The following is a short story written from the point of view of the Canaanite/Syrophoenician woman who met Jesus in her hometown outside of Tyre and Sidon. She was the first woman given voice in the Gospels, and Jesus's initial reaction to her is surprising, if not offensive. Though this story is very brief at only eight verses in length, there is much depth, confusion, and beauty underneath its surface.
A Need To Be Known
by Scott Nellis
Demon-ridden. It seemed much of my life could be described this way. That was now what they called my daughter. While that derisive name hurt me, it paled in comparison to the hurt I felt every day as I looked in my daughter’s eyes. Day after day her pain would tear away at my soul. I was a fragmented shard of the woman I wanted to be. For far too long my daughter and I had been looked upon differently. Mostly we were glared at. And if the response wasn’t a glare, it was because their eyes were looking away, as if to avoid even our glances touching. Often I wondered what we had done to deserve this and, more importantly, why any divine response seemed so absent.
Life is hard when you’re a widow. Harder still to be a widow and a mother. My husband had died some months ago. He had become severely ill and was unable to recover. I had never imagined myself alone, without my husband by my side. Now I would also be the sole provider for our daughter. Life had always been hard, but my husband worked tirelessly to provide for us. Life without him would be very different. I had few skills and no family for support. This left my daughter and I alone and without any help from others in our village. After my husband died, my days became divided between washing clothes, cooking, and now selling pottery. The days were long and extremely hot. Each day I hoped for enough money to feed my daughter and maybe even myself by nightfall. At times I became so desperate that I contemplated selling my own body. The only thing that stopped me was an unexplainable sense of dignity and resiliency that seemed fastened to my heart.
The months went by and we survived, if only scarcely. My daughter was young but faithfully sat with me every day, even through the scorching heat of the midday sun. She would never complain, even when I woke her before dawn for the long walk to get water for the day. Most days she would grind our grain, since I no longer had much time to do this. Kneading and baking clay not only took most of my time, but also my energy. My daughter and I lived in a rural area east of Tyre. Like other Phoenicians in neighboring towns, most of the food our village produced went to Tyre and also to the town of Sidon. We were a people who had few resources and even fewer rights. Any significance we might hope for was in short supply. This often angered me. It was our appointed place in society and there was nothing, sadly, that could change that.
———
My husband and I had named our daughter Izabel. She was a blessing from our family’s gods, an answer to our prayers. Even though we were poor and of low status, we still had joy. Indeed, we
had to have this joy. Life in our peasant village was demanding. My husband worked as a laborer in the wheat and barley fields. He would often have to be out in the fields for days at a time. Money and food were sparse. When we were together, we found joy in the familial things like singing songs after the evening meal or taking walks with our little girl through the worn paths surrounding our village. After my husband’s death, Izabel had to grow up so fast. This was upsetting for me because I, too, had a very abbreviated childhood. My own father had died when I was a young girl and I quickly took over many of my family’s day-to-day duties. Now my own daughter was reliving my childhood and watching it unfold was a great burden for me.
As a child I remember that my own days were mostly spent looking after our family’s animals, carrying water from the well to our home, and helping my mother to pick fruit.
1 This work was very hard, but I understood that we all had to do our part. My family was not wealthy and thus was viewed as “less worthy” than others in the village. This was our harsh reality. My mother often reminded me, “Adonia, remember who you are.” This was her way of clinging to a hope that lie just beyond our present circumstance. In our society, value was not something determined by the gods. A person’s value all posited on one’s family of origin as well as the area in which one lived. Because my family had no wealth or influence, we had few rights and were viewed as having little human value. I know this bothered my mother, which is why she taught my siblings and I to always remember that we did, indeed, have worth. Our village was a melting pot of ethnicities and religious beliefs. Greeks like my own family were often viewed with disdain by the Jewish families in our community. To add to the cultural tension, the larger cities of Tyre and Sidon required our village to provide for its food needs. Because our village was made up largely of farmland, we were expected to support the needs of those who lived in the cities. This held true even in times of poor harvests, when our own family barely had enough to eat.
2 Tyre and Sidon had wealth and also power. With a heavy hand they controlled our village and others like us. Life was hard but we had faith. My mother and father taught us many worship practices. There were many gods to whom we prayed and gave offerings. We also learned about the Israelite God to whom many other villagers gave worship. My parents wanted my siblings and I to understand the value of atoning for one’s wrongdoing as well as offering thanksgiving for the gods’ blessings on our family. These teachings had a profound impact on me as a child. It was in this learning that I found a deep desire to connect with something beyond my daily existence. I longed to be known and valued beyond the limited periphery of my own home. My mother had told me to remember who I was—however, I also wanted my worth to matter to
others.
