A Child Born to Us -- Christmas Eve 2022

 Isaiah 9:2-7/Luke 2:1-20

 

We were in a strange country, in a strange room and bed. The room was windowless and the darkness around us was thick and deep. My children were little, and the strangeness of their circumstances startled them awake. Into that deep darkness, they cried out with their little voices,

“Mommy! We’re scared. Where are you? We can’t see you.”

The darkness felt impenetrable, and in this different room, I could not find a light, so I called out to them in response, trying to find a way for us to reach one another in the dark.

“Listen to my voice. Follow the sound of my voice. I’m right here. Listen to me. I’m right here. Just follow my voice.”

            But the dark was too much for them. They were afraid to move, afraid to trust that my voice would lead them to me. When I finally found the light and turned it on, the sudden brightness flooded the room. Everything became clear. Reassured by that swift, bright light, the children ran to me. I was more than just a voice in the dark.

            “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness – on them light has shined.”

            Walking in darkness changes our gait and pace. We move cautiously, inch-by-inch. We grope our way forward, taking tentative steps, unsure of what obstacles might lie ahead. Voices sound strange in deep darkness. Is that voice we hear ahead of us or behind? Darkness leaves us blind and unsure. Deep darkness leaves us hesitant and distrusting, only the small bit of ground currently underneath our feet seems certain. We only believe in the steps we take. We have no faith in what lies ahead. And where we have been seems swallowed up in darkness’s coal-colored pitch.

            “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness – on them light has shined.”

            I wonder if the people who heard Isaiah’s words were like my children. They stared into the darkness of the world and cried out for help. But even if they heard a voice calling them forward, they were too afraid to follow its sound. The darkness seemed to stretch on forever. They could not remember its beginning, and they could not imagine its end. Isaiah’s prophetic promise of their deep darkness being shattered by a light must have descended on their ears like notes of sweet music. When would this light come? Where and how? How much longer would the darkness of their lives endure?

            “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness – on them light has shined.”

Perhaps for a moment the people who heard these words believed. Perhaps they waited with great expectation for the light to come. Perhaps God’s voice shimmered around them, calling them to listen, to follow, to trust. But the darkness was easier to bear. And this great light seemed too long in coming.

They settled into their darkness once again, moving cautiously forward, inch-by-inch. Night’s shadows blurred Isaiah’s words. Darkness seemed to swallow up even God’s promises.

Until …

Until the darkness surrounding some shepherds was shattered by the Light. The shepherds must have been used to the dark. They lived their lives on the hillsides, in the valleys and in the open spaces. The night sky, whether dark with clouds or brimming with stars must have been as familiar to them as the ground they walked upon. The shepherds must have been accustomed to the dark, so did they take the night sky for granted? Did the familiarity of the heavens cause them to become merely commonplace to the shepherds below them? Did those shepherds cease to gaze with wonder at the brightness of the Milky Way shining above them?

Until …

Until an angel shone before them and proclaimed the birth of a child, a child born to them; a child born to lead them out of the darkness, a child born to be God’s salvation, a child born to be the Light the world had been waiting for.

Did those shepherds take the stars for granted, until the raucous praises of multitudes of angels pierced the quiet of the night? Did the gift of wonder return to them as their rusty alleluias and quavering glorias rose in pitch and tempo to match the heavenly hosts’? Did the gift of wonder return to them when the Light finally broke through?

It must have been Light unlike any other they had seen or imagined or believed possible. It was Light that suffused the entire cosmos with its glow. To them, those shepherds and those ordinary folks living in the darkness, a child was born, and the Light of God filled the world.

God was in the world, born with a baby’s cry, a mother’s tears, and a father’s fearful astonishment. God was in the world, and the darkness was swallowed up in this glorious, riotous Light.

             A child was born to them – to shepherds, to carpenters, to inn keepers, to women, to men, to old, to young. A child was born to them, and on this night, this holy night, we ponder that this child was not only born for them so long ago but born for us as well. Born to bring Light into this dark world, born to set us free from the brokenness that binds us.

            On this night, this holy night, we remember that a child has been born for us, that the darkness has not overcome the light, in fact the opposite is true. On this night, this holy night, we are reminded that there are still reasons to be filled with awe and wonder. On this night, this holy night, we are reminded that our hopes will not go disappointed, that God’s peace is bigger than the wars we wage, that there are still reasons to be joyful, and that Love, God’s Love, God’s overwhelming, life changing, creation renewing Love, comes in unexpected and unlikely ways.

            A child is born – for us! On this dark night, this silent night, this holy night, let us renew our wonder at what God has done, what God is doing, and what God will do. A child is born for us and Light shines in the darkness.

            Alleluia! Amen.

