S2 Assignment |Interpreting Enigma, Inclusion, and Marginalization in the Gospels

Years ago my wife and I were active in the Reconciling Congregation movement within the United Methodist Church. This movement worked for the full inclusion of LGBTQ people in the leadership and life of the church. We would often have to engage in intense, and sometimes heated discussions about homosexuality in relation to scripture and the faith in general. The story about Jesus and the Canaanite woman offers a way to challenge the thinking of moralistically thinking Christians.

What I think the writers wanted to demonstrate here was that even Jesus can have a change of heart. Jesus learned a lesson from the Canaanite woman about the nature of faith and the nature of God. If even the Son of God, the Lord and founder of Christianity, can change his mind and continue to grow in his understanding of God and who we are called to become, then so can we. The writers, by including this story in scripture, must have intended the reader to take note and expand their own perception of who is worthy, i.e., who is included in God’s family.

In these excerpts from my sermon, I reflect on my upbringing in a Pentecostal tradition where certainty was equated with holiness. The encounter between Jesus and the Syrophoenician woman helped me reconsider how boundaries function in faith communities and how persistence within ambiguity can become transformative.

Excerpt 1: 

I have to confess something. For years, I was the one dismissing others who didn’t believe the way I did. Raised Pentecostal. Church of God in Christ. King James version only. Certainty was holiness. Ambiguity was rebellion.

I believed boundaries protected God.

I remember trying to save a friend from hell with fear. When she left my room unconvinced, I fell on my knees and cried. I thought I was loving her. But my theology caused harm.

Then I found myself in a weekly prayer group—Black, Hispanic, white, Baptist, Pentecostal. Some gay. Some questioning. Some later came out as trans. We argued every week about sexuality. Most of us believed it was sin. Yet we kept praying together.

Our theology lagged behind our love.

***

Excerpt 2: 

And the woman does not retreat. She presses anyway.

She catches the metaphor. She places herself in it.

“Yes, Lord. Even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.”

And here is the shock: in both versions of the story, Jesus is the one who changes course—not the vulnerable woman.⁸

Church, do you see it?

The marginalized woman becomes the theologian.

The mother becomes the teacher.

 I am rude, or at least, I struggle with the conflation of rudeness and directness in handling confusion and/or conflict in my role as minister at the temples where I serve. Sometimes people in my spiritual community judge social encounters by the level of “Japanese-ness,” or proximity to dominant Japanese social norms in communication around harmony, polite language, and incredible subtlety, of those involved. This is a difficult dynamic for me to navigate due to a lot of personal reasons, mostly around the manipulative ways in which my mother, her side of the family, and our church engaged with me during my childhood. I learned from a very young age how to coddle the delicate emotions of my mother and critical elders in our fundamentalist churches. Most neurodivergent folks call this masking, or coerced practice of socially-acceptable behaviors as a means of survival rather than authenticity. For example, when talking about Pokemon as a kid around my mom or her church friends—Pokemon was something controversial in our church community—I was careful not to use words like “powerful” to describe these animated critters or “master” as the shared aspiration of all Pokemon fans. “None are powerful but God!” “Jesus alone is our master!” I carefully censored not only my language, but also my thoughts and behavior as a queer and transgender person, for obvious reasons. When I was in college, that 18 year-old dam of self-censoring burst, and now I sometimes have difficulty with balancing honesty and directness against passive-aggression, fawning, and tact.

These days, I struggle with the double bind of being one of only a few white/Euro-American ministers and the only openly transgender minister in a broader national ministerial community that is nearly homogenously Japanese or Japanese-American, male, and heterosexual. From the perspective of many in my community, I might be another rude white person with no tact. At other times, I’m praised for my “Japanese-ness” in being able to navigate difficult cultural difference—being given that adjective is really uncomfortable for me. I know that my whiteness is showing up in these relationships, and at the same time, so is my trauma, my neurodiversity, all along with my sexual orientation and gender identity. It’s never simply one of those things that make me rude or extra-culturally-sensitive. From my contemporary critical perspective, these complex notions of identity, deviance, and stress/trauma are all points of inquiry I bring to the story of Jesus, His disciples, and the Canaanite woman. Specifically with regards to this woman and the heaps of judgment I imagine her living under—judgment which the author blindingly highlights with their use of sacred tension.

