Twentieth Sunday in Ordinary Time
Fr. Ben Riley
The year before I was ordained a priest, I made a serious mistake.
At Saint Meinrad Seminary, there is a ministry called Project Warm. Seminarians cut down trees—or find trees that have already fallen—saw them into sections, and then gather once a month to split those sections into firewood. The firewood is given to low-income families and individuals who heat their homes with wood-burning stoves.
It is a wonderful ministry, and it was one of my favorite parts about studying at Saint Meinrad. Because the ministry had become so important to these families, however, it could not simply be put on hold when the seminarians left for Christmas break. Someone still had to deliver the firewood. So each Christmas, local high school students volunteered to continue making deliveries while the seminarians were away. As a thank-you, the other team members and I would take them out for dinner when we returned.
It was at one of those dinners that I made my mistake.
It is probably no surprise that when a group of seminarians takes high school boys to dinner, the conversation eventually turns to vocations. We wanted to encourage these young men to consider whether God might be calling them to the priesthood or religious life.
I thought it would be helpful to tell them about some of my own experiences in high school. So I began telling stories about parties I had attended and some of the sinful decisions I had made at those parties.
My intention was to humanize seminarians. I wanted those young men to understand that God does not call only perfect men to become priests. God calls sinners—men who humbly acknowledge their failures, seek reconciliation, and struggle against temptation with the help of God’s grace.
The problem was that I did not explain any of that very well.
About a week later, one of my brother seminarians, who is now a priest, Father Garrett, came to my room and asked if we could talk. He told me that my stories had scandalized some of those high school students. Rather than helping them understand repentance and the power of Christ’s mercy, I had made it sound as though I were glorifying my sins and bragging about how much fun I had at the expense of virtue.
Of course, I immediately defended myself. I told Garrett that I had only been trying to encourage them and show them the power of Christ’s mercy. But he pointed out that I had never actually gotten to that part. I had told them about the parties, but I had not clearly told them about my repentance or how deeply I regretted those decisions.
By the end of the conversation, I was pretty angry. I told him that we were simply going to have to agree to disagree.
My brothers and sisters, it was years before I could admit that Garrett was right. My intention may have been good, but good intentions did not erase the harm I had caused. God had placed a weight before me—the weight of correction, humility, and repentance—and I refused to lift it.
One of the hardest things in life is to hear something about ourselves that we do not want to hear. When someone challenges us, our instinct is often to defend ourselves, explain our intentions, or become angry with the person who corrected us. We become so concerned with proving that we are right that we miss the opportunity God has given us to grow.
That is one reason the Canaanite woman in today’s Gospel is so remarkable.
She approaches Jesus and begs him to deliver her daughter from a demon. But Jesus does not immediately give her what she wants. First, he remains silent. Then he says that he was sent to the lost sheep of the house of Israel. Finally, he gives her this difficult saying: “It is not right to take the food of the children and throw it to the dogs.”
This passage can make us uncomfortable. Jesus seems indifferent and even harsh. Some people interpret the story by saying that Jesus was tired, frustrated, and just having a bad day. According to that interpretation, the woman’s clever response teaches Jesus a lesson and convinces him to become more generous.
But we cannot read the Gospel that way. Jesus is not a sinner who needs this woman to correct him. Jesus already knows that his mission will extend beyond Israel. Indeed, our first reading proclaims that God’s house will become “a house of prayer for all peoples.”
Jesus is not learning to become merciful. He is drawing this woman’s faith to the surface. He places resistance before her—not to drive her away, but to draw her closer. At each stage, he gives her an opportunity to abandon her request. Yet each new obstacle draws from her an even deeper expression of faith.
When Jesus is silent, she continues calling after him. When he speaks of his mission to Israel, she comes closer, does him homage, and prays, “Lord, help me.” When he gives her the difficult image of the children and the dogs, she answers, “Please, Lord, for even the dogs eat the scraps that fall from the table of their masters.”
She believes that even a crumb of Christ’s grace is sufficient to save her daughter.
Jesus then reveals what this entire encounter has drawn forth from her: “O woman, great is your faith!”
Her faith became great through resistance.
Faith is like a muscle. A muscle becomes stronger when it encounters resistance. When we lift a weight, that weight resists the movement of our muscles. As we gradually lift heavier weights, our muscles grow stronger and become capable of carrying more.
But we cannot become stronger simply by standing in a gym and looking at the weights. The weight sitting on the floor does nothing for us. At some point, we must choose to pick it up.
The same is true of faith. We may ask God to make our faith stronger, but stronger faith requires heavier weights. We ask God for patience, and then become irritated when he gives us someone with whom we must practice patience. We ask him for humility, and then become defensive when someone corrects us. We ask him to deepen our trust, and then become angry when he does not answer our prayers immediately.
We want the strength, but we do not want to lift the weight.
The testing of our faith comes to us in different ways. Some tests are simply part of living in a fallen world: sickness, disappointment, grief, uncertainty, and the apparent silence of God. Some difficulties are the consequences of our own choices. Some tests are directly given or permitted by God so that our faith can mature.
God never tempts us to sin. Temptation persuades us to turn away from God. A test gives us an opportunity to choose God more deeply. The enemy places obstacles before us hoping that we will fall; God can use those same obstacles to help us rise stronger.
There are also certain weights that we must freely choose to lift. We choose to fast when we could indulge ourselves. We choose to pray when we do not feel like praying. We choose to forgive when resentment feels easier. We choose to obey Christ when his teaching is difficult. We choose to listen humbly when someone offers us correction.
These spiritual disciplines are not punishments. They are exercises that prepare us to remain faithful when greater trials come.
When Garrett came to my room, God gave me an opportunity to exercise humility. But I refused the weight. Instead of listening, I defended myself. Instead of examining my conscience, I became angry. It took years before I finally reached out to Garret, and thanked him for telling me the truth, with love.
The Canaanite woman does what I failed to do. She accepts the resistance placed before her and allows it to deepen her faith. She does not permit wounded pride to become more important than her daughter’s healing. She does not walk away when Christ’s answer is difficult. She remains before him and continues to pray: “Lord, help me.”
Perhaps some of you have been praying for something for a very long time. Perhaps you are praying for healing, for reconciliation within your family, for freedom from addiction, or for the conversion of someone you love. Perhaps God seems silent, and the weight is becoming heavier.
Do not interpret the resistance as proof that God has abandoned you. The Lord may be expanding your soul so that you can receive an even greater gift. He may be strengthening your faith so that you can carry something you could not carry before.
Brothers and sisters, when the weight comes, we have a choice. We can become angry, defend ourselves, and walk away. Or in humility we can lift it. We can remain before the Lord and say with this courageous woman, “Lord, help me.”
God does not always remove the weight, because sometimes the weight is how he makes us stronger. And if we continue to trust in him through the silence, through the difficulty, and the resistance, perhaps one day we too will hear those beautiful words:
“O woman, O man, great is your faith.”