Sermon Text:

Little league baseball.  Some you played it. As parents or grandparents, some of you watch it.  For me, my favorite year was 5^th grade when Mr. Obrien was coach and I got to play first base.  For baseball, I was probably middle of the road player.  Which meant on a good day you might get a hit or two.  Every blue moon, a homer, if a kid in the outfield let my hit squeeze by.

As some of you know, it never feels good to strike out. And if you don’t know the rules of what some call the American past-time, there’s a song we can sing that reminds us.  Let’s sing it together:   “Take me out to the ballgame.  Take me out to the crowd.  Buy me some peanuts and crackerjack.  I don’t care if I ever get back. For it’s root, root, root for the home team.  If they don’t win it’s a shame.  For it’s one, two, three strikes you’re out, at the old ball game!”

Three strikes and you’re out.  Why is that the way song ends?

The peanuts and crackerjack part of the song is fun.  But why not keep the positivity going, and sing, a great throw home everyone will cheer, or try to steal a base and it will be exciting.  Why, three strikes and you’re out?

You might not be watching as much baseball as you used to since they’re making everyone pay for subscriptions.  But if you do, you see how a player returns to the dugout after striking out.  No one talks to him.  If you homer or score, high fives form everybody.  But strike out, everyone leaves you alone.   As a kid, I still remember that frustration of striking out.  Actually, there might have been a horrible game or two when it wasn’t just 3 strikes and you’re out.  But 3 strikes 3 times in one game.  Aggh!!

Sometimes, people ask if I’ve ever tried to preach the same sermon twice.  And my response is, it doesn’t usually work.  When I have looked at old sermons, usually they are tied to an event, or movie, or persona, or congregational moment so specific that they can’t be applied to years down the road.   But the CONCEPT of a three-striker is a metaphor I’ve used before and would like to use again today.

Because the lady Jesus confronts today in Mark’s lectionary assignment, which pops up every 3 years, is a 3-striker.  She’s a person in his culture who most people consider down and out, void of respect, because of not just one, not two, but for three issues of concern.

(Pick up a bat and hold it).   First of all, the person yelling for Jesus’ help in our gospel today, she’s the wrong gender.  Strike one.   (Take a swing.)    Let’s remember that in Jesus’ day, women were second class citizens.  Couldn’t own property, weren’t involved in village or religious decision-making, and had very little rights outside the influence of their father or husband.    Here we are in 2024, where one of our presidential candidates is a woman and many universities and leading corporations are presided by woman.   But certainly not back in the day.

Secondly, this un-named woman is a foreigner.  Strike two.   (Take a swing.). From the border district of Tyre and Sidon, the woman’s a Canaanite.  Even though there is some blood-line, DNA overlap with Canaanites and Jews, she is from, she lives, she looks like she is from the wrong side of the tracks.   She’s wasn’t “one of them.”

Thirdly, there is sickness in her family.   Strike three.   (Take a swing.). Her daughter is mentally and spiritually ill, tormented by a demon.   You remember the story of the Good Samaritan—the traveler who was beaten by robbers was bleeding, so the religious leader has to pass by on the other side, because blood and illness were off-limits.   Lepers were moved to the fringe of the village.   The mentally ill just as far.

So, sorry lady.   Jesus’ disciples size her up.  She’s a 3 striker.  She’s OUT.   And when she keeps yapping, beggin’ for Jesus to interrupt his itinerary, the disciples advise him:   “Jesus, send her away.   She’s a bother!”

Who is a bother to you these days?   Who are the 3 strikers?  Are we ever the 3 strikers?

After the disciples’ harsh assessment, Jesus says something to this three-striker that shocks us.  Makes us grimace.  How many of you ever had your mouth washed out with soap growing up?   For me, at least twice I can remember.  (I also got spanked a bunch until my parents figured out I’d rather take the spanking than the grounding—that’s what really killed me).

Anyway, I bet if Jesus’ mom Mary had been there, she might have put the soap in Jesus’ mouth on this.   For to this woman, who is not asking anything for herself, but begging for the welfare of her daughter, Jesus says:  “It is not fair to take the food for the children (meaning his group, the Jews) and throw it to the dogs.” (Her and all the other 3 strikers)

Ouch.    Have you noticed that Jesus does that every once in a while?  To use our baseball analogy, he throws out a curve-ball to see how people respond.   Remember his first miracle?  Initially when the wedding wine runs out at Cana, his mom asks for help and Jesus responds, “Woman what concern is that you or me?  My hour has not yet come.”  But in the end, Jesus takes action.  And that’s what happens here.   Maybe Jesus would have blessed her anyway, but clearly, Jesus cannot help be moved by this foreigner’s magnificently clever and faithful response:  “Yes Lord, yet even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their master’s table.”