 

 

 

 

Immanuel -- Fourth Sunday of Advent

 

Isaiah 7:10-16/Matthew 1:18-25

December 18, 2022

 

There have been many times in my life when I would have loved to have a sign from God, telling me what to do. I would have loved to have a clear sign from heaven pointing me in the right direction. When I reached a crossroads and I wasn’t sure which way to turn, a sign would have been welcome. Whether it was a billboard with the words, “Amy, go that way,” or a large flashing arrow or even a hand reaching down from the heavens turning me toward the way I was supposed to follow, I know there have been moments when I have longed for a sign from God. Tell me what to do, God. Show me where to go, God. Give me the answer, God. I would prefer not to figure this particular problem out by myself, Lord, so a sign would be appreciated right about now.

Yep, there are plenty of times in my life when I would have rejoiced at a sign from God. At least I think I would have liked a sign. I say I would have liked a sign. Sometimes I wonder if asking for a sign from God is more about me not wanting to do the hard work of decision making than it is needing wisdom from the Almighty. I also wonder if there were times when I asked for a sign simply to confirm a decision I had already made.

This is what I’m going to do, God, but if you could give me a sign confirming my choice, I’d appreciate it.

But I also know that there are plenty of times when I would rather not have a sign from God because receiving a sign from God means that God is involved. God is with me. I know that seems counter-intuitive. Isn’t God with us what we pray for, what we long for, what we profess to want more than anything? Yes. And no. God with us can mean comfort and solace when we are hurting or grieving or scared. But God with us can also mean that we are being called to do something or be something or live something that is going to be hard and messy and scary. So, while I may hope for a sign from God, I also think that I don’t want a sign from God. A sign from God does not mean that the path before us will be easy or smooth or trouble free. More often than not, it means the opposite.

Look at the situation that is described in our passage from Isaiah. Although King Ahaz is put into the uncomfortable position of being offered a sign by God.

“Ask a sign of the Lord your God; let it be deep as Sheol or high as heaven. But Ahaz said, ‘I will not ask, and I will not put God to the test.’”

At first glance, it doesn’t seem to make sense why this is not the right answer for Ahaz to give because it is a quote from scripture. Jesus basically said the same thing when he was being tested by Satan in the wilderness. You would think that the answer to Ahaz would be one of praise and affirmation.

Good answer! Good answer!

But that’s not the response that Ahaz receives, is it?

“Hear then, O house of David! Is it too little for you to weary mortals, that you weary my God also?”

But here’s the thing, while it might seem like Ahaz is being pious and righteous in his response, the truth is he does not want a sign. Ahaz, the king of the southern kingdom of Judah is in tough spot. The king of Israel and the King of Aram are united. They want Ahaz to join them, not as an equal but so they can take control of Judah and split it between the two of them. If Ahaz won’t join them, then they’ll take Judah by force. All of Judah which includes Jerusalem are terrified of the reign of violence that is bearing down upon them. In the face of this, Ahaz has sought help but not from God. Ahaz has sought help from the Assyrian empire. But that’s not a true solution either, because Assyria certainly won’t let Judah remain an independent kingdom either. Under Assyria, Judah will become a vassal state.

But Isaiah brings words of assurance from the Lord to Ahaz. These two kings that are united against him are nothing more than smoking stumps. They may look dangerous. They may sound dangerous, but they will soon burn out. Ask me for a sign, the Lord tells Ahaz through Isaiah. Ask me for a sign. You can make it as high as heaven or as deep as Sheol. Ask me.

The Lord is not being tested. The Lord wants Ahaz to ask for a sign. But Ahaz does not want a sign. He doesn’t want it, because I suspect he knows that it will reveal something that is contrary to what he has already decided to do. He has sold out to the Assyrians. A sign from God would only show how little faith he has in God’s providence and power to work good for him and for his kingdom.

But the Lord won’t be put off. Ahaz might not want a sign, but he’s getting one anyway.

“Look, the young woman is with child and shall bear a son and shall name him Immanuel. He shall eat curds and honey by the time he knows how to refuse the evil and choose the good. For before the child knows how to refuse the evil and choose the good, the land before whose two kings you are in dread will be deserted.”

Here’s your sign, Ahaz. The woman shall bear a child and his name will be Immanuel. What does Immanuel mean? God with us.

A sign is provided in our gospel story as well. We don’t know if Joseph prayed for a sign from God or not. Maybe he did, but I suspect that he didn’t. But he received a sign anyway.

When it comes to the two birth stories of Jesus in our gospels, we most often go with Luke’s version. We will hear Luke’s story on Christmas Eve. In Luke there are taxes and a difficult journey to Bethlehem. Luke gives us shepherds and hosts of angels. In Luke’s telling, Mary has a voice. But Matthew is different. As one scholar put it, when it comes to the birth story in Matthew’s gospel, don’t blink, you’ll miss it. In Matthew’s gospel, the story begins, “Now the birth of Jesus the Messiah took place in this way …” then it immediately moves to the story of Joseph.