———
Izabel had not only learned to knead flour and grind grain at a young age, but had also learned the art of crafting pottery. I showed her how to dig and mold the clay, forming it into ceramic basins and bowls that could be sold to others in the village. This was our life now, strenuous as it was. Through it all, though, we held onto to our joy. When we were able, Izabel and I would take walks on those same worn paths that we took when she was a baby. We would talk about her father, about all the things we missed about him. These things were small, but they were significant. They gave us hope that everything might go well for us. Every night we would present offerings of thanksgiving, as we were grateful for another day of life. We offered the best of our grains, honey, and fruit, believing with all hope that Baal, Astarte, and the lesser gods would return this blessing to us. This, however, made it all the more heartbreaking when Izabel became ill.
I have no explanation for what happened to Izabel. It happened rather abruptly as we sat outside in the late afternoon. Izabel was playing in the dirt when she began to shake violently. Panic set in as I immediately grabbed her and carried her inside our home. As I laid her down on my bed and held her tight, fear overwhelmed me. What was happening to my baby? I went to get my neighbor and we both prayed fervently as we tried to calm Izabel. By nightfall the violent shaking waned, but a fever persisted. I was exhausted. What started as any other day had turned into a horrific dream. Anxious thoughts swirled through my mind as I vainly attempted to ease her suffering. The following day I awoke to Izabel crying out for my help. I had fallen asleep on the ground by her side. I had no medicine to help my daughter—nor would medicine have been of any help. For not only did she have a persistent fever, she would shake uncontrollably for extended periods of time. When she did happen to stop shaking, she looked as if she had been thrown down a hill. I ached for her as only a mother could; any type of relief was nowhere to be found.
People in my village had many thoughts about illnesses such as the one that had befallen Izabel. Most viewed the cause of these conditions as the work of demons. Others viewed it as a curse on one’s family. Whatever the cause, it was clear to me that we had fallen out of favor with the gods. Many also seemed to view my daughter’s illness this way. The gossip I heard indicated that people thought we had offended the gods. This caused me to look deep within my own heart. Had our offerings not been good enough?
3 Villagers now viewed us with suspicion. Their heads would turn toward the ground as they passed by our home. I felt shunned, even by my own people. At night I sat by my daughter’s side, wondering if the people in my village were right. I must have offended the gods, but I could not think of how this occurred. Certainly I must have done something to bring this on my daughter.
Every day brought new questions that I could not answer. Would my daughter ever recover? If Izabel did recover, would she be the same as she was before? How could I make enough to support the both of us when I had to be continually by her side? I had always believed that my offerings were pleasing to our family's gods. Why would they have let a demon overtake my beloved daughter? This continued to trouble me deeply. At this point I didn't know what to think or even what to believe. As a poor widow I had no voice in my village. No one cared about my daughter’s plight. Except for one kind neighbor, no one would stop by my house to see my daughter. The cult leaders were unable to drive out the demon in Izabel and my prayers and offerings were not sufficient. Any faith or hope that I had early on was all but gone. I knew that my daughter might die, but that was not the most difficult truth I had to accept. The most difficult truth was that I doubted my ability to care for her in this condition. I was scared and it hurt too much to see Izabel this way; I feared running away from it all, hoping that someone else might better take care of her. Acknowledging this only added guilt to my already shattered state of being.
Izabel’s condition lingered on and on. As weeks turned into months, I became so very desperate. Whatever demonic force had overtaken my daughter was more powerful than I ever could have imagined. There was fear in her eyes and seeing it tore at my soul. Even with no faith left, I prayed and hoped. I continued to give offerings and even took my daughter to a local healing bath, waiting for some sign of help. I felt as though I needed an answer, not only for myself but also for Izabel. What had she possibly done to deserve this? My frayed heart ached as I cared for her, waiting and listening for an answer. Every night the same response came: silence.
As the severity of Izabel’s condition heightened, I spent many hours each day pondering her fate. I shed many tears as I watched her lie in my bed, sweating and shaking. She had not eaten in days and often, when she did eat, she would vomit her food immediately. If this was to be her existence, then it was not worth it. Any expectation for Izabel’s recovery had disappeared when a ray of hope shined into our darkness by way of village rumor. My neighbor came by, as she did every few days, and told me that a healing man, Jesus the Nazarene, was in our village. She asked if I knew of him. This question seemed strange to me, as
everyone seemed to know of him.
