Mary or Martha? No Thanks.

I’m 99.9% sure that I have never used the phrase “in the Greek text” during a sermon. Unless you’re speaking to a seminary community or the rector of a church full of classicists, it’s pompous. No one needs to know that I know the Greek and that I am thus the well-educated dispensary of proper knowledge without whom the masses would be ignorant. In other words, boasting in a sermon about what the Greek text says is a lot like the priest who does everything in Latin back when only the wealthy and educated knew Latin.

That being said…the Greek text behind this Sunday’s gospellesson has two points that I am desperate to get into a sermon this Sunday (even though I’m not preaching), and I’m going to have to figure out how to do it.

One way I’ve tried in the past is to say something more casual and slightly less boasting when comparing the English translation (usually the NRSV) with the Greek text: “The word ‘xxxx’ can also mean ‘yyyy.’” Another way is to read from a different English translation that gets closer to the sentiment I have in mind. This week, if I were preaching, I might have to do both. That’s because, when I read the story of Mary and Martha in Luke 10, two words jump out at me with bold, flashing, emergency-red lights: “distracted” and “better.”

Luke, the narrator, writes, “But Martha was distracted by many tasks.” I like that word. I like what it says about Martha. I like that she isn’t being criticized for her hospitality, nor is she being singled out for her busyness. The point of contention is the distraction that the work of preparing to host Jesus and his friends has become. The Greek word in verse 40 that is translated as “distracted” is “περιεσπατο.” Apparently (I had to look it up), that word literally means “pulled about.” In other words, Martha is being pulled in too many directions. She needs to “let go and let God”—advice this unrecovered obsessive has never found all that helpful.

Later on, when Jesus speaks to Martha, the NRSV uses the words “worried” and “distracted” to convey Jesus’ gentle criticism, but the Greek words are “μεριμνας” and “θορυβαξη,” which literally mean, “anxious/mentally troubled with cares” and “turbid,” respectively. In other words, Martha is letting her anxiety and turbidity “cloud” her spiritual sight. She has stirred up too much of a fuss.

For someone like me—who resents Mary both for her torpidity and the fact that she gets praised for it—hearing Jesus call her choice the “better” gets under my skin. Sure, I need to become more like a Mary and less like a Martha, but I doubt we could say that all of us should become “Maries.” (What’s the plural of “Mary?”) How would anything get done? The Greek word for “better” is “αγαθην,” which means “good, useful, pleasant, agreeable, joyful, happy.” There is probably implied a comparative use of that adjective, but many translations render it simply as “the good part” without throwing Martha totally under the bus.

As strange as this might sound for someone who’s getting all uppity about the Greek text, I think I like the rendering that The Message gives for this passage best:

38-40 As they continued their travel, Jesus entered a village. A woman by the name of Martha welcomed him and made him feel quite at home. She had a sister, Mary, who sat before the Master, hanging on every word he said. But Martha was pulled away by all she had to do in the kitchen. Later, she stepped in, interrupting them. “Master, don’t you care that my sister has abandoned the kitchen to me? Tell her to lend me a hand.”

41-42 The Master said, “Martha, dear Martha, you’re fussing far too much and getting yourself worked up over nothing. One thing only is essential, and Mary has chosen it—it’s the main course, and won’t be taken from her.”

Martha is getting “pulled away”—the literal for “distracted”—by her many tasks. Jesus notes that the is “fussing far too much” and “getting…worked up”—which convey the turbidity implied by the Greek. And then Jesus commends Mary not for being a better disciple but for choosing the only “essential” portion, which gives me enough wiggle room to sit at the table with that lazy good-for-nothing.

Maybe it’s not right for me to tweak the text until it says what I want it to say. Or maybe we live in a word that forces this gospel into a dichotomy that it isn’t really supposed to present. This isn’t about choosing to be either a Mary or a Martha but about not getting pulled away from what’s important. The Message isn’t approved for use in public worship in the Episcopal Church (nor should it be), but I might suggest starting a sermon by reading from it anyway.

When Is It God's Will?