What a line!   All of us with dogs at home knew exactly what that woman was talking about!   Our dogs hoping something will fall from the table.  And do any of you remember Ida the dog, who would come to Palmetto Road events a few years ago?   Can you see that Ida only has 3 legs?  But she trusts that people are gonna love her and that she’ll have a great day.   Somehow, some way, that lady from Tyre also had faith in the one she heard was master of all.  She wasn’t a 3-legger, like Ida, but she was a 3 striker.  Wrong gender, wrong health status, wrong nationality.   Yet somehow, she would not let Jesus go, trusting that he would show mercy and connect her daughter to his pathway of healing—and joy and life.

This woman puts me to shame.  Because far too infrequently do I turn to Jesus with her kind of passion pleading for the sake of my family, the sake of the church, the sake of our beloved creation.  How about you?  Can you learn anything about how you reach out to Jesus from this 3-striker?

A few weeks ago, I was listening to a lecture from Rabbi Sharon Brous who tells the story of an ancient and obscure practice.  Recently discovered in an misplaced text is a ritual for Jews during the pilgrimages to the temple mount.   We all remember how the young boy Jesus traveled from Nazareth with his parents to Jerusalem for the Passover, as all faithful Jews who could financially and physically make the journey.  Similarly, today, one of the five pillars of Islam is that Muslims at least once in their life should try to journey to Mecca for the Hajj.  (spelling?)

Many of you know the thrill singing at a concert with thousands of others or rooting for your favorite sports team in a stadium filled to the brim with other die-hards.  So, we can imagine what it feels like to enter into the climax of a rare religious experience you’ve been anticipating for months if not years.

The Jerusalem festivals were packed.  That the boy Jesus would get separated from his parents amid the throngs was somewhat understandable.  But at one festival, the Rabbi shares that a special discipline of community care was practiced.   Standard procedure called for the joyful Jewish pilgrim to make their way up the steps to the Temple Mount, (steps that our Holy Land trip will never forget ascending last June) and turn right to walk around the temple in a circle.  Thousands of pilgrims walking together, celebrating.  Unless . . .   If you were someone who made the journey, but carried a broken heart.  Then, you were invited to ascend to the mount. But when you entered the gates, you were to turn to the left.

Now listen to what this ancient and obscure ritual calls for.  As a joyful celebrant moving to the right, if you saw the rare person, flowing to the left, but now in front of you, you were to ask them in ancient Hebrew, “malach.”  Or “what happened to you?”  Then the person grieving--with maybe one, two, or even three strikes of sorrow--would be expected to actually be vulnerable and share their grief or worry.  “My heart is broken because my father just died, or we lost our home, or the sickness has grown, or the job has fallen apart.”

Whatever the bereft shares, in turn, would be met with a blessing.  “May you be held with love in this place.  May you feel the presence of the Holy One, of friends and family as you walk through this dark chapter.”  And then they would go on their way.

Now think about the power of this holy call and ritual.  None of the parties engaged in the conversation actually want to be in that conversation at all.  Think about this. Think about a time when you were a three striker.  You were broken-hearted. You didn’t want to get out of bed.  But you got up—maybe you were force to—and you were in the midst of mostly strangers.  How vulnerable you would feel to be surrounded by that many people.  And then to be challenged to share your heart honestly when engaged.

Likewise, think about the people coming from the other direction.  They’re trying to enjoy themselves.   It’s the Braves at the World Series.  It’s front row seats for your favorite band.  It’s the best part of the movie.  You don’t want to be interrupted.   So, we can understand when the disciples try to avoid the sorrow of the mother.   Jesus, you’re on a roll.  We’re going places.  Let’s not get dragged down and stop for this sad story.

What must it feel like to hear as a pilgrim, “Now remember folks. While celebrating is great, you have one other mission that is even more important.  To keep your eyes open for a straggler with puffy red eyes, who has been crying over a 3-strike moment in their lives.    Someone who is mourning, fearful, or struggling.”

What if this is something Jesus teaches us today?  That it’s precisely when we want to retreat from each other that we need to engage one another?  And when we do, we turn to each other with compassion, curiosity and care.  It’s the beauty of congregations like COS isn’t it?  It’s the beauty of Jesus’ followers who are called to show light in a world where loneliness, anxiety and divisiveness are on the rise.  When we want to turn away, we instead turn toward.  When our human impulse is to avoid eye contact, rush out of church before the last song ends, to avoid any awkward conversation, how do we accept the Holy Spirit’s nudge to be a bit vulnerable to engage just a bit?

In our gospel, as Jesus is walking this way, but stops to listen to the woman walking that way, as he is curing his daughter, he offers a blessing perhaps just as precious.  He tells her, “You may go.”   Go to see your daughter.  All your problems aren’t solved.  It’s no guarantee pain won’t find you again.  But GO into your future.  Go to your home which is new.  Go into new possibilities where I’ll continue to be with you.

So often, with the games we play with each other in life, we’re seen as 3 strikers.   And so often we’re called OUT.  But with Jesus, we’re told to GO.  And when we get going, in joy, let’s always be willing to stop for a moment to offer some love and hope to people going the other way.  So, my fellow 3-strikers, let’s get going.  In Jesus’ name.  Amen.