order to preach. Mark hints at this too when he says that he even hid himself, and yet could not stay hidden.

For just as not hurrying to them first was part of the orderly course of his work, so driving them away when they came to him would have been unworthy of his love for humankind. If those who run away ought to be pursued, how much more ought those who pursue us not to be avoided!

See, at any rate, how worthy this woman is of every blessing. She did not dare even to come to Jerusalem; she was afraid and counted herself unworthy. If it were not for this, she would have gone there, as is clear both from her earnestness now and from her coming out of her own region.

Some also take it as an allegory. They say that when Christ came out of Judea, then the church ventured to approach him, coming out herself too from her own region. For it is said, “Forget your own people and your father’s house.” Christ went out of his borders, and the woman out of hers, and so it became possible for them to meet each other. That is why he says, “Look, a Canaanite woman, coming out of her own region.”

The evangelist says something against the woman in order to show off her marvelous deed and to celebrate her praise all the more. When you hear of a Canaanite woman, you should call to mind those wicked nations who overturned the very laws of nature from their foundations. And being reminded of them, consider also the power of Christ’s coming. For the people who had been driven out so that they would not corrupt any of the Jews now proved so much better disposed than the Jews that they even came out of their own region and approached Christ — while the Jews were driving him away, even when he came to them.

So when she came to him, she says nothing else but “Have mercy on me,” and by her crying out she gathers many onlookers around them. It truly was a pitiful sight: a woman crying aloud in such great distress — and that woman a mother, pleading for a daughter, and for a daughter in so wretched a state. She did not even dare bring the possessed girl into the Master’s sight, but left her lying at home and made the plea herself. [e]

And she tells only her distress and adds nothing more. She does not drag the physician to her house, as that official did, saying, “Come and lay your hand on her,” and “Come down before my child dies.”

Having described both her disaster and how severe the illness was, she appeals to the Lord’s mercy and cries aloud. And she does not say, “Have mercy on my daughter,” but “Have mercy on me.” “For she does not feel her illness, but I am the one who suffers her countless miseries. I bear my sickness knowing it; I bear my madness fully aware of it.”

“But he did not answer her a word.”

What is this new and strange thing? The Jews in their perversity he leads on; when they blaspheme, he pleads with them; when they test him, he does not send them away. But this woman — running to him, pleading with him, begging him, a woman trained neither in the law nor in the prophets, and yet showing such great reverence — he does not grant her so much as an answer.

Who would not have been offended by this, seeing the facts so contrary to the reports? They had heard that he went around the villages healing; yet when she came to him, he pushes her away entirely. And who would not have been moved by her distress, and by the plea she made for her daughter in so wretched a state? She did not approach him as one who deserved it, or as someone demanding what she was owed. She begged to find mercy, and simply gave a pitiful account of her own distress. Yet she is not thought worthy even of an answer. Perhaps many of those listening were offended; but she was not offended. And why do I say those listening? I suppose that even the disciples themselves must have been somewhat affected by the woman’s distress, and greatly troubled, and discouraged.

Yet even in this trouble they did not dare to say, “Grant her this favor.” Instead, “His disciples came and begged him, saying, ‘Send her away, for she is crying out after us.’” For we too, when we want to persuade someone, often say the opposite.

But Christ says, “I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel.”

What, then, did the woman do after she heard this? Did she fall silent and give up? Did she let her earnestness slacken? Not at all — she pressed all the harder. But it is not so with us. When we fail to obtain something, we give up, when it ought to make us all the more urgent.

And yet who would not have been driven to a loss by the word spoken then? His silence alone was enough to drive her to despair, but his answer did so far more. To see those who were pleading for her at a loss along with herself, and to hear that the thing could not even be done — that was enough to throw her into a perplexity beyond words.

Yet the woman was not at a loss. Seeing that her advocates got nowhere, she made herself shameless with a good shamelessness.

Before this she had not dared even to come into his sight — for “she is crying out after us,” it says. But just when one might expect her to go even farther off in utter despair, at that very moment she comes nearer and bows down before him, saying, “Lord, help me.”

What is this, woman? Do you have more confidence than the apostles? More strength? “Confidence and strength? Not at all,” she says. “I am full of shame. Yet I put forward my very shamelessness as my plea. He will respect my confidence.” And what is this? Did you not hear him say, “I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel”? “I heard it,” she says, “but he himself is Lord.” That is why she did not say, “Plead with him, beg him,” but “Help me.”