———
The healing man. The miracle worker. The deliverer of demons. I had heard many names used to describe this man, Jesus, from the town of Nazareth. Some thought he was the son of the Israelite God, while others thought he was an impostor. Many called him a threat to the Roman rule. He was of Jewish descent and was called “rabbi” by many. Even in my rural village, far from Nazareth, most knew about this man. I had heard much about him—I knew he was a teacher and a type of prophet. I knew that many believed he was a messiah. For all that I had been told about him, I could not comprehend how a person could be both man and divine. A “son” of a god, walking among us? What I found most curious was the stories of his acts of healing. He had supposedly healed paralytics and those with demons at Capernaum and Gennesaret. If he was indeed a religious man, as many had claimed, he was certainly not a typical religious man. It was said that he had healed not only Jews but also Greeks. I found this entirely perplexing, as Greeks of Canaanite descent were viewed by Israelite Jews as a cursed people. Israel was God’s chosen people and we were not. Could this man really be healing and driving out demons from
our people, too?
Not entirely sure of what to expect, I asked my neighbor to stay with Izabel so that I might go and find this Jesus, in the hopes that he might be able to heal my daughter. This mission seemed foolish even to me, as I understood the societal
rules of my village. He was a man and I was a woman with no wealth or status. He a Jewish teacher and I a Greek widow. Still, I was desperate and I would not let these rules hinder me—not today. My daughter’s life depended on me and I would do whatever I could to get help for her. There seemed to be nothing left to lose and I would not take “no” for an answer.
I ran through my village, aware that I might have little time before Jesus moved on to another town. I was not sure what I would say to him if, in fact, I found him. I was only sure of my deep need and the possibility that he might truly have divine power to heal my Izabel. Running through the streets, I hoped to see a crowd or some other hint of this man’s location. My village was not very large, however at this time of day it was arduous to run up the stone pathways, navigating through the many people that clustered together in the center of town. The village seemed especially congested today. It felt as if each person in my path was a barrier to my daughter’s healing. I needed to find this man and yet I could hardly move through the crowd. Finally I came to a clearing and saw some Jewish men huddled around a door. I recognized this home, as it belonged to a prominent family in the village. Seeing these Jewish men was enough of a sign for me; I went up behind the men and started shouting, “Have mercy on me, Lord, Son of David!” I hoped my recognition of Jesus’s identity would gain his attention. Some of the men looked toward a man standing in the middle of the front room. This confirmed for me that I had indeed found this man, Jesus the Nazarene. “Rabbi, my daughter is tormented by a demon.” Silence. He did not even look toward me. The men who were gathered walked over and began talking with him, looking back at me as they whispered. This at least gave me a slight flicker of hope. Perhaps they would convince Jesus to help my daughter. Again he did not look at me, but instead stared at those men and said, “I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel.” My hope faded, for I understood the truth in his words. This man was a Jewish rabbi. He was not supposed to help people like me. And yet he
had helped people like me.
As discouraging as his words were, I knew I must press further. I had been through too much and so had Izabel. For her sake and for mine I would not walk away without at least some acknowledgement. While I understood the social lines drawn between people like Jesus and people like me, I had also come to believe that this man might be different. I knew that he had healed others from outside of his own people. He was said to be compassionate to all and kind toward children. Some said he did not observe the rules of his own religion and was known to help and heal even on their Sabbath. I remembered all of these things because they seemed so unusual; most cult leaders in my village would not speak to me, much less show compassion. Now I hoped that perhaps Jesus would grant his compassion to me. With all the courage I could muster, I knelt before him and said, “Lord, help me.” There was a need to show this man reverence, and still I needed to be insistent. My daughter’s life depended on me and yet I knew that, without some divine intervention, I was unable to help her at all. Astonishingly, Jesus looked at me and then said, “It is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.” Silence overtook the room as the light chatter of Jewish men came to an abrupt stop. For much of my adult life I had been treated like one of the dogs that roamed the village streets, foraging for food and attention. Now this man was assigning me this label, as if I was to forever be marked by it. It was almost more than I could bear and I felt tears welling up behind my eyes. The very thing that brought me here—willing to leave my daughter’s side—was the belief that this man’s divinity somehow extended even to
my family. I now needed him to hear me and to acknowledge not only my need, but me as a person.
I felt like breaking down and crying, right there on the dirty floor. These past few months had been so hard on Izabel and me. Our road had been long and, until today, all of my hope had faded away. As I fought back tears I looked up at Jesus and said, “Yes, Lord, yet even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their masters’ table.” Hearing those words come out of my mouth was surprising even to me. Timidity had typically defined my persona and now I was challenging the honor of a Jewish man. I understood that this man’s purpose was to reveal his divine identity to Israelite Jews. But from all I had learned about him, I believed that this name, “son of God”—which many had ascribed to him—was somehow meant to include
all people. If I was to be compared to a dog, then could I not at least have a small portion of what he was offering to Israelite Jews? Why would he have helped other Greeks but refuse to help my daughter? After all Izabel and I had been through, I could not accept that this was to be our fate.