What do we know about Joseph? We know that he is a carpenter. He is considered to be a righteous man. As Debie Thomas wrote, he was most likely a quiet man. He worked hard, did what he was supposed to, tried to live according to the law and the prophets, and wanted nothing more than to get on with his life quietly. He was betrothed to a young woman named Mary. Betrothal was much more than an engagement as we understand it. It was an official relationship. It meant that they were married, and it was the first step in a two-step process. The second step of the process was when Mary moved into his home, and they lived as husband and wife.

However, Mary turns up pregnant. Pregnant and with a preposterous story about her carrying the Son of God. Okay. I suspect that Joseph felt like any of us would have felt – betrayed, angry, hurt, heartbroken. Maybe this was an arranged marriage, maybe he loved her deeply, maybe it was both. But from all accounts Mary had been unfaithful. But Joseph was a righteous man. In spite of everything, he did not want to see Mary publicly disgraced. In truth, she would have been publicly stoned to death for her sin had it been found out. So, Joseph decides to divorce her quietly. Let’s be clear, this might have saved Mary and the baby’s life, but it would not have helped her live happily ever after either. Even with a quiet divorce, Mary would have been reduced to begging to survive.

Joseph goes to sleep convinced of what he must do. But God is going to give him a sign whether he likes it or not. In a dream an angel comes to Joseph,

            “Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife, for the child conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. She will bear a son, and you are to name him Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins.”

            Here is your sign, Joseph. God is with you. The child Mary is carrying will literally be God with you. But what does this sign from God actually mean for Joseph? Again, as Debie Thomas wrote, it means that he isn’t going to marry Mary and live happily ever after. No, this quiet, head down, do the right thing, righteous man is being asked by God to enter into the scandal and shame of this pregnancy. Just because Mary and Joseph knew the true origins of this child, did not mean that others would believe or accept it. Joseph is asked by God to raise a child that is not his own. Joseph is being asked by God to enter into what will be a messy, complicated, difficult life. Joseph is going to need to trust God more than ever. Joseph is going to need to have more courage than he believed he had. The way forward will not be smooth or easy. This child will save, true, but he will also terrify those in power and terrible death will be the consequence of their fear. But God is with him. God is with them. Immanuel, Emmanuel, God with us.

            God with us is does not make things easier. It can have the opposite effect. But God with us means that like Joseph we can do more and be more than we ever believed possible. God with us means that we are called into lives that are complicated and messy and hard. But isn’t that what God chose as well? God didn’t flutter down into our lives on a silver-lined cloud. God was born in the messy way that we are all born. God came into the world as we all do, tiny and helpless and frail. But that is our great hope. God is with us in all ways. God is with us at all times. God is with us. Immanuel. Emmanuel.

            Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia.” Amen.

Sorrow and Sighing Will Flee Away -- Third Sunday of Advent

Isaiah 35:1-10

December 11, 2022

 

            One of the biggest mistakes I made as a young minister in my first solo pastorate was singing the carol Joy to the World at Easter. Before you assume that I had just lost my mind, let me explain why I did this. I was reading a denominationally approved worship resource that made the claim that since Isaac Watts, the composer of the song, wrote Joy to the World more about the second coming of Christ rather than the birth of Christ, that it was completely appropriate and right to sing this particular carol on Easter Sunday. After all, weren’t we supposed to be joyful on Easter, celebrating the rising of Jesus from the tomb, and the conquering of sin and death?

            I read that and thought, “I’ll give it a try.”

            Big mistake. Epic fail.

            This was a gracious congregation, who allowed me to make mistakes. But I was told politely and firmly that I shouldn’t do that again. Joy to the World was Christmas not Easter. It evoked visions of snow and Christmas trees and twinkling lights, not lilies, spring flowers, and Easter eggs. Don’t worry. I’m not telling you this to prepare you for both Christmas Eve and an upcoming Sunday in April. I knew the minute we started to sing that Easter morning that I’d made a mistake. Singing Joy to the World on Easter, no matter how theologically appropriate it might be, didn’t work for me either. I promised then and I keep that promise today – Joy to the World is for Christmas only. It was too jarring to hear it at any other time.

            But if Joy to the World was jarring on that bright spring Sunday so many years ago, this passage of joy from the prophet Isaiah would have been jarring to those first listeners as well.

            Scholar Barbara Lundblad Taylor asks this question of the passage,

“What is it doing here?”

            Taken on its own, it is beautiful and compelling language. It is poetry at its most masterful. The imagery and the visceral response they evoke are both beautiful and amazing.