What, then, does Christ say? Not even with all this was he satisfied. He makes her perplexity sharper still, saying, “It is not right to take the children’s bread and throw it to the dogs.” When he did grant her a word, he struck her more sharply than by his silence. He no longer puts the reason on someone else, nor says, “I was not sent.” The more urgently she presses her plea, the more firmly he presses his refusal. And he no longer calls them “sheep,” but “children,” and her “a dog.” [f]

What, then, does the woman say? She builds her plea out of his very own words. “Even if I am a dog,” she said, “I am not a stranger.”

Christ was right to say, “For judgment I have come.” The woman shows great self-control, and displays complete endurance and faith, and that while being insulted; but they, though courted and honored, repay him with the opposite.

“That food is needed for the children,” she says, “I know as well. But I am not shut out either, even though I am a dog. If it were forbidden to receive, it would not be allowed to share even in the crumbs. But if the dogs are to have a share, even a small one, then I am not shut out either, though I am a dog. In fact, on this very ground I have every claim to a share — if I am a dog.”

This is why Christ put her off: he knew she would say this. This is why he refused the gift: so that he might display her great self-control.

For if he had not meant to give, he would not have given afterward either, nor would he have stopped her mouth a second time. But he acts here as he does with the centurion, saying, “I will come and heal him,” so that we might learn that man’s reverence and hear him say, “I am not worthy for you to come under my roof”; as he does with the woman who had the flow of blood, saying, “I perceive that power has gone out of me,” so that he might make her faith plain; and as with the Samaritan woman, so that he might show how she does not give up even when rebuked. So here too, he did not want such great virtue in the woman to stay hidden. His words, then, were not spoken to insult her, but to call her forward and to reveal the treasure stored up in her.

But I beg you, look at her humility along with her faith. He had called the Jews “children,” but she was not content with that; she even called them “masters.” So far was she from being hurt by the praise given to others.

“Why, even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their masters’ table,” she says.

Do you see the woman’s wisdom — how she did not dare to say a word against him, was not stung by the praise of others, and was not indignant at the insult? Do you see her steadfastness? He said, “It is not right,” and she said, “Yes, Lord.” He called them “children,” and she called them “masters.” He used the name of a dog, and she added the dog’s action too. Do you see this woman’s humility?

Now listen to the proud talk of the Jews: “We are Abraham’s descendants and have never been slaves to anyone,” and “We were born of God.” But this woman is not like that. She calls herself a dog, and them masters — and for that very reason she became a child.

What, then, does Christ say? “O woman, great is your faith.”

Yes, this is why he put her off: so that he might proclaim this saying aloud and crown the woman.

“Let it be done for you as you wish.” What he says amounts to this: “Your faith is able to accomplish even greater things than these. Nevertheless, let it be done for you as you wish.”

This was akin to the voice that said, “Let the heaven be,” and it was.

“And her daughter was healed from that very hour.”

Do you see how this woman too contributed not a little to her daughter’s healing? That is why Christ did not say, “Let your little daughter be healed,” but “Great is your faith; let it be done for you as you wish” — to teach you that the words were not said at random, and were not flattery, but that the power of her faith was great.

The sure test and proof of it, however, he left to the outcome of events. And so her daughter was healed at once.

But notice, I beg you, how when the apostles had failed and not succeeded, this woman succeeded. So great a thing is persistence in prayer. Yes, he would rather be asked by us ourselves, guilty as we are, on behalf of those who belong to us, than by others on our behalf. And yet they had more freedom to speak to him; but she showed great endurance.

And by the outcome he also made his excuse to his disciples for the delay, and showed that he had good reason for not granting their request.

“And Jesus went away from there and came near the Sea of Galilee; and he went up on the mountain and sat down there. And great crowds came to him, bringing with them those who were lame, blind, maimed, and mute, and they laid them down at his feet; and he healed them, so that the crowds were amazed when they saw the mute speaking, the maimed made whole, the lame walking, and the blind seeing; and they glorified the God of Israel.” [k]

Now he goes around himself; now he sits and waits for the sick, and has the lame carried up the mountain. And they no longer touch even his garment, but go a step higher: they are laid at his feet. They showed their faith in two ways: first, by going up the mountain though they were lame; then, by wanting nothing more than simply to be laid at his feet. And it was a great and strange wonder to see those who had been carried now walking, and the blind needing no one to lead them by the hand. Both the number of those healed and the ease of their cure amazed them.

Do you see how he healed the woman after so much delay, but these at once? Not because these are better than she, but because she has more faith than they do. So in her case he puts off and delays, to show her steadfastness; on these he bestows the gift at once, stopping the mouths of the unbelieving Jews and cutting away every excuse from them. For the greater the favors someone has received, the more he is liable to punishment if he stays unfeeling and the very honor does not make him any better.

