God’s Word Protects (Cherish — 21 Days 2025 #3)

I want to start with a story from the Bible — one that appears twice, in Matthew and in Mark, and one that a lot of people find confusing. Some people genuinely dislike it. Years ago I saw a woman post online that this story was among the reasons she left Christianity. And when I told Jake which story I was opening with, he showed me a video of a woman speaking at a church who said she disliked it so much she had simply decided not to believe it was true, even though it is in the Bible.

The Woman Who Would Not Stop Asking

Jesus and His disciples travel to the region of Tyre and Sidon, north of where most of His ministry took place. Some Jews lived there, but the large majority were Greek-speaking Gentiles, many of them Syrophoenician.

One of these women approaches Him. She somehow knows who He is and what He can do, and she begs Him to heal her daughter, whom she believes is possessed by a demon.

Jesus says nothing. He simply stays silent and ignores her.

So she keeps begging. And pleading. And asking — to the point that it drives the disciples up the wall, and they finally turn to Him: can’t you do something? Make her go away. She’s annoying us. And still she keeps on.

Finally, in Matthew 15:24, Jesus looks at her and says, “I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel.” In other words: I am a Jew, sent to the Jews, and you are not one. You are not in the club. Sorry.

And it is almost as though she doesn’t hear it, because verse 25 says she just keeps asking: “Lord, help me.”

Then verse 26: “It is not right to take the children’s bread and throw it to the dogs.”

Most people read that as the children being the house of Israel and the dogs being Gentiles — because in Jesus’ day many Jews used “dog” as an insult for Gentiles, particularly those with no knowledge of the one true God who worshiped earthly things instead. Now you can see why the story bothers people.

Don’t Pull a Jefferson on This One

Thomas Jefferson famously took a Bible and cut out everything he disliked or doubted — most of the miracles went — while keeping the parts he found useful, like the moral teaching of Jesus.

The two women I mentioned wanted to pull a Jefferson on this story. And if that is your instinct, by all means — but you are robbing yourself, because there is something genuinely beautiful here that you will miss.

In Israel, dogs were street animals. Scavengers. Dirty, sometimes vicious. Calling someone a dog was a deep insult.

But the word Jesus uses here is in the diminutive form — a little dog. A puppy. And in the region of Tyre and Sidon, they kept dogs as pets. Beloved household animals.

So this woman does not hear an insult. She hears an invitation. She does not hear a put-down; she hears love. Which is exactly why she answers in verse 27: “Yes, Lord, yet even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their master’s table.”

Put off by silence, put off by I was sent only to Israel, put off by what sounds like an insult — she understands that the smallest word, the smallest touch, the smallest crumb from Master Jesus’ table would be more than enough to heal her daughter. So out of desperation she keeps coming.

And Jesus says: “O woman, great is your faith.” I picture Him grinning, because He has just shown His disciples that even these “dogs” matter deeply to God. And He heals her daughter.

I start there because that woman’s desperation is exactly the desperation we find in Psalm 119.

With my whole heart I cry; answer me, O Lord!… I call to you; save me… I rise before dawn and cry for help; I hope in your words. My eyes are awake before the watches of the night, that I may meditate on your promise… They draw near who persecute me with evil purpose; they are far from your law. But you are near, O Lord. — Psalm 119:145–151 (ESV)

We Are Very Calm People

Having done ministry a while and grown up in Iowa, one thing I notice about us Midwesterners is that we do not get too high or too low. Privately, sure. Publicly, no.

We might cheer at a game. We might shed a tear at the funeral of someone dear. But mostly we are calm and respectful. Look at how we greet each other — this exact exchange has already happened here this morning. How are you? And the answer is “Fine.” Not “Wonderful.” Not “Honestly, it’s awful.” No matter what is actually happening, we are fine.

Because if we admitted how low we were, we fear it would look like weakness. And if we got too excited, we’d look crazy. So we stay calm.

I see it in how we worship. There are churches around here more emotionally expressive, but most are fairly staid. Even in larger churches with production that could rival a concert — lights, excellent sound — I’ve noticed only about the front third are truly engaged. I was on staff at a large church once, and walking down the aisle you could see it: front third fully in it; middle third present, paying attention, hands in pockets; back third simply in the room.