            “The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad, the desert shall rejoice and blossom; like the crocus it shall blossom abundantly, and rejoice with joy and singing … for waters shall break forth in the wilderness, and streams in the desert; the burning sand shall become a pool, and the thirsty ground springs of water.”

            That is powerful. But hear these other powerful words from the mouth of the prophet:

            “For the Lord has a day of vengeance, a year of vindication by Zion’s cause. And the streams of Edom shall be turned into pitch, and her soil into sulfur; her land shall become burning pitch. Night and day it shall not be quenched; its smoke shall go up forever.”

            That is Isaiah, chapter 34:8-10; the chapter and verses just before the one we read today. The chapter after our chapter tells of King Sennacherib’s capture of the people of Judah. He challenges them, demanding that they submit to him. So, these eloquent words of promise, of creation being reordered to reflect the fullness of God’s glory; words that tell of the blind seeing, the deaf hearing, the lame walking, the speechless singing, are prefaced and followed by words of judgment, vengeance, capture, and forceful submission.

            What is this passage, this chapter of beauty and promise, of expectations upended, of miraculous reordering, doing here; stuck between prophecies and stories that convey the exact opposite? Some of the scholarship of this passage claims that it is in the wrong place in the text. It belongs to Second Isaiah – which is considered to begin at chapter 40 and contains words of new hope after the exile of God’s people has finally come to an end. Our passage, stuck where it is between doom and gloom, must have been moved by some scribe from its original place to where it now resides.

            Again Lundblad Taylor wrote,

            “Some things even our best scholarship cannot explain. The Spirit hovered over the text and the scribes: ‘Put it here,’ breathed the Spirit, ‘before anyone is ready. Interrupt the narrative of despair.’”

            Interrupt the narrative of despair. Isn’t that what we desperately need right now? Isn’t that what every generation has needed? An interruption in the narrative of despair. Isn’t that what we are preparing for during this season of Advent? An interruption in the despair that seems to not only loom around us but is growing exponentially. How is God interrupting us right now? How is God speaking words of hope, whether we are ready for them or not, whether we are capable of recognizing them or not?

            How is God’s interruption turning our expectations upside down? How is God’s interruption like a blooming desert, like streams rushing through arid land, like waters flowing recklessly out of a sparse and thirsty wilderness?

            This Sunday in Advent is called “Gaudete Sunday.” Gaudete is Latin and it means “rejoice.” This is the day when we celebrate joy. This is the Sunday when we turn from the deeper purple of Advent to a lighter shade of pink. We light a pink candle on our Advent wreath. We hear Mary’s song of joy after being visited by the angel Gabriel. The last two Sundays the prophet Isaiah has shared a vision of instruments of destruction being transformed into tools for life, of predator and prey lying down together in companionable peace, and today we read that all of creation will sing forth God’s praises. All creation will be transformed and renewed. There will be waters in the wilderness and streams in the desert. Burning sand will become pools of clear water. Thirsty, dry ground will transform into springs of water.

And this will not be reserved for the natural world only, but all humanity as well. Weak hands will be strengthened, feeble knees will be made firm. The blind shall see. The deaf will hear. Those who cannot walk will leap like deer. Those who cannot speak will sing for joy. The whole of creation will sing God’s praises. The whole of creation will reflect the joy of God.

The narrative of despair will not only be interrupted but rewritten. The joy of God will be so pervasive, so ubiquitous that sorrow and sighing will no longer have a place in the story. Everlasting joy shall be upon the heads of the children of the Lord, of those ransomed and returned. They shall come to Zion singing. Joy and gladness will be theirs. Sorrow and sighing will flee away. Forever.

Yet perhaps we are so used to, and so ingrained into the narrative of despair that these words of interruption, of disruption seem too good to be true. We are intimately acquainted with sorrow and sighing, aren’t we? The whole world seems to be full of sorrow and sighing. Despair is written through the whole text, and joy seems to be just a footnote.

But if the Spirit hovered over the scribes, over the prophets, and inserted this text of joy when it was needed most, maybe just maybe the Spirit is hovering still. Maybe we are being reminded once again that in the final draft, God will turn our sorrow into songs of praise, our sadness into shouts of joy. In the final telling, there will be streams in the desert, lions and lambs will lie down together, swords will be transformed into plowshares, and the world will be filled with joy.

God interrupts our narrative of despair with joy. And that joy is not reserved for one day or one season. God’s joy will be the air that we breathe and the ground that we walk upon. God’s joy will be in the water we drink and the bed upon which we sleep. God’s joy will live in us and through us and with us. God’s joy will transform all of creation, all of us, and sorrow and sighing will flee away, no longer finding a place in us or in the new thing God is doing.

