I am Justus. I am a Jew. A son of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.

An Israelite in whom, unlike my friend Nathaniel, there is considerable artifice and duplicity. My forebear was among the greatest of our Jewish ancestors, none other than Joseph, ruler of Egypt and son of Jacob. As a Jew I have pondered what it means to be among God's "chosen" race. Jehovah-Jireh (The Lord provides, or The Lord sees) has been among us for so many years. Yet we know that he is not just our God. He is the God of all that exists, the earth, the sun, moon, sky and stars, as well as that which we cannot see. He is the God of all. Yet he has chosen a small race of people. He could just as easily have chosen a tribe of pygmies from the heart of Africa or the Mongols of Asia or some people from a distant new world in another time.

And as I ponder, I ask myself why? The answer to this question does not concern our ethical propriety, that we were somehow more deserving. A superficial glance at the history of our race demonstrates conclusively that we are not. Even Jacob (Israel) himself was a man of degenerate character. Abraham? Did he not attempt to prostitute his own wife?

So why indeed? The answer, I conclude, lies not in our merit, but in the purpose implicit in the question itself. God chose us to accomplish a mission. We are his chosen channel of communication to the nations of the earth to bear witness of his love and compassion. And so his Son. That he is the perfect expression of the Creator, that he is the Creator himself, is perfectly consistent with that purpose. So it is appropriate that he is a Jew. It could not be otherwise.

People wonder why God would send his Son to this earth among all the bodies of the universe? Why did he create man here instead of somewhere else among the stars? He had to start somewhere. Why not here? He had to use some nation, some group of people. Why not us? And let there be no mistake: The reason we Jews exist is that we are to be God's vessel of love to the nations, the whole of mankind. We are privileged to be a marker, a waypoint, a sign for the world's inhabitants to know that he loves them. This was made abundantly clear to me the next morning.

We had journeyed northwest into the higher elevations near the borders of Tyre, the capital city of Phoenicia; a special freshness was in the air, bearing a salt edge blowing in from the Great Sea to the west. As on other occasions, Jesus did not want anyone to know we were here. We stayed for several days in the home of Elkanah, a cousin of Peter, who seemed glad to see us. The place was comfortable, almost built, it seemed, for the very purpose of retreat and refreshment in the back valleys of the hills. Elkanah knew the value of privacy and quiet. He lived every day of his life this way. It was a perfect place for the rest and seclusion Jesus sought. However, his desire to keep it all secret, to be hidden away in this quiet Eden, was frustrated yet again.

On the morning in question, as we had just breakfasted, we noticed through the window a woman standing in the grass which surrounded Elkanah's home. She had been there each day, crying and clearly waiting for Jesus to come out. We could tell by her dress that she was not Jewish, no doubt a native Phoenician. Her features looked Greek. We Jews are raised with terrible prejudice. For a race so selected by God to be his instrument to all men, we are a self-absorbed, churlish lot. This woman by her accident of birth was to us worse than a Samaritan.

When Jesus at length went out to her, she fell at his feet and wailed, "Have pity on me Lord, Son of David. Have pity on my daughter. She is sorely afflicted with an evil disease." Lord? Son of David? How came this woman from a gentile nation to know who he is? How came she to be aware of his Jewish ancestry or even the knowledge of the great king she had named?

Here, I thought Jesus did a most curious thing. He reached out and laid his hand on her shoulder as if to comfort her, but he answered her not a word, apparently ignoring her. Turning to us, he raised his eyebrows as if asking, "What do you think I should do?" Typically, we readily volunteered, "Dismiss her! She has been howling around here since we arrived."

Howling? thought Jesus incredulously. Then he spoke to the woman, "I think my friends would have you believe that I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel."

The woman, utterly ignorant of why Jesus was sent, appealed to him, begging him even more intensely, "Lord, help me!" she cried.

Jesus withdrew from her, distant, aloof, as if this whole scene were distasteful to him. He said with some sarcasm, some would even say contempt, "I am sorry, madam, but we wouldn't want to take the children's bread and throw it to the house dogs." He looked at us, raising an eyebrow. "Would we, gentlemen?" His gaze was weary, as though expecting the usual disdain. The woman was not sure of what Jesus was saying or doing. She had felt the warm assurance of his hand on her shoulder, yet she was afraid of his words. Still, the way he looked at the disciples made it seem as if his words did not carry the brutality of their obvious meaning. It was then that it struck me precisely what Jesus was doing. He was speaking not to her, but to us, his own disciples! He had known all along what he would do for this suffering woman. And in the process he wanted us to see our own poverty of spirit, our own demonized attitudes and the insipid paucity in our own self-righteousness.

Suddenly her eyes brightened. It appeared to dawn on her exactly what Jesus was doing as well, for with shimmering delight, she said to him, "Oh, yes, Lord! For even the house dogs eat of the children's crumbs that fall from the master's table."

Then Jesus laughed, delighted, and said to her, "Yes! My dear sister, how great is your faith! Your request is granted. It is more than granted!" Then with palpable tenderness, "Go, dear woman, and reclaim your daughter. The disease has left her already." Her eyes widened. Her hands embraced her face with wonder. She could not speak. She merely backed away from Jesus, turned and ran away. A report came back that when she arrived home, she found her child lying in bed, gently asleep. The evil illness was gone.