That is a stereotype and probably a little unfair, but I have watched it repeat. And take that same Midwesterner and drop them into a charismatic church, or a Black church, or some Hispanic churches, and watch them respond to the exuberance in the singing and the interaction during the sermon: these people are crazy. Because that is not how we do it.

So We Turn the Volume Down on Scripture

That instinct shapes how we read the Bible. We come to Psalm 119 and hear this man’s desperation, or we watch the Syrophoenician woman refuse to stop even after being treated rudely — and we quietly turn the volume down. We put earplugs in. We don’t want to see someone that low, because low means weak or unstable, and surely the people of the Bible weren’t either.

So when the psalmist says he cries out, we decide that is poetic language. Surely he wasn’t actually crying out.

He was. That is precisely what these people were doing. And it turns out those of us who think we are the strong ones are the weak ones, because we rob ourselves of a genuine pursuit of God rather than be seen as desperate.

Verse 145: “With my whole heart I cry.” Not half-hearted. Not a portion given to God. Everything in him.

And that isn’t a one-off. Verse 146: “I call to you; save me.” Picture yourself hiking, out on a beautiful overlook, when you lose your balance. You catch the edge and you are hanging there. You are not going to be a polite Midwesterner about it — excuse me, could someone possibly pull me up, I’m in some danger of falling. No. You scream for help and you do not care how you sound, because your life is on the line.

That is this man. And in verses 147 and 148 he is waking before dawn, before the night watches, because he is that desperate.

Why Is He Still This Desperate?

What strikes me is how late in the psalm this comes. We are on day 19 of our 21 days — this is the nineteenth stanza. You would expect the desperation early on.

After all, we have seen that God’s word helps him focus on God, and seeing who God is and what He has done should bring peace. We saw last week that God’s word instructs us, and desperation makes a person teachable. So you would think he starts desperate and steadily improves, and that by stanza nineteen things are much better. We’re nearly at the end — Jake reminded us there are only two days left before we celebrate Tuesday night with worship and prayer.

Instead, here at the end, he is saying: God, I need you.

Why? Verse 150: “They draw near who persecute me with evil purpose.” He has been seeking the Lord through this entire psalm, and people are still against him.

So God’s word is not a magic formula that generates an invisible shield so nothing can touch you. There are people pursuing him with evil intent, abusing him with words, making him feel unsafe — perhaps threatening his family. We don’t know the details. We know he needs protection.

And he is desperate enough to know that protection will not come from a clever retort, and will not come from getting strong enough to fight back. It will come from God, and it will be found in God’s word.

His desperation sharpens his focus. It opens him up to be taught how to live and how to respond. That desperation is a gift — because the very place that looks like weakness is where he finds real strength.

So Let Me Ask: Are You Desperate?

Because honestly, I am not. Or rather — I am, in places. I know my sin is bad enough that only Christ could save me, and I am desperate for that and grateful for the cross and the empty tomb. I know I would not appreciate what I have in life anywhere near as deeply without God. And I am desperate for Him regarding this church, because Riverwood would not exist without Him and I live with a continual sense that the whole thing could fall apart — only God can make it grow.

And yet these 21 days have shown me I am nowhere near as desperate as I need to be. Because I caught myself thinking exactly what Jake joked about earlier: 21 days are nearly done, and then I can get back to… — as though whatever that is were more precious than what I have experienced during them.

And it has been a good 21 days. I honestly feared I would get bored — a stanza of Psalm 119 every day, and all the man does is talk about the Bible. Surely the most tedious three weeks imaginable. It has been the opposite. Rich days, good times of prayer.

But working on this passage exposed my heart. Here is the example.

Last November I took my annual spiritual retreat — partly to get away, partly to build the sermon calendar for the year. I decided to get off social media, which for me means one app, so I deleted it from my phone. Then I realized Thanksgiving was the following week and we’d be with family in Topeka, and I didn’t want the distraction — so I kept it off. Then Advent, which I knew would be busy, so I kept it off. And I always take it off for the 21 days of prayer anyway. So I committed to mid-November through January 21st with the app gone.

And I felt safe, because the browser experience is genuinely terrible.

