(This is another guest post from frequent commenter Margie)

“And she answered and said unto him, Yes, Lord: yet the dogs under the table eat of the children’s crumbs.” (Mark 7:28)

One of the things, as I’ve aged, that I have often wondered at is how infrequently I argue with Jesus of the New Testament. I see questioning and doubt as healthy things. When a story or text makes me uncomfortable, when I don’t like it, that is my own internal cue to pay careful attention. And yet very few things that Jesus of Nazareth said or did as recorded in scripture give me much pause. I am not claiming that I understand them all. Many of the parables are full of nuances that I am sure escape me. And the older I get, the less I understand the Atonement. But I read very little of what Jesus said or did in the New Testament and think, “But wait! That is wrong.”

The story of the woman and her daughter in Matthew 15 and Mark 7 is one of the exceptions for me. Here it is in Matthew:

22 And, behold, a woman of Canaan came out of the same coasts, and cried unto him, saying, Have mercy on me, O Lord, thou Son of David; my daughter is grievously vexed with a devil.

23 But he answered her not a word. And his disciples came and besought him, saying, Send her away; for she crieth after us.

24 But he answered and said, I am not sent but unto the lost sheep of the house of Israel.

25 Then came she and worshipped him, saying, Lord, help me.

26 But he answered and said, It is not meet to take the children’s bread, and to cast it to dogs.

27 And she said, Truth, Lord: yet the dogs eat of the crumbs which fall from their masters’ table.

28 Then Jesus answered and said unto her, O woman, great is thy faith: be it unto thee even as thou wilt. And her daughter was made whole from that very hour.

And here is the story in Mark:

24 And from thence he arose, and went into the borders of Tyre and Sidon, and entered into an house, and would have no man know it: but he could not be hid.

25 For a certain woman, whose young daughter had an unclean spirit, heard of him, and came and fell at his feet:

26 The woman was a Greek, a Syrophenician by nation; and she besought him that he would cast forth the devil out of her daughter.

27 But Jesus said unto her, Let the children first be filled: for it is not meet to take the children’s bread, and to cast it unto the dogs.

28 And she answered and said unto him, Yes, Lord: yet the dogs under the table eat of the children’s crumbs.

29 And he said unto her, For this saying go thy way; the devil is gone out of thy daughter.

30 And when she was come to her house, she found the devil gone out, and her daughter laid upon the bed.

It is, to me, an ugly way to convey a message; even the message itself, depending on how you read the text, is ugly. It is one of the rare times I read and think, “Well, Lord, whatever the context, whatever it is You were trying to teach us about timing, or humility, or the immorality of our own preconceptions, this was badly done of You. You should not have made this desperate, canny woman and her daughter into an object lesson for our benefit, or forced her to depict herself and her child as less-than. Not cool.”

I have heard many apologists make many claims about why I should really be okay with this story. None of them work for me.

A perfect, all-loving, omnipotent God should do better. (Says this flawed, selectively-loving, limited mortal.)

Yesterday, I went to the baptism of an eight-year-old in our ward–a really great kiddo. I’m the Primary President, and they needed a pianist, so off I did go. This boy’s large extended family were all in attendance, so the event began in the chapel. I looked out at the congregation and noted the boy’s mom, who is a counselor in Primary and a friend, looking lovely in a new dress. Her son and husband were in their very weird white jumpsuits sitting right next to her with the other kids in the family. And I smiled remembering my own baptism at eight and how weird my own dad and I looked, and how excited I felt to be making this commitment to a Savior I deeply believed in. My extended family was all there too.

We sang the opening hymn, heard a cousin speak about the importance of baptism, and then proceeded to the Young Women’s room, which is where the font is in our meetinghouse. Neither of my own two daughters, who are still in their elementary school years, wanted to be baptized, and there aren’t many children in our ward. So I haven’t been to many baptisms in the last few years.

As the boy and his father walked down to the center of the font, my friend and her mother came forward and stood at either side. I realized it was the first time I had ever been present for a Priesthood ordinance witnessed by two adult women. The father performed the ordinance and then looked up to his wife and mother-in-law, who both nodded, beaming.

Reader, I was profoundly moved. This crumb, this peripheral participation, which now can be performed by even a child, should not have meant to me what it did.

It was my grandfather and my stake president who witnessed my own baptism. I loved those men. But what would it have meant to me if my mother and my grandmother, who were seated in the crowd, had instead been the ones standing beside the font? If I could have seen my own father looking to them for confirmation that the ordinance had been properly performed? If it had been their joyful smiles, instead of the rather curt nods of the men, that greeted me as I emerged from the water?

“Mama,” my then-eight-year-old said a few years ago, “if you could baptize me, I’d probably want to get baptized. But if you can’t do it, then I don’t want to.” By rights, women and their daughters should have a place at the feast. In a world that worked anything like it should, this would not be a point of debate. Many people make all sorts of arguments about why I should really be okay with this state of affairs. None of them work for me. A Church that purports to speak for a perfect, all-loving omnipotent God should do better.

But like that other mother from so long ago, I know this too: the crumbs matter.

What do you think? Do the crumbs matter? Do they matter enough? Can you think of any examples?

Are there stories in scripture that you dislike but still find value in? Which and why?