I think elections are fascinating things. Somehow, despite being actively opposed by nearly half of the population, a president manages to govern an entire county. Somehow, despite having to share a lunchroom table with her opponents, a classroom president manages to stay friends with everyone. Sometimes we welcome a particular election result, and sometimes we gripe about it for four or eight years (maybe even longer). Decades later, we look back on certain leaders with admiration even though we likely would not have supported them at the time. Occasionally, my affection for a particular politician will evaporate overnight. Politics and the elections behind them are curious beasts.

Although no vote was ever cast, I would guess that transitions of power in ancient Israel were just as intriguing. In today’s OT lesson (1 Samuel 16:14-17:11), we read part of the transition from Saul to David. David, of course, had already been chosen and anointed king—even though hardly anyone knew it (see 1 Sam. 15). Saul was still the ruler of Israel, but he had managed to lose God’s support, and, not surprisingly, the king of God’s people had a hard time ruling without the support of that all-important constituency of one. In today’s reading, Saul is tormented by an evil spirit, and David is asked to play the lyre for him in order to bring peace to the troubled king. Saul’s love for the young musician grows, and he chooses him to be his royal armor-bearer. Ironic, of course, that the outgoing king, who doesn’t even know he’s on his way out, chooses his already-appointed successor as an attendant.

The opening verse from today’s reading is what got me thinking about elections: “Now the spirit of the LORD departed from Saul, and an evil spirit from the LORD tormented him.” I read that, and I wondered what made the author so sure that the evil spirit was from the Lord. Actually, that’s a pretty bold statement—that God himself was responsible for the evil that tormented a person. That’s a mixture of oil and water, of gasoline and matches. Yet the author is clear—it’s Yahweh himself who sends the evil upon the king. I wonder what sort of attribution would be made if Saul were more popular?

I think the reason the bible is able to attribute evil to God himself is because both the author and readers of scripture know how the story ends. With generational hindsight, it becomes possible to say that God himself withdrew his favor from Saul—even tormented him. At the moment it happened, I’m not sure it would have been so clear. But we know what happens. We know about David and Goliath. We know about Saul’s plot against David. We know about his struggles with the Philistines. We know about his military defeat and eventual suicide. And, perhaps more importantly, we know about David and his victories and his popularity and, despite his foils, his heart-in-heart relationship with God. And so we can look back and say that God had his hand in the whole thing—even in the convoluted, underhanded, rather earthy way that it all happened.

It takes years and years and years for us to figure out how God is working through a particular situation. It takes generations for us to look back and see how a dark spot in our history turned out for good. None of us is in a position to connect all of the present dots with certainty. The affair of human beings continue, and God’s relationship with the world continues, but figuring out how the two overlap and intersect and even coalesce into one takes generations. I am encouraged, therefore, that I don’t have to figure it out. Faith isn’t understanding how. It’s trusting that even the outcomes I don’t like are somehow a part of God’s loving relationship with the world.

Justified By Whom?

As a senior in college, I interviewed for a graduate fellowship. It was an intimidating process. All of the candidates met together with the interviewers for a social gathering on the evening before the interviews were conducted. Then, the next morning, one by one, we were shown into a conference room, where a dozen bloodthirsty experts grilled us on every level.

At one point, one of the interviewers asked me a question about quantum mechanics. As I gave my answer, I heard a phrase come out of my mouth that didn’t quite sound right. I saw the eyes of my interrogator light up. He had heard it, too. So he repeated his question to see if I would say it again. But I wasn’t smart enough to figure out exactly what was going on, and I wasn’t self-aware enough to stop and admit that I wasn’t sure what I was talking about. So I hanged myself on my words. And all because that one little thing popped out of my mouth. Within seconds, I could tell that I would not be receiving the fellowship.

Kind of like this week's gospel lesson.

Just then a lawyer stood up to test Jesus. "Teacher," he said, "what must I do to inherit eternal life?" He said to him, "What is written in the law? What do you read there?" He answered, "You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength, and with all your mind; and your neighbor as yourself." And he said to him, "You have given the right answer; do this, and you will live."

But then, Luke tells us, the lawyer went too far. Apparently he wasn’t paying attention in law school when the professor taught him not to ask a question he didn’t know the answer to: “But wanting to justify himself, he asked Jesus, ‘And who is my neighbor?’” Uh oh. When a gospel writer tells his readers that you are trying to justify yourself, it can’t be good. You don’t stand up to Jesus and try to make yourself look good. That just won’t work. So Jesus tells him a little story that cuts his ego in two and leaves him wishing he hadn’t asked that follow-up question.