Joy to the world, the Lord is come. Let earth receive her king. Let every heart prepare him room. And heaven and nature sing. And heaven and nature sing. And heaven, and heaven and nature sing.

Let all of God’s children shout with joy, “Alleluia!”

Amen.

           

           

The Gift of Grief

 

            Today marks the third anniversary of my dad’s death. While, as my husband says, I don’t want to dwell more on his death than I remember his life, it’s hard not to note this date on the calendar: November 16, 2019. It was a Saturday morning, and although I had the opportunity to sleep in a little bit, I woke up around 6 as usual. I looked at my phone and realized that I had missed two calls – one from my mom and the other from the hospice worker who helped my dad. I knew.

            I went into the living room and sat there for a few moments, looking at my phone but not wanting to call my mother back. Those few minutes allowed me to live in that liminal time between my belief that my dad was still living and when I would know officially that he was not. But I could not put it off any longer. I called and heard what I knew deep in my bones. Daddy had died.

            I thought, naively, that my grief for my father would be strong at first then lessen over time. I thought that missing him would change from a sharp pain to a dull ache. I was wrong. I think what I have learned about grief in these past three years is that not only does it not go away, but it also actually grows stronger as time goes on. Time does not necessarily heal all wounds. Time just builds a layer of scar tissue around them. They are still there.

            Does this mean that I am mired in grief and depression? No. I have experienced tremendous joy over the last three years. I have laughed and celebrated and given thanks. But something else that I have learned about grief is that it grows fuller and richer and deeper as time goes on. There is a strange beauty in grief. If grief is, as someone said, the price that we pay for loving, then I love my dad well – not perfectly, but well.

            I know that I told my dad again and again how much I loved him. I know that I hugged him every chance I got. I know that he knew I loved him, just as he knew that my mother and my sister and brother loved him. But I can’t tell him that anymore, so I grieve.

            When I needed advice and guidance, I turned to my dad. Over these last three years, I’ve longed to pick up the phone and talk to him about the challenges I’ve faced. But he is no longer on the other end of the phone line, so I grieve.

            My dad was a wonderful grampa. He loved his grandchildren with a fierce devotion. I want to tell him how my kids are doing. I want to share with him their joys and struggles, but he isn’t there to hear, so I grieve.

            I am a person of faith which for me means that I don’t walk through life blindly believing, but that I struggle with doubt. The more I believe the more I doubt. “I believe, Lord, help my unbelief.” But I put all my hope and faith and trust and expectation that one day I’ll see him again. I suspect that my understanding of heaven is flimsy at best. None of us can know what’s on the other side of death until we pass through that veil. But I hope that when I close my eyes for the last time in this life that I will open them in the next and see my dad.

            If love and grief walk together, then no wonder I’m still grieving. My love for my dad did not die with him. If anything, my love for him grows stronger every day that he is not with us. Doesn’t that make my grief a gift? Doesn’t that make my grief a reminder that I was lucky to have a dad who loved me, encouraged me, pushed me, comforted me, and never let me give up on myself. I will always miss my dad, but how blessed I am to have been his daughter. How blessed I am for this gift of grief.

           

A Place at the Table

Luke 14:1, 7-14

August 28, 2022

 

            I am very fortunate to have good relationships, good friendships really, with my older sister and brother. And I’m not just saying that because one or both could be watching this right now. I’m saying that because they were both older than I was, we didn’t experience the sibling rivalry and arguing that other siblings do. My kids, who are much closer in age, fought like the proverbial cats and dogs when they were younger. But that wasn’t true in my case. There was older sibling to younger sibling teasing, some taking of my hands and playing the “Stop Hitting Yourself” game, which was always my favorite. But we really didn’t argue. Until …

            When I was about 15, Jill came back home for about six months to work and save money before she and my brother-in-law got married. She would have been around 26, and as I mentioned I was 15 and a very 15 15-year-old, and I was not about to be bossed around by my big sister. So, even though we’d never squabbled or argued before, now we were.

            One argument that I remember centered around the family table. Mom made dinner. We were sitting down to eat, and I went to sit in the spot that I had been sitting in for a long time. Jill came in to sit down, and said, “That’s my seat.”

            And I said, “No, it’s mine.”

            And she said something to the effect of, “Amy, that’s my seat. It’s always been my seat.”

            And I responded with something like, “No, Jill. It’s my seat. It’s been my seat for a long time now.”

            And then she said, well you can imagine the rest. I don’t remember how the argument ended. I don’t know if I gave in and sat in another chair or if she did, or if one of our parents took that spot and made everybody move. It doesn’t really matter. It was a silly argument as you can tell. But I suspect there was a lot more going on underneath the silliness. Jill was home again, and this was how home was supposed to be, plus who was this teenager who had taken the place of her little sister? And to my thinking, Jill had been away from home a long time, and things change, like that was now my seat.