His reply came almost instantly. “Woman,” he said as he looked at me empathetically, “great is your faith!” I could hardly believe what I was hearing. “Let it be done for you as you wish.” Jesus then walked by, gently placed his hand on my head, and left the house. The other men quickly followed behind and the home was empty. Still kneeling, I felt sweat roll off of my face. Still astounded by what had just occurred, I now wondered what Jesus had meant. Was he going to find my daughter and drive the demon from her? Did he need me to lead him to my home? I got up and ran out of the house, but he was nowhere in sight. Frantic, I ran back toward my home, hoping to find him there. It was quiet as I approached the house. I slowly walked through the door, nervous and apprehensive. From the back room my neighbor ran toward me. “Adonia, Adonia!,” she exclaimed. “Izabel! She is healed!” I looked at my daughter, still lying on my bed. She looked up at me and smiled as I ran over to her. I held her in my arms and promised that everything would now be all right. The demon was gone and we were free.
I have long thought about that day. This man, Jesus, had made a profound and lasting impact on our lives. Our conversation lingers in my mind even now. Was he testing my faith in his divine ability? Was he challenging me, that I might rise above all the forces that had oppressed me? Or was there something deeper at work? Could it be that
I helped him to fully realize his purpose? Still, as I think more and more about this man, I think I understand something about him that is deeply personal. I believe that my own need to be known—
truly known and valued—reminded Jesus of his own need to be truly known. Over and over again he had given of himself, spiritually and emotionally. I had heard that his dear friend had been violently murdered. And then there were the many miracles and acts of healing, as well as being continually treated as a spectacle. By the time he arrived here he looked like a tired and broken man, just as I was a broken woman. When I challenged Jesus yet a third time, he looked directly into my eyes. For a brief, fleeting moment we shared something profound yet hard to define. I believe he realized the very thing I also had come to realize. In that brief instant Jesus saw not only my own need to be known and heard, but also his own. I needed Jesus to know my worth and he needed others to know his—beyond all the healing and miracles and things that he could
do for people.
4 I may have had great faith or I may have just been desperate to the point where I didn’t care about anything else except helping my daughter. My whole life had been determined by my family’s value and status—and we were viewed as having little-to-no worth. When I came to find Jesus I needed, more than ever before, to be heard. I needed someone to care about my daughter and myself. My needs and my value needed
acknowledgment. Whatever really happened that day, I know that Jesus and I connected, and it wasn’t simply due to my daughter’s illness. We shared the intimate awareness of needing to be known. Nothing would ever be the same again. ∆
Questions for Discussion
1- Imagine yourself as the mother in this story. To what lengths would you have gone to get help for your daughter?
2- What differences might exist between the faith of a person who has been oppressed and someone who has known only privilege?
3- Many thoughts have been proposed regarding Jesus’s response to the Canaanite/Syrophoenician woman. Why do you think that Jesus responded in the way he did to the woman’s request?
4- Is “great faith” dictated by a person’s actions, or is it rather named and given to one by God’s own action?
Footnotes:
1 Jennie R. Ebeling,
Women’s Lives in Biblical Times (London: T&T Clark, 2010), 46. Ebeling provides an in-depth look into the life of a fictional girl growing up in ancient Israel.
2 Sharon H. Ringe, “A Gentile Woman’s Story, Revisited: Rereading Mark 7.24-31” in
A Feminist Companion to Mark (ed. Amy-Jill Levine with Marianne Blickenstaff; England: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001), 84-85. Ringe notes the many competing tensions, such as a mix of different ethnicities and economic statuses, evident in rural communities surrounding Tyre and Sidon in the first century C.E.
3 John J. Pilch,
Healing in the New Testament: Insights from Medical and Mediterranean Anthropology (Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress, 2000), 76. In the Bible there is no interest in disease, as this concept was foreign. The primary interest for the ancients was identification of symptoms and to find a meaning for them. Lack of health was viewed as a socially devalued condition.
4 Barbara Brown Taylor,
The Seeds of Heaven: Sermons on the Gospel of Matthew (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2004), 63. Brown Taylor speaks beautifully about Jesus’s need to be known apart from all that he could do for people.
All scripture referenced from the New Revised Standard Version Bible, copyright © 1989 the Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America.