That is why, as you see, the rich who turn out wicked are punished more than the poor, for not being softened even by their prosperity. And do not tell me that they gave alms. If they did not give in proportion to their wealth, not even so will they escape; for our alms are judged not by the size of our gifts, but by the largeness of our heart. But if these are punished, much more those who are eager for unnecessary things: who build houses of two and three stories, but despise the hungry; who give their attention to greed, but neglect almsgiving.

But since our talk has fallen on almsgiving, come, let us take up again today the argument I was making three days ago about kindness to others, which I left unfinished. You remember that lately, when I was speaking of your vanity about shoes, and that empty fuss, and the luxury of the young, it was from almsgiving that our talk passed on to those charges against you. What were the points brought forward then? That almsgiving is a kind of art, with its workshop in heaven, and with God, not man, for its teacher. Then, inquiring what is an art and what is not, we came upon fruitless labors and evil contrivances, and among them we mentioned this art concerning men’s shoes. [l]

Have you called it to mind now? Come, then, let us take up again today what we said then, and let us show how almsgiving is an art, and better than all the arts. If the mark of an art is to produce something useful, and nothing is more useful than almsgiving, then clearly this is an art, and better than all the arts. It does not make us shoes, or weave garments, or build houses of clay. It wins eternal life, snatches us from the hands of death, makes us glorious in both lives, and builds the dwellings in heaven, those eternal tents.

It does not let our lamps go out, nor let us appear at the wedding in filthy garments; it washes them and makes them purer than snow. “For though your sins are like scarlet, I will make them white as snow.” It does not let us fall where that rich man fell, or hear those terrible words; it leads us into Abraham’s bosom.

Now, each of the arts of this life takes up one good work and keeps to it: farming, to feed us; weaving, to clothe us. Or rather, not even this much, for none of them is able on its own to contribute its own part. If you like, let us try farming first. Suppose it does not have the smith’s art, to borrow spade and plowshare and sickle and axe and other things besides; and the carpenter’s, to build a plow and to make a yoke, and a cart to crush the ears of grain; and the leatherworker’s, to make the leather harness as well; and the builder’s, to build a stable for the plowing oxen and houses for the farmers who sow; and the woodcutter’s, to cut wood; and after all these, the baker’s — then farming is nowhere to be found.

So too the art of weaving, when it produces anything, calls on many arts along with itself to help with the work before it; and if they are not there to lend a hand, it too stands helpless, like the first. In fact every one of the arts needs the others. But when alms are to be given, we need nothing else; only the will is required. And if you say that money is needed, and houses, and clothes, and shoes, read those words of Christ that he spoke about the widow, and stop worrying about this. Even if you are extremely poor, one of those who beg, if you put in two small coins, you have accomplished everything. Even if you give only a barley cake, having nothing but that, you have reached the goal of the art.

Let us take up this knowledge, then, and bring it to perfection. Truly it is better to know this than to be a king and wear a diadem. Its only advantage is not that it needs nothing else; it can also accomplish a variety of things, many and of every kind. It builds houses that last forever in heaven. It teaches those who have mastered it how to escape the death that never dies. It gives you treasures that are never spent, but escape all harm — from robbers, and worms, and moths, and time. And yet, if someone had taught you this only for keeping wheat, what would you not have given to be able to keep your grain unspoiled for many years? But look: this teaches you the same thing not about wheat only, but about everything, and shows how your goods and your soul and your body may all remain unspoiled.

And why should we go through all the good effects of this art one by one? It teaches you how you may become like God, and that is the sum of all good things whatever.

Do you see how its work is not one, but many? Without needing any other art, it builds houses, it weaves garments, it stores up treasures that cannot be taken from us, it makes us get the better of death and overcome the devil; it makes us like God.

What, then, could be more profitable than this art? The other arts, besides what I have mentioned, all end with our present life; when the craftsmen fall sick, the arts are nowhere to be found; their works cannot last; and they need much labor and time and countless other things. But this one, when the world has passed away, becomes more conspicuous than ever; when we are dead, it shines out brighter than ever and displays the works it has accomplished. It needs no time, no labor, no toil of that kind. It is active even in your sickness and in your old age; it moves with you into the life to come, and never leaves you.