This week, I find that I am being confronted by my need for self-justification. Instead of asking, “Am I good enough?” I too often ask, “Aren’t I good enough?” Instead of depending only on God’s grace and mercy, I find myself making a case for my own salvation. Like many preachers, I have a high need for affirmation, but this gospel lesson is forcing me to reconsider the source of the affirmation I need. God promises to love me despite my deepest failings, so why am I still trying to prove myself worthy of God’s love? Jesus tells the parable not to shame the lawyer into action or to guilt him into repentance but to remind him of the nature of God’s love. Will he love the way the Good Samaritan does? No. Will I? Will you? No. But God does, and that’s all that matters.

Loving All Your Neighbors

Who is your neighbor? We just finished a VBS curriculum called “Everywhere Fun Fair,” which had an international carnival theme. Children were encouraged to think about their neighbors around the world. Each day, we learned about a different culture and a different way of being a good neighbor: “neighbors are welcoming” and “neighbors are forgiving.” This Sunday, with the Parable of the Good Samaritan, that theme seems to have come to our gospel lesson, but I think overemphasizing the cultural difference between Jews and Samaritans might miss the point of Jesus’ story.

Many sermons this Sunday will expound upon the bitter resentment between Jews and Samaritans. The Ethic, religious, and historical rivalry between them was unparalleled. I’ve heard sermons likening their hatred to that of Alabama and Auburn fans, which of course is silly. I might tell disparaging jokes about students of a particular “cow college,” but I’m not going to jump out of the bushes and beat and rob them (a common practice of the day) just because they wear orange and blue. I’ve heard preachers encourage their congregations to think of people with different socio-economic backgrounds as the neighbors that Jesus had in mind, but that misses the point, too. Even though we may be embroiled in an immigration controversy, we don’t live next-door to an entire country of people whom we identify as blood enemies. I can’t think of an analogy that really does the weird and complex intertwined racial, sexual, religious, and political hatred that existed between Jews and Samaritans. But that’s ok—that’s not the point of the parable anyway.

After telling the story, Jesus asked the man, “Which of these three, do you think, was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of the robbers?” We know the answer—as the lawyer replied, “The one who showed him mercy.” But that suggests that being a neighbor isn’t simply about blowing up ethnic divisions. It’s about showing mercy. The point of this parable isn’t simply to teach us that everyone is our neighbor—though that’s half of it. The point is to connect that broader concept of being a neighbor to the original commandment—love your neighbor as yourself.

In other words, if everyone is your neighbor, what are you going to do about it? Honestly, being nice or showing mercy to one Auburn fan isn’t so hard. Taking care of one stranger in distress doesn’t make me a saint. I’m supposed to love everyone as I love myself—with the same instinct of care and self-preservation that is built into my biological heritage. The role of the Samaritan in the parable isn’t to make us a hand-holding, race-less utopia (though that’s what the kingdom of God is like). The Samaritan’s role is to force us to consider the cost of showing mercy to absolutely everyone.

If you’re preaching this week (and I am), consider saying less about the rivalry between Jews and Samaritans and more about what it means to love everyone as much as you love yourself. Don’t stop with the love of a rival. Don’t limit Jesus’ instruction to the one person you like the least. The real gospel message here is that we are to love the world the way God does, which is more than a merely racially-blind approach to the world.

To Be an American Christian

What does it mean to be an American Christian?

On my first real trip overseas, I was accosted in a restaurant in Bangkok by a British ex-pat who accused our group of Americans of abandoning our allies during the Falklands War. “Where were you during the Falklands War?” he demanded of us. His yelling continued. I interrupted to tell him that I wasn’t even two-years-old at the time and that I was probably at home with my parents, oblivious to American foreign policy and instead learning how to say words like, “Falklands War.” He was not amused.

Later on that same trip, I visited a war monument in Ho Chi Minh City. A pile of twisted army-green metal and other wreckage was on display with a proud Vietnamese flag hoisted at the top of the pile and next to it a photograph of a war hero who had shot down that B-52 bomber. I immediately thought about my next-door neighbor who had fought in Vietnam and whose sacrifice still seemed to characterize his life. We honor our war heroes, and, of course, our enemies honor theirs. It was a strange trip.