A week or two ago I was working on something and thought, I could find that quickly there. But it doesn’t open on the search page — it opens the feed. And the first thing was interesting. So I read it. And then the next. I follow mostly sports and ministry, so it is wrestling and football and baseball news, and five or ten minutes later I surfaced and realized I hadn’t even looked up what I came for. Close call. I gave myself grace and moved on.

A couple of days later I was back. And in the last week or two it has been seven, eight, nine times — and I can no longer pretend it was research for a sermon. It was laziness. For someone who likes to read, that platform is like crack cocaine. It is right there, endlessly. I have strong thumbs because of it.

Then I sat down with Psalm 119:145–152 and realized I have moments where I appear more desperate for what is happening on a timeline than for the presence of God.

Years ago I read that the average lifespan of a post there was about nineteen seconds. Some go viral and last days; most of what I put out lasts about three. Nineteen seconds — and some days I have been more interested in those than in the eternal word of God.

I am clearly not as desperate for God as I need to be.

Guilt and Shame Are Lousy Tools

Don’t raise your hands, but some of you have had a moment like that too. Maybe you said you would fast during these 21 days, and you cannot even explain how, but you were right back to it. Maybe you meant to fast and never started. Maybe you walked out of here one Sunday with a devotional book and good intentions, and you have opened it three times. Maybe you planned to come in on a Tuesday morning for half an hour to pray, or to join us Tuesday evening — you even picked the hour that fit your schedule — and two Tuesdays have now gone by.

If that is you, then like me, your heart has been exposed, and you are not as desperate for God as you should be.

Now, at a moment like this a pastor or teacher or parent or coach will often reach for shame, laying guilt on people to move them. What I keep learning is that guilt and shame are lousy tools. They work wonders in the short term and they do not produce the long-term change any of us need.

So I am not going to heap shame on you. I do not need to tell you that you are a failure, because if you are like me, your own head and heart have been saying it already.

Instead — rather than hearing an insult, I want you to hear what the Syrophoenician woman heard. Love. Because God has so much more for you.

Here at day 19, still discovering how desperate we are and how much we need Him, the response is not great, the 21 days are nearly over. It is to carry what we have been learning into day 22, and 23, and 24, and the whole year, and the whole of our lives. Because it is at the place of desperation that God is strongest. It is when we are weakest that He is seen.

What Desperation Actually Looks Like

Desperation does not have to mean weeping or loud wailing. It can — but it doesn’t have to. You can wail and not be desperate at all, because you are performing, making sure everyone notices how desperate you are. The goal is not to gain the attention of anyone around you. It is to gain the attention of God.

Desperation is an honest heart saying: I don’t care what those around me think, because I need Him. If you are doing it for attention, then you plainly do care.

So if tears come, let them; you are not weak. If you need to get on your knees, get on your knees. If you need to stand with your hands raised in surrender, do it — not for anyone else’s notice, simply to connect with your God.

Some of you are in the middle of something right now. This is your chance to cry out: God, I am desperate for you to heal this relationship. I am desperate for you to provide that job. I am desperate for you to teach me to handle money in a way that honors you. I am desperate, because I do not know what to do anymore, and I need you to do it.

Forgive us for the times we act as though we have it together — unwilling to show much excitement or much sadness, staying strong and calm, imagining that somehow lends You dignity or lends us ours. Because as we have seen in the Syrophoenician woman and in the psalmist, the heart You call and welcome is the desperate one, honest enough to admit it needs You more than anything.

Crumbs from the Master’s Table

As we come to communion, go back to where we started. When Jesus said it was not right to give the children’s bread to the dogs, she answered: “Yes, Lord, yet even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their master’s table.”

She recognized Him as Master. Her desperation drew her to Him, and she understood He was calling her a beloved pet — so she said, in effect, yes, I am yours; I am under you, the Master.

May you realize that you are under a God who is gracious and loving, quick to forgive, slow to anger, abounding in steadfast love. That is the God we come to, because that is the God we are desperate for.

Bring that desperation to the table. Because it is at the Master’s table that the crumbs of the bread are found — the bread of the One who gave His life for us — and the drops of the blood that was shed. That is where we find life.