It makes you more able than both sophists and orators. Those who are approved in those arts have many who envy them, but those who shine in this one have thousands praying for them. Those men stand at human courts, pleading for the wronged — and often for wrongdoers too. But this virtue stands beside the judgment seat of Christ, not only pleading, but persuading the Judge himself to plead for the one on trial and to give sentence in his favor. Though his sins have been very many, almsgiving crowns him and proclaims him. For “give alms, and all things will be clean.”

And why do I speak of the things to come? Even in our present life, if we ask people which they would rather have — many sophists and orators, or many who give alms and love their fellow human beings — you will hear them choose the second, and very reasonably. If oratory were taken away, our life would be no worse off; after all, life went on for a long time even before it existed. But if you take away showing mercy, everything is lost and ruined. And just as no one could sail the sea if harbors and anchorages were blocked, so this life could not hold together if you took away mercy, and compassion, and love for humanity.

That is why God did not leave these things to reasoning alone, but planted many parts of them by the sovereign power of nature itself. So fathers pity their children, so do mothers, so children their parents — and not among human beings only, but among all the animals too. So brothers pity brothers, and relatives, and in-laws; so one human being pities another. For we have something even from nature that inclines us to mercy. [q]

That is also why we feel indignant on behalf of those who are wronged; seeing people killed, we are overcome; watching them mourn, we weep. Because God wants this to be done very thoroughly, he commanded nature to contribute a great deal to it, showing that this is something he cares about exceedingly.

With these things in mind, then, let us bring ourselves, our children, and those who belong to us to the school of mercy, and let a human being learn this above everything, since this is what a human being is. “For a man is a great thing, and a merciful man a precious thing.” So unless someone has this, he has fallen away even from being human. This is what makes people wise. And why be surprised that this is what it is to be human? This is what God is. For he says, “Be merciful, as your Father is.”

So let us learn to be merciful for every reason, but chiefly because we ourselves need much mercy. And let us count ourselves as not even alive whenever we are not showing mercy. But by mercy I mean the kind that is free from greed. For if the person who is content with what is his own and shares with no one is not merciful, how can the one who takes other people’s goods be merciful, even if he gives without limit? If merely keeping one’s own for one’s own enjoyment is inhumanity, how much more is cheating others! If those who have done no wrong are punished because they did not share, how much more those who even take what belongs to others!

So do not say this: “One person is wronged, and another receives mercy.” That is exactly the grievous thing. The one who was wronged ought to be the same as the one who receives the mercy. But as it is, while wounding some, you heal those you have not wounded, when you ought to heal the same ones — or rather, not to wound them at all. The humane person is not one who strikes and then heals, but one who heals those struck by others. So heal your own evil deeds, not someone else’s. Or rather, do not strike at all, nor throw anyone down — that is how a mocker behaves — but raise up those who have been thrown down.

For it is not possible to cure the harm done by greed with an equal measure of almsgiving. If you have gained a single penny unjustly, it is not a penny you need to give in alms to remove the sin of your unjust gain, but a talent. That is why a thief who is caught pays back fourfold; and one who plunders by violence is worse than one who steals. If the thief must give back four times what he stole, the extortioner should give tenfold and much more; and it is a great deal if even so he can make amends for his injustice, for even then he will not receive the reward of almsgiving. That is why Zacchaeus says, “I will restore fourfold whatever I have taken by false accusation, and half of my goods I will give to the poor.” And if under the law one had to give fourfold, how much more under grace; if the one who steals, how much more the one who plunders by violence. For in this case, besides the loss, the insult too is great. So even if you give a hundredfold, you have not yet given the whole.

Do you see that it was not without reason I said that if you take even a penny by violence and pay back a talent, you barely set it right even so? But if you barely do it by this means, what happens when you reverse the order — when you have seized whole fortunes by violence and give away only a little, and not even to those who were wronged, but to others in their place? What kind of defense will you have? What favor? What hope of salvation?

Do you want to learn how bad a thing you do when you give alms like that? Listen to the Scripture that says, “Like one who kills a son before his father’s eyes is the one who brings a sacrifice from the goods of the poor.”

Let us write this warning in our minds, then, before we leave. Let us write it on our walls, on our hands, in our conscience, everywhere — so that at least the fear of it, kept alive in our minds, may hold back our hands from daily murders. For extortion is a more grievous thing than murder: it eats up the poor man little by little.

So that we may be clean of this pollution, then, let us train ourselves in these thoughts, both on our own and with one another. In this way we will be readier to show mercy, receive its reward undiminished, and enjoy the eternal good things, by the grace and love for humankind of our Lord Jesus Christ, to whom be glory and might, with the Father and the Holy Spirit, now and always, and forever and ever. Amen.