What does it mean to be an American? What does it mean to be an American Christian?

Today is the eve of Independence Day, and, since we don’t have church tomorrow, it’s an opportunity I couldn’t pass up. So, with apologies to the lectionary and the rubrics of the prayer book, I want to focus on a peculiar religious celebration that is Independence Day.

Our national experiment was founded 237 years ago. It was initiated with hope and promise. It was built upon the dreams of those who had set sail in preceding generations. These United States were organized around principles like liberty and justice and equality. We left behind the old ways of being a people and started something new. For many of our patriot ancestors, America was a bright and shining “city on a hill”—a beacon of hope and freedom to all nations. As the collect for Independence Day states, the work of our founding fathers was to “[light] the torch of freedom for nations then unborn.” If it wasn’t to be paradise, it was to be close.

There’s a reason these lessons were chosen for IndependenceDay. The author of the letter to the Hebrews recalls for his readers the pilgrimage of Abraham, who set off in faith in search of a new homeland. Throughout the centuries, God’s people continued their search for that promised land, though, as the author reminds us, their hearts were set not simply on a land flowing with milk and honey but on a heavenly country where God would be pleased to be called their God. In case you haven’t figured it out, that heavenly country isn’t the United States of America. As much as we love our country, our hearts are still set on someplace else.

Of all the gospel lessons to read on Independence Day, why do you think the architects of our lectionary picked Matthew 6: “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you?” What a powerful thing to remember on the anniversary of our nation’s birth. We might be following God’s plan, but we do not have an exclusive claim to his providence. The “land of the free and the home of the brave” might be the new chosen land, but only if our sights are set on welcoming the stranger. As American Christians, we should celebrate the birth of our country and all things patriotic. We should process our flag and set off our fireworks. But, while we hold our sparkler in one hand, we must hold God’s word in the other.

We must remember what it means to be citizens not only of this great nation but of God’s kingdom. How can we make this country look more like heaven? The answer isn’t by draping everything with red, white, and blue bunting but by loving our enemies, opening our arms in a loving embrace, welcoming those who are different from us, and remembering that in God’s peaceable kingdom love is showered upon all people alike.

What Makes Good News Good?

Anytime I read a lectionary text like this Sunday’s gospel lesson (Luke 10:1-11, 16-20) and see that verses are missing, I want to go and read what has been cut out to see why. Sometimes the missing verses pertain either to a following or preceding story and need to be cut out for the isolated text to make sense. Sometimes the lines that have been left out change the focus of the passage and have been omitted to shape the reading to fit with a theme for a particular Sunday. Sometimes parts of stories deemed less important are skipped over simply because the reading is too long. But, on Sundays like this one, verses are cut out for reasons I can’t (or don’t want to) understand.

            10:12 I tell you, it will be more bearable on that day for Sodom than for that town.

13 “Woe to you, Chorazin! Woe to you, Bethsaida! For if the mighty works done in you had been done in Tyre and Sidon, they would have repented long ago, sitting in sackcloth and ashes. 14 But it will be more bearable in the judgment for Tyre and Sidon than for you. 15 And you, Capernaum, will you be exalted to heaven? You shall be brought down to Hades. (Luke 10:12-15, ESV)

It seems like the lectionary scholars who pieced together the RCL wanted to avoid wagging fingers at a modern Chorazin or Bethsaida. Recently, a friend and parishioner pointed out to me that the RCL often omits the “hard verses” that the 1979 BCP Lectionary included, so I went and looked in the back of my old prayer book. This time, that’s half-right: the BCP readings call for verse 12 (“It will be more bearable…”) but leave out the rest (“Woe to you…”). Still, though, it’s worth asking why the proclamation of woe is skipped this Sunday. Is summer a bad time for congregations to hear about repentance?

Since I was reading around the gospel text for Sunday, I decided to check out the neighboring verses in Isaiah 66. Funny enough, there’s a pattern. On both sides of this rejoicing passage, we read the prophet’s condemnatory words directed toward those who refuse to hear God’s word.

            66:15 “For behold, the Lord will come in fire,

and his chariots like the whirlwind,

to render his anger in fury,

and his rebuke with flames of fire.

