Jesus Has Something to Offend Everyone

 One of the things I love about Bible study is the good discussion that a difficult passage produces.

A couple of weeks ago in our YMCA Thursday morning group we were discussing one of the most troubling passages in the Gospels when Jesus calls a lady a dog. Jesus said WHAT? Yep, that's exactly what he called her (Mark 7:27) and to be honest, if I had been the Gospel writer, I think I would have let it slide. Surely, he didn't mean it. It's one thing to have a bad day, but this poor lady came to Jesus pleading for him to heal her daughter and before anyone could say, "Would you please pass the jelly?" Jesus called the poor woman with the sick daughter a dog.

Dr. Clifton Black, one of today's premier New Testament theologians who grew up in nearby Thomasville, says that we spend an awful lot of time trying to get Jesus off the hook on this one. But the truth is, he said what he said and try as we may, we can't erase it.

One insightful member of our study group asked the question, "If Jesus came to one of our churches today, would we be offended? Or would he even want to stay?" Jesus might well be bored to death in some of our churches, but my hunch is he would be kicked out before he got fed up and walked out on his own. You see, Jesus has something to offend everyone.

Liberal churches would be offended because Jesus is a conservative. He spends a lot of time quoting scripture and talking about repentance and the straight and narrow path to salvation. He commissions evangelists to go and preach the gospel and baptize the saved. He talks about being born again and even lectures on the final judgment and insists that those who don't pass the test will be cast into the eternal lake of fire. He blasts those who abuse children, saying it would be better that they be drowned with a millstone around their neck.

Conservative churches would be offended because Jesus is a liberal. His chief cause is the poor, and he believes in taxing the wealthy. He wants everyone to be helped, even those who don't deserve it. He would not exclude anyone, but all would be welcome in Jesus' church: sinners, drug users, prostitutes and illegal immigrants. He certainly wouldn't exclude someone because they are gay or because they were the wrong color. And don't expect Jesus to support the Second Amendment. When the disciples showed up at the Garden of Gethsemane with concealed weapons, he was not very happy with them. And if you try to explain to Jesus that if he won't protect himself he just might get himself killed, I think he would say: "Well?"

And for those of us who like to use the word "moderate," I don't think Jesus was moderate about anything — he might not even give us the time of day.

The thing that we must always remember when we study the Gospels is that the "bad guys" represent exactly who we are today — the religious establishment. We are the Pharisees, the scribes and the religious authorities. We must decide what is more important, keeping the establishment in business or following Jesus — even when he offends us.

Black, in commenting on Jesus' offensive words to the woman, said, "The deeper question with which Mark's readers must come to terms is whether she or he can follow a Christ so offensive as to die by crucifixion."

During this season of Lent, it would do us well to reconsider the true message of the cross in all of its dimensions: offensive, scandalous and penetrating. And then if we are not also abashed, in Black's words, "it is a safe bet that Jesus has been domesticated and his gospel has been neutered."

Whatever Jesus meant when he called the lady a dog can be discussed for a long time, but one thing is crystal clear — when they nailed him to the cross there was no mistaking its meaning. And if we are not offended to the point of falling on our knees and surrendering our lives to him, then we are nothing more than dogs.

A Reason To Smile

To my Dear Bess:

Smile!

That’s what you always told me—smile!  No matter what happened, good or bad, we always need to smile.  I remember one hot summer day, we were in the back yard shucking corn—well; you were doing most of the shucking.  Mother had gone to visit a new baby in town and you told me that people had it all mixed up.  “We should be rejoicing when someone dies,” you said; “because all of their troubles are finally over.  But a baby is born into a world of pain, heartache and problems—that’s when we should weep.”

I didn’t know what you were talking about, Bess.  Not then, anyway.  There were a lot of things I didn’t realize back then. I never thought about the fact that you were black and I was white.  Even though we said you were like a member of our family, I know now that wasn’t true.  You didn’t sit down to eat with us like a family member would.  It never crossed my mind that it wouldn’t have been “proper.”  Even though my parents would never tolerate any racist remarks or jokes, you were still “the help.” 

You never graduated from high school because you left school to work for my grandmother. You couldn’t walk down Main Street.  You couldn’t eat in the same restaurants, drink out of the same water fountain or even ride in the same seats on the bus as white people. I’m sure I would have been welcomed at your church, but there was a man who carried a gun to our church to make sure you knew you were not welcomed there. I remember the well-worn path behind your house that led to the outhouse.  We had two indoor bathrooms at our house before you even had one.

But in spite of all of your troubles, you still loved me and cared for me like I was your own.  And in many ways, I was.  I loved you and looked up to you.  You had a way of putting everything in the right perspective.  You taught me so much about life, about forgiveness, and about faith. I remember coming down to visit you at your little house.  There were three pictures hanging on the wall:  Jesus, John F. Kennedy, and Martin Luther King, Jr.  I didn’t understand why you had those three pictures, but I do now.  Three men who believed in equality.  Three men who gave you hope.   

I remember watching Dr. King speak from the steps of the Lincoln Memorial.  I was nine years old and I was watching it with you.  My small heart soared with his eloquent words of justice and equality.  I wanted his dream to become my dream.  I wanted to live in a world where people were judged by the content of their character rather than the color of their skin.  I remember you watching, but not saying much.  Seems like you knew more trouble was to come.

Five years later, I remember very well.  It was April 9, 1968 and we were watching Dr. King’s funeral service.  It was the first time I ever saw you cry and I thought about those three pictures, those three men—symbols of hope—all three dead.  You were wiping your tears with your apron.  There were still dishes to be washed. 

I called you right before you died and remember what you told me?  You told me to smile, because you were going to that glorious place where there would be no trouble, no more killings, and no more pain. I tried to smile, but it was hard to because of the tears.

I’m writing to let you know that, while I know you always smile in heaven, we have a reason to smile here.  Last month our City Council voted to name a major street, Martin Luther King, Jr. Boulevard.  I’ve been an advocate for the name change, just as I was for the adoption of the MLK holiday in our county a number of years back.  And not just because it was the right thing to do.  It’s because of you Bess.  Because I can still see you wiping away your tears with your apron as they buried Martin Luther King.  I want you to know that Dr. King’s legacy did not die that day—and it never will. I have tried to live my life working for his dream.  When I take a stand for equality and justice that some may not like, I think of you.  And I think I see you smiling. And there are no more dishes to do.