One of the most formative boundary experiences in my life was entering a community where I was both an insider and an outsider at once. When I met my future husband, he was, in the words of his mother “more American than Iranian.” He’d come to the US from Iran as a teenager and was fully acculturated by the time I met him. When we married, the curtains pulled back on dozens of people who had strong opinions about what my husband should be doing and with whom. He had largely ignored them all these years, but here they were. I belonged in my marriage. But I didn’t belong in his culture.

The Syrophoenician woman uses language to assert her belonging. But in my case, I didn’t speak their language. Literally. They could say whatever they wanted about the situation and about me, and I understood nothing. However, even without access to their language, I understood where I stood. This tightly knit group, though located geographically in the US, preferred that Iranians should stick with each other.

Eventually I found a way in, through writing. My daughter wanted to know more about her Iranian side, and I ended up doing the women’s work that is cultural transmission, even though what I was uncovering and passing down was not mine to begin with. In order to process this paradox, I started writing about it. I was welcomed into a writing workshop on Iranian identity. According to the hosts of the workshop (both half-Iranian, half-American) I did have an Iranian identity, as the wife of an Iranian and as a mother to two Iranian-American kids. This workshop led eventually to the publication of an anthology of nonfiction writing from the Iranian diaspora. So, at the end of the day, through words and language, I found my way to a form of belonging.

The Syrophoenician woman used language, a turn of phrase, to catch Jesus off guard and to establish her belonging. My book – published by the University of Texas Press – gave me a kind of belonging that was not freely offered when I first entered this community.

revdebanderson@gmail.com Feb 13, 2026

As I engaged Mark 7:24–30, I was reminded of a moment early in my ministry when I encountered a boundary enforced through authority rather than policy. During my first call, a difficult personal situation developed which required a leave of absence, The congregation was understanding except for one member who took her concern to the bishop’s office. .

Sometime later, in conversation with the bishop, he described my actions in ways I knew were not true. When I named this, the conversation shifted. Rather than addressing the substance of my concern, he responded with a warning: “Are you aware of what you are calling me?” In that moment, truth gave way to hierarchy, and I backed away—not because I doubted what I knew, but because I recognized the boundary I had reached.

What links these two encounters for me is not similarity of circumstance, but similarity of structure. In both, authority establishes a boundary through language, and truth is reframed as a challenge to hierarchy. The difference lies in response: the Syrophoenician woman presses forward, while I recognized that persistence in that moment would exact a cost I could not bear.

Mark’s Gospel reminds us that faith does not always look like certainty or easy belonging. Sometimes faith takes shape in restraint as much as in persistence—in holding onto what is true and trusting that God is still at work, even when the boundary has not yet shifted.

Clark Kellogg

Theological Thinking

Prof. EunHye Grace So

L2A1, February 13, 2026

Reflect on an experience where you encountered ambiguity or a challenging boundary in your life…

My wife, Christina, has a good friend, Joanne, who she has known since high school. Joanne visited here while I was in Japan last week. She decided to come with her (uninvited) adult son to spend 4 days here. Both are lovely people, as is my wife. In addition to being lovely, Christina has Parkinson’s disease. She works hard at staying healthy and strong. She also enjoys being a good host and making people comfortable and well cared for when they stay in our home. At the same time, it’s obvious that Christina doesn’t have the energy she once did. I imagined Joanne and her son, Christopher, would be sensitive to Christina’s needs and be helpful to her.

The moment Christina and I saw each other on Saturday morning, I know something was off. The tables had turned. Christina was taking care of them. They needed help with every decision, every logistic, every meal. My arrival seemed only to provide another person to take care of them. The paradox of Christina being the caretaker of two seemingly healthy people struck me forcefully. As we all settled in (after the CRC class was over), they expressed lots of needs; drive them places; pick up their favorite meals; use my credit card to rent a car for the day adding, “I’m not sure my credit card will go through.”

There was little consideration of Christina’s needs nor empathy for her health. I sensed that Joanne was in denial about her friend’s Parkinson’s Disease and wanted to restore their traditional dynamics. The boundary I set was clear: Christina’s needs come before Joanne’s and Christopher’s. With that in place, the dynamics stabilized. I could take care of Christina and be helpful to our guests while not lending my credit card or buying them their favorite takeout meals. Setting this firm boundary gave us all an unambiguous way to be together. I won’t say it turned the visit around, but it stopped being stunningly odd.