16 For by fire will the Lord enter into judgment,

and by his sword, with all flesh;

and those slain by the Lord shall be many. (Isaiah 66:15-16, ESV)

Both passages are set in the context of reward to those who hear God’s word and punishment for those who don’t. The hope expressed to those who turn to God and keep his commandments is delivered in explicit contrast to the destruction prophesied to those who don’t. Jesus makes it clear that those who refuse to hear the words of the seventy whom he sends ahead of him are in trouble—worse even than what happened to Sodom. Isaiah makes it clear that those who make unclean sacrifices will be judged and slain by the Lord himself. Part of what makes the good news good is the promise that bad things are coming to those who are bad.

Until I read the neighboring texts, I wanted to preach a happy sermon. I wanted to focus on the baby who is bounced on its mother’s knees. I wanted to talk about the joy of carrying the kingdom’s message to new towns where it is received gladly. But these accompanying verses make me wonder whether we can preach good news without at least acknowledging the bad.

Is the promise of salvation sweetened by the threat of damnation? That doesn’t sound like grace to me. That’s not something I normally would preach, but maybe I should.

The Non-Relative, Non-Postmodern Kingdom

Early this morning, I read the lessons for Sunday and thought, “Hmm…this could be tricky.” I’m preaching this week, and I can usually tell by 8am on Monday whether sermon writing will be easy or difficult. At first glance, I knew I was in trouble.

Although I really like the OT lesson (Isaiah 66:10-14—we’re a “Track Two” parish), I’m not exactly sure how to write a sermon about the joy of breastfeeding: “rejoice with her in joy, all you who mourn over her--that you may nurse and be satisfied from her consoling breast; that you may drink deeply with delight from her glorious bosom.” It’s beautiful poetry, but it will be a fun (hopefully not laughable) challenge to work that into a sermon.

I love Paul’s letter to the Galatians, and we’ve been hearing a lot from it lately. Part of me read these concluding remarks about circumcision—“For neither circumcision nor uncircumcision is anything; but a new creation is everything”—and thought that this is a good time to wrap things up on this book of the bible and talk about circumcision, but I’m not sure whether that’s any easier than “drink[ing] deeply with delight from her glorious bosom.”

The gospel lesson (Luke 10:1-11, 16-20) is familiar to me—sending out the seventy. There’s a sharp, black-and-white message here of “if they won’t receive you, shake the dust off your feet in protest.” That’s a scary thing—to have an apostle protest against you. But I read and reread this passage and thought, “What in here will preach?”

Fortunately, my friend Steve Pankey is back at St. Paul’s, Foley, after a few weeks in the D.Min. program at Sewanee. Before I had a chance to finish my reflection on this week’s lessons, he wrote a blog post about them that gave hope—not just to the preacher but to the gospel as it’s supposed to be read and preached. I hope you’ll read his post here.

As Steve points out, there is good news even in the midst of the threatening language of protest. Regardless, the kingdom of God has come near. Stand in the streets and proclaim, “The kingdom of God has come near to you.” If the people refuse to hear it--even if your message doesn't have the desired effect--leave but still you should say, “the kingdom of God has come near.” The kingdom is coming. Even if you don’t want to be a part of it, it’s coming. It’s drawing near to everyone—to the believers and unbelievers alike. Whether the kingdom comes to your doorstep has very little to do with whether you’re willing to receive it. That’s good news for the apostles, who are charged with proclaiming that message despite the frequent rejections they will encounter. Perhaps that's not so bright for the audience who rejects it, but I'm still looking for good news in there, too.

I also think there’s a beautifully anti-psychological message here. So often, I find myself thinking that the only thing that really matters is the psychology of religion. “If God loves all of us, is salvation anything more than understanding and appreciating that love?” There’s a fallacy in that logic that suggests that the kingdom is our own doing. If you want it, you can have it, but, if you don’t want it, you can ignore it. Not true, says Jesus. The kingdom is beyond our control. It isn't the apostles' job to make the kingdom come. All they can do is preach it and trust God to do that work. And it isn't the hearers' job to decide whether the kingdom is coming or not. God is in control of God's kingdom. Good news? Yes--for both the preacher and the congregation. Why? Because even if either of us gets it wrong, the arrival of the kingdom is assured.