            I’ve often tried to imagine the scene Jesus would have been watching in this story Luke tells. All we read from our text is that Jesus was watching how the guests chose the places of honor at the table. Does that mean they were jostling and pushing and elbowing each other out of the way? Or does it mean something more like one guest saying to another guest,

            “Oh, would you look at the strange bird over there?”

            And when the other guest looks, they jump into the desired seat and say,

            “My seat now, Chuckles. You snooze, you lose.”

            This was a meal at the home of a religious leader, which would mean that person had significant status in that society, so it’s hard for me to imagine that etiquette would have allowed guests to push each other out of chairs. But because this was a meal in the home of someone with societal status, to have a seat of honor was a big deal, so maybe they did push each other around to get to the best seats.

            Clearly, there was a hierarchy to the seating arrangement. There were seats of honor and there were seats of, if not shame, then much less honor. It seems as if the lunchroom rules that dictated my Junior High experience – in which some kids had the status to sit at the cool table and some, most, kids didn’t – did not begin with my Junior High. They have been in place for a long, long time. And it was this hierarchy, these rules that Jesus observed at this meal.

            “When Jesus noticed how the guests chose the places of honor, he told them a parable. When you are invited to a wedding banquet, do not sit down at the place of honor, in case someone more distinguished than you has been invited by your host; and the host who invited both of you may come and say to you, ‘Give this person your place, and then in disgrace you would start to take the lowest place. But when you are invited, go and sit down at the lowest place, so that when your host comes, he may say to you, ‘Friend, move up higher’; then you will be honored in the presence of all who sit at the table with you.”

This doesn’t read like other parables we’ve heard, does it? But something in the guests behavior must have compelled Jesus to speak about what he witnessed at this dinner in a way that would make the guests both recognize themselves in it, but not stop listening because of that recognition. Therefore, Jesus tells a parable that at first glance may seem as though he is promoting a kind of lunchroom mentality and table hierarchy. There are places of honor, there are special seats, and there is indeed a cool table, but don’t expect that you belong there. In that context, where you sat at a banquet signified not just how cozy you were with the host, but your status in society. It was, indeed, a hierarchy. There were some on top, some in the middle and many at the bottom. As I said before, at first Jesus seems to be supporting this hierarchy by encouraging people to take a lesser seat. Or was he pointing out to them that at another table, the true table, the table within God’s kin-dom, those who sought to put themselves at the top of the food chain or at the top rung of the social ladder, were the ones who would be humbled. Their social hierarchies won’t work at God’s table.

“For all who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.” 

Let’s also remember, that the very first verse of this chapter tells us that Jesus was being watched by the Pharisees. I do not want to paint the Pharisees with such a broad stroke that we assume they were all watching Jesus with malicious intent. Some of them might have been, true, but others may have been watching him just to see what he would do next, what he would say next. After all, everything this man did and said was counter to their culture, radical to their way of thinking. He healed on the Sabbath.  He forgave people of their sins. He spoke and taught with an authority no one had ever witnessed before. What would he do next?  So, they watched him intently. Jesus knew he was being watched, so perhaps he thought this was a valuable teaching moment. He could make a point about the hierarchy surrounding the table fellowship and those who were invited and those who were not. And he could make another razor-sharp point as well.     

There was one more aspect of this honor/shame culture. There was an agenda behind every invitation. You didn’t invite people to a dinner for the heck of it. You invited someone who could do something for you, just as you might be invited for the same reason. You invited someone who just by being in your home raised your place in the social realm. It was about give and take. I’ll scratch your back if you scratch mine. There was an agenda. I imagine that agenda was so ingrained in people that no one thought much about it. But Jesus made them think about it. 

“When you give a luncheon or a dinner, do not invite your friends or your brothers or your relatives or rich neighbors, in case they may invite you in return, and you would be repaid.  But when you give a banquet, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind.”

Don’t invite someone who will repay you. Invite those who can do nothing for you. Invite those that would be despised at any other banquet in town. Invite those who have no way to return the favor and when you do you will be blessed. You may not be repaid now, but you will be in time. You will be repaid at “the resurrection of the righteous.” 

A place of honor here doesn’t count in the kin-dom of God, and it is God’s kin-dom, God’s great table that Jesus is trying to make them see and understand. And I don’t believe that Jesus is just pointing to some kin-dom far, far away, in that sweet by and by. Jesus is talking about the kin-dom that is in their midst in the here and in the now. Don’t you get it, he seems to be saying. It’s not about status. It’s not about the seat of honor you may think you deserve or earned. It’s about how you treat other people. It’s about seeing other people not through the lens of status, position, class or social rank, but as children of God. It seems to me that when Jesus warns the guests about assuming the seats of honor at the table, the distinguished guests he was referring to were not the people in power at the time, but the poor, the crippled, the lame and the blind. 