It reminds me of something Christina once said, “Strong riverbanks let the water run freely.”

I was riding a bus home from St. Alphonsus Catholic School in Baltimore when I discovered what color I was. Before that moment, I don't believe color existed between me and my friend Kelly — I knew her grandmother, she knew my siblings, we spent the night at one another's homes. Then an older man looked at Kelly, with her light skin and gray-green eyes, and told her she was pretty. And my first thought was: why didn't he say anything to me? That question, quiet as it was, carried the full weight of being passed over — of being present and unseen at the same time. Not long after, I watched Flip Wilson present a montage of Black women on television, spanning every shade from the very lightest to the very darkest, and something shifted. I present in that sea color. Not defined by one man's selective gaze, but part of a continuum.

The Canaanite woman in Matthew and in Mark knew something about being passed over. Jesus does not answer her at all at first — she is present, she is shouting, and she is ignored. When he finally speaks, he names her as outside the circle of those deserving care. What moves me is that she does not accept invisibility as the final word. She steps inside the very language used to diminish her and turns it: even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from the master's table. Her faith is not passive — it is an insistence on being seen, on her need being real, on her daughter's life mattering. And Jesus, moved, responds. The boundary does not hold.

That question I asked on the bus — why didn't he say anything to me — was perhaps my first experience of being othered for how I looked, of my presence being passed over as though it did not quite register. The Canaanite woman and I share something in that moment: the sting of being in the room and still somehow outside it. But what her story offers me is a theology of persistence — the insistence that being overlooked is not the same as being unworthy, and that faith is, among other things, the refusal to accept someone else's failure to see you as the truth of who you are.

Amanda Weaver

I grew up with many boundaries in my community. As a Methodist in a majority LDS community, the way I was taught to look at the world was a bit different than the way most of my peers were taught. As conservative as my congregation was, it was in many ways worlds apart from the teachings of the LDS church. I vividly remember having dinner at a friend’s house in elementary school, and after the blessing, each child around the table had to say what they were going to do after high school. The boys all said they would go on a mission; the girls all said they would get married and start a family. I said I was going to be a doctor. That was the last time I was invited over to play. As I got older, I learned to shrink myself to fit the expectations of those around me. Internalizing those demands was a matter of survival then, but I still find myself reacting in the same way sometimes.

What I pull from the story of the Syrophoenician/Canaanite Woman this time is courage. She clearly recognized that she would be seen as an outsider and interloper; she asked anyway. She was prepared to be ignored and slighted. She expected to be pushed aside, and she had a reply prepared. That takes courage.

Leonard Bailey

Rhetorical Use of Text

2/13/26 - Week 2 Reflective Question 

One experience that really connects with the story of the Syrophoenician woman is when I have found myself in spaces where I knew I belonged spiritually, but it didn’t always feel like I belonged socially. I’ve grown up with faith as a core part of who I am. Church wasn’t just something we did—it was part of how I understood myself, my purpose, and my relationship with God. But when I got to college I began to notice subtle boundaries. Nobody openly told me I didn’t belong, but there were moments where I could feel it. Sometimes people were surprised by how I spoke, or they assumed my perspective would only fit into certain categories. It made me realize that even in spaces that talk about inclusion, there are still invisible lines.

That’s why the story of the Syrophoenician woman hits different. When she approaches Jesus, she’s already outside the circle. She’s not from Israel, she’s a woman, and she’s asking for something big. At first, Jesus doesn’t respond, and then he says he was sent only to Israel. On the surface, it sounds like rejection. But instead of backing down, she stays in the moment. She doesn’t argue angrily, but she also doesn’t accept being dismissed. She responds in a way that shows both humility and strength. She basically says, “Even the crumbs matter.” And somehow, that shifts everything. Jesus acknowledges her faith, and her daughter is healed.

What stands out to me is her persistence. She didn’t let the boundary define her worth. She stayed present, she spoke up, and she trusted that she deserved to be heard. That resonates with me because, as a Black man, persistence is something I’ve seen modeled my whole life. Our history is full of moments where we had to claim space in places that didn’t automatically make room for us. Faith wasn’t about comfort—it was about endurance and trust, even when things didn’t make sense.

