What is surprising is to watch how Jesus reacts. Let us consider the scene again, from the beginning. Jesus delivers a racist rebuke: “It is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs” (Matt. 15:26). The woman responds with a bit of rhetorical brilliance—a pointed quip, a comic reversal of his words: “Yes, Lord, yet even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their masters’ table” (Matt. 15:27). Perhaps she speaks meekly, using the language of his own racism in an effort to ingratiate herself to him, thus subverting the rules of an oppressive system for her own need. Or perhaps she tosses his words back to him in a witty and sarcastic rebuke. We can’t really know. Regardless, the fundamental content of her retort is: Jesus is wrong. Specifically, his prejudice has led him to a false and unjust conclusion.
And now we encounter a startling and graceful surprise. In contrast to his later day interpreters, Jesus offers no defense; no explanation, no gas-lighting, no appeal to intent, no evasion or disengagement, no tone policing. He does not recenter himself. Instead, he simply states: “For saying that, you may go—the demon has left your daughter” (Mark 7:29).
A short phrase, but there is so much in that statement.
“For saying that . . .” that is, he amplifies her voice. He acknowledges, for anyone who is listening, that the woman’s critique was valid and her witness has proved it. This healing he will perform is not a matter of mercy, but one of justice. She was right and he was wrong. By contrast, White fragility moves to recenter our own voices. And if we do happen to engage in antiracist action, we frame it as a kind of largess of character, rather than simply a matter of paying what is owed.
“. . . [Y ]ou may go . . .” that is, he asks nothing further of her: neither thanks, nor recognition, nor absolution, nor even reconciliation. Whereas, White fragility demands that should we do right, we must be thanked, and acknowledged, and forgiven, and told we are friends again and that all is well.
“The demon has left your daughter.” Finally, he amends his behavior, and delivers her justice. (Mark’s account is kind enough to confirm for us that the girl was, in fact, healed.) He makes amends and focuses on what must be done. White fragility, by contrast, will focus on intention, sentiment, and statement, rather than change, action, and restitution.
At one point in her work, DiAngelo recounts posing a question to people of color:
“What would it be like if you could simply give [White people] feedback, have us graciously receive it, reflect, and work to change the behavior?”14 “It would be revolutionary,”15 a man of color replied with a sigh. Mark 7:29 shows us what that revolution could look like in practice.
We might ask ourselves—and I do—why the Evangelists would include this very unflattering story of the Messiah whom they loved, and his racism. We might wonder why they reported this singular and unique story of Jesus losing an argument. That is a good question.
In one anecdote, DiAngelo recalls a moment when her own thoughtless racist behavior is brought to her attention. She approaches the woman she wounded to work for repair. She listens, she acknowledges, she commits to change, she makes restitution, as far as was possible, and says “thank you.” And then she recalls , “I ask Angela if there is anything else that needs to be said or heard so that we may move forward. She replies that yes, there is. ‘The next time you do something like this, would you like feedback publicly or privately?’ she asks. I answer that given my role as an educator, I would appreciate receiving the feedback publicly, as it is important for White people to see that I am also engaged in a lifelong process of learning and growth.”16
Like DiAngelo, Jesus is an educator: “Teacher” is the title to which he most frequently answers. As an educator, the inclusion of this story is important, because in it he shows us how to receive criticism, even rebuke, when we have engaged in racist behavior. When reading this story from Mark, Jacob Slichter noted admiringly, “He had the courage to do his learning publicly.”17 Unfortunately, such courage is rare; but if we hope to learn how to listen for Black lives, we must claim it.
When we contrast, on the one hand, how simply, directly, and readily Jesus receives criticism for his racist behavior, and, on the other, the convoluted contortions interpreters use to explain his racism away; when we consider our own reluctance to acknowledge and name his behavior as a kind of racism, and how this reluctance blinds us to the actual Good News of the story (that is, that the woman receives justice, that Jesus repents and changes, and that it is possible for us to do the same), then we must consider this conclusion: White fragility not only keeps us from talking meaningfully about racism; it also keeps us from hearing the gospel. We court a double danger when we allow White fragility to deafen us; when we let it stop us from listening for Black lives.
For Black people, this danger is measured in harassment, lost jobs, broken bones, and worse. For us, the danger comes in the possibility of spiritual death. As Bonhoeffer notes:
He who can no longer listen to his brother will soon be no longer listening to God either; he will be doing nothing but prattle in the presence of God. This is the beginning of the death of the spiritual life, and in the end there is nothing left but spiritual chatter and clerical condescension arrayed in pious words.18
Thus, it can be rightly said, if we are to preach for Black lives, indeed, if are to preach at all, we must first learn to listen for Black lives. And this involves following Christ’s example, putting aside our defensiveness, and receiving the witness of Black voices, whatever tone they take, as the manifest grace of God in our lives.
1. By his own acknowledgment, Bonhoeffer’s radical understanding of discipleship was profoundly shaped by his time as a member of Harlem’s Abyssinian Baptist Church, and the teaching of its then pastor, the Rev. Adam Clayton Powell. Sr. Dr. Reggie Williams documents and explores this connection in his book Bonhoeffer’s Black Jesus: Harlem Renaissance Theology and an Ethic of Resistance (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2014).
2. Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Life Together: A Discussion of Christian Fellowship (San Francisco: HarperSan-Francisco, 1978), 97.
3. Robin J. DiAngelo, White Fragility: Why It’s So Hard for White People to Talk about Racism (Boston: Beacon Press, 2018).
4. DiAngelo, White Fragility, 129.
5. W. E. B. Du Bois, “The Souls of White Folk,” in Darkwater: Voices Within the Veil (New York: Harcourt, Brace & Co, 1920), 29–52.
6. James H. Cone, God of the Oppressed (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis, 1997), 123.
7. DiAngelo, White Fragility, 57.
8. DiAngelo, White Fragility, 69.
9. John Macarthur, Macarthur Study Bible New King James Version (Nashville: Thomas Nelson, 1998), 1475.