Today marks the 59^th anniversary of the March on Washington and Martin Luther King, Jr’s “I Have a Dream” speech. I’ve watched that speech and listened to that speech and read that speech countless times. But each time I hear it I am struck anew at the depth of his message. It was a speech about Civil Rights, but it was more than that. It was a speech about the injustice of segregation and the mockery it made of the so-called American Dream, but it was also more than that. It was about a vision of the beloved community. It was a dream of every single person, regardless of color, class or creed being welcomed at a table where we all belong, a table that was not made for some and not others, a table that was not made by one group who then grudgingly had to allow room for other groups to find a seat. Dr. King’s vision of a beloved community, of a community where everyone had a place at the table held up a mirror for the country. Gazing into it we saw how far away we were from that beloved community, that banquet table of grace. Dr. King reminded us that when some of us aren’t free to come to the table, none of us are truly free. 

The parables Jesus told are a mirror. They were a mirror for those he spoke to directly.  They are a mirror for us as well. I don’t see it as mirror in which those of us on top are necessarily shamed or scorned, but we see in the reflection that often the things we think are important – places of honor, status, etc. – don’t matter in the kin-dom of God. They don’t matter at God’s table. When we can see that, really see that, when we can recognize that the superficial and external don’t matter, we come one step closer to that beloved community. We see that the table we all long to have a place at, is not our table but God’s. It is the table where finally, all of us, all of God’s children, have a place.

Let all God’s children say, “Alleluia!”

Amen.

           

           

Set Free

 

Luke 13:10-17

August 21, 2022

 

            I anticipate pain. As odd as that sounds I do. I anticipate pain. The way that anticipation manifests itself is that I always keep some form of pain relief nearby. At home we have aspirin, acetaminophen, ibuprofen, and various and sundry other means of pain relief. I have roll-on analgesics in the bathroom. There are pain meds in my nightstand. I have some naproxen sodium in my desk in my office. I’m pretty sure there is something in my purse; and I have a small sample pack of pain relievers tucked into the console of my car. Like I said, I anticipate pain.

            That’s because the pain I deal with the most is headache pain. I get migraines. I’ve been fortunate in this last year or so to have to deal with them less because my doctor put me on a really good medicine, but I still have breakthroughs. Ironically, when I was trying to write this sermon, I was dealing with the beginnings of a migraine. At my migraine’s worst, I’ve wound up in urgent care and the ER because the pain got so bad. My migraines feel like there’s a knife stabbing me repeatedly over one eye. Adding to the pain in my head is pain in my neck and shoulders. Declaring it’s not fun is an understatement. Most of the time a migraine for me has meant relentless pain for about three days. Three days where I manage to function, but just barely. Three days that while I’m experiencing that painm, feel like an eternity.

            If three days of a migraine feels like an eternity, I can’t begin to imagine how 18 years must have felt. That’s how long the woman in this passage from Luke’s gospel had been bent over, unable to stand up straight. The scripture doesn’t tell us specifically that the woman was in pain, but surely staying stooped over, crippled, unable to straighten even a little bit, must have been painful. Whatever the physical illness may have been that bound this woman, it was one that kept her stooped and bent over for close to two decades. 18 years of pain.

            Yet, this crippling disease did not keep this woman from coming to the synagogue on the Sabbath. There is nothing in the text to indicate that she came there looking for healing on that day. I believe she came because she wanted to worship, nothing more. She does not seek Jesus out. She does not beg him to heal her. There are no concerned friends or family members who intercede with Jesus on her behalf. Perhaps she had heard of him and the healings he had been performing, but if we go strictly by the text, we only read that Jesus sees her, not the other way around. Jesus is teaching when he sees this woman, so stooped I suspect it hurt just to look at her. Jesus calls her over and proclaims that she is set free from her ailment. He lays his hands on her and immediately she stands up straight. Her back, crooked and bent for 18 years, is now straight.  

            This is what we know. She came to the synagogue and Jesus saw her. Being as bent over as she was, I doubt that she could have seen him. But Jesus saw her. Jesus called out to her, and he healed her. And when she finally stands tall once more, what is her response? She praises God. Immediately on being healed, she praises God.

But the praise is interrupted by the leader of the synagogue. He is outraged. He is indignant that Jesus has cured this woman on the Sabbath. The Law was clear – healing on the Sabbath could only happen in critical, emergency situations. What was critical about this woman’s situation?  She was bent over for 18 years! What difference would one more day make?  The leader might have been furious with Jesus, but he does not confront him directly. He turns to the crowd, venting his ire on them. He chastises the worshippers who were gathered there.