This story also shows me that faith isn’t always clean or easy. Sometimes it involves tension, questions, and moments where you don’t fully understand what’s happening. But those moments can actually deepen your faith. They force you to reflect, to grow, and to see God working in ways you didn’t expect.

To me, the Syrophoenician woman’s story is about courage and persistence. It reminds me that faith isn’t passive. It’s something you live out, especially in moments where you could easily walk away. And sometimes, it’s those exact moments—the uncomfortable, uncertain ones—that reveal just how real and powerful faith actually is.

M. Cross

Rhetorical Use of Text

EunHye Grace So

Lesson 2, Assignment 1

Reflective Question

I’m just realizing I was the Syrophoenician woman. 

I went to an all-girls high school where the percentage of Black girls (including me) was 1%.  It wasn’t exactly culture shock as I was accustomed to mixing with people of different cultures, but this was different in that I had the feeling of ‘all eyes on me’.

It was the 70’s and most of the girls had never had reason or occasion to mix with Black people so I became the representative for my race.  In those days, anything an individual did, especially something wrong, reflected not only on your family but on the entire race.

Yes, I felt that I was perceived as different.  There were side looks, snickers, silly questions.  I knew what they thought of me.  Nevertheless, as my mother instructed, I was there to get an education, to get everything necessary for my future.  Just like the Canaanite woman’s persistence for her child’s healing, I had to ignore the offences because Incarnate Word Academy had what I needed.

An experience where I encountered ambiguity was in structuring access within Summons Productions—deciding who is ready to be platformed and who is not. I aim to create a high-level experience, which requires standards, preparation, and intention. However, that creates a tension between maintaining quality and providing opportunity, especially for artists who are still developing. The boundary is not always clear. It raises the question: am I creating a pathway for growth, or unintentionally limiting access?

My perspective is shaped by my own experience building without consistent support. That has made me value discipline and readiness. At the same time, it has made me aware of how difficult it is to gain access without someone willing to take a chance. This creates a constant negotiation in how I lead.

This tension connects to the interaction between Jesus Christ and the Syrophoenician woman. The exchange is layered with paradox and subversive language. There is an initial boundary that reflects exclusion, yet the woman responds in a way that both acknowledges and challenges it. Her persistence shifts the moment. What appears to be a fixed limit becomes an opening.

This story suggests that faith is not passive—it is persistent and engaged. Inclusion is not always immediate; it can emerge through challenge and response. The woman’s voice disrupts expectation and reveals that boundaries can be reconsidered.

For me, this offers a clear insight: leadership requires both structure and openness. While standards are necessary, they should not be rigid to the point of blocking growth. There must be room for people to press against the boundary and be seen. Faith, in this sense, is not just belief—it is the courage to remain present and push for expansion.

Rhetorical Use of Text - Week 2 - Reflective Question - Ogundipe



Assignment | Reflective Question

Reflect on an experience where you encountered ambiguity or a challenging boundary in your life—whether cultural, social, or personal. In your response, consider how the Gospel narratives (especially the interaction with the Syrophoenician/Canaanite woman) use paradox and subversive language to question traditional norms, and discuss what insights this offers regarding the nature of faith, inclusion, and persistence. 

One experience in my life where I experienced ambiguity or a challenging boundary was in the early days of my marriage where I was finding out how different recollections of experiences in a marriage can be. To come closer together and have a better understanding of each other, my wife and I found a Christian marriage counselor. On one occasion the counselor asked us what we would do if both of us were inside, looking out of a window and one of us swore it was raining and the other swore it was not. The answer should be obvious, but it was not at all obvious to us, or rather the answer that was obvious to us was wrong, if the goal was a healthy marriage. Our answers revolved around further and most likely more forcefully reiterating our point, but Pastor Pryor said: “you would both go outside and see together”.

To consider viewing things in this way one would have to have to have a level of humility. The kind of humility that the Syrophoenician/Canaanite woman had when she compared herself to a dog. It is only the dog, the one free of the idea of their own correctness or position of authority, that can have access to this level of humility and faith that would allow them to find peace with others.