            “There are six other days of the week. Come to be healed on those days, not on the Sabbath.”

            You don’t mess with the Sabbath. The Law was clear, specific as to what could happen on the Sabbath and what could not. A non-urgent healing that could have happened on any other day did not qualify for a Sabbath healing. There’s no doubt that Jesus knew this. Yet Jesus did in that moment what he had done before. He saw a person in need, and he chose to help, Sabbath or no Sabbath.   

            When the Synagogue leader expresses his disapproval to the crowds over what has just happened, Jesus does not hesitate in his reply.  

            “You hypocrites!  Does not each of you on the Sabbath untie his ox or his donkey from the manger, and lead it away to give it water? And ought not this woman, a daughter of Abraham who Satan bound for eighteen long years, be set free from this bondage on the Sabbath day?” 

            If you’re willing to unbind your animals on the Sabbath, then why not set this woman free as well? Isn’t this the right response to her suffering, whether it happens on the Sabbath or any other day of the week? Karoline Lewis from WorkingPreacher.Org suggested that a sermon title for this passage should be, “If Not Now, When?” I had already picked my title when I heard this, but next time I preach on this passage, that is the title I’m using.

            If not now, when? As so often happened, at Jesus’ words all his opponents, his naysayers, were put to shame. This was not the first time Jesus butted heads with the religious professionals over what should and shouldn’t happen on the Sabbath. He hadn’t hesitated to heal on the Sabbath in other instances. His disciples had been seen gathering food on the Sabbath. I guess some folks might make the case that Jesus didn’t care too much about the Law. Jesus stated that with his coming, the Law had been fulfilled. Yet I’m not convinced that this is about Jesus not caring about the Law. I think Jesus did care; he cared deeply. But Jesus cared about the intent of the Law, just as he cared about the intent of Sabbath. 

            When I was growing up the Sabbath was a day when a lot of things were not supposed to happen. I’m old enough to remember Blue Laws – civic laws that restricted stores and other places of business from being open on Sundays. My parents lived under much stricter restrictions about Sabbath than I did. And the rules their parents had for the Sabbath were even stricter. And so it went for each generation. 

When I was a little girl, and read the Little House books by Laura Ingalls Wilder, I remember reading her description of the Sabbath when she was a little girl and thinking,

“Boy! Am I glad I don’t have it so hard!”

Our understanding of the Sabbath was much like this Synagogue leader’s. There were strict rules about what could and could not be done. But what was the intent of the Sabbath? It was a day to rest. God rested after creating the world. When the Hebrews were enslaved in Egypt, they were slaves. If the master expected them to work seven days a week, 24 hours a day, they did. There was no such thing as downtime, weekends, leisure, or rest and relaxation. When God gave them the Sabbath it was a gift. It was a gift of time. It was a gift of rest. The restrictions about what could and could not be done were not meant as punishment, but about keeping away the distractions that kept that rest from happening. The Sabbath was a day given by God to enjoy God and all the good things of and from God. If not now, when?  

            Jesus understood that intent. He also knew that the religious leaders and the people they led no longer did. Just as he modeled what it meant to be in relationship with God and one another on every other day of the week, he also modeled that relationship, that community on the Sabbath. God intended the Sabbath day for rest, for renewal, for relationship. But how can it be a day of rest for a woman who has suffered for so long? How can their relationship with God and with one another be well and whole when one of them is so obviously broken? 

            When Jesus healed the woman, he didn’t set aside the Law. Instead he saw past the codification of the Law that had blinded the people to what God really wanted. He saw the woman with compassion, and with justice. Wasn’t this woman a captive? Wasn’t she bound by a spirit that held her down, literally, for 18 years? When Jesus healed her, he set her free. He released her just as he promised he would release all those held captive. It seems to me that not only did he straighten her back Jesus gave her new sight as well. 

            If you were to constantly live in a stooped position, what would be in your line of vision?  The hard ground. The feet of other people. Looking up at the world around you would have been nearly impossible. When Jesus straightened her back, he also gave her new sight. She could now see the world in a way that had been closed off to her for 18 years. No wonder she praised God! Not only was she set free, but she was also able to see again. She could see the fullness of God’s creation once more. Jesus set her free from pain and for life!

I think he gave the crowd new eyes as well. I wonder if that’s the crux of this passage.  It’s not just about what should or shouldn’t be done on the Sabbath day. It’s about being set free to see God and the Sabbath and one another with new eyes. 

            Jesus did not set the people free from God’s Law. He set them free from a skewed belief that compassion was restricted to only certain days of the week. He set them free from restrictions that hindered their relationship with God and one another. He set them free from the idea that the Sabbath was just a day of do’s and don’ts, rather than a gift from God. Jesus set them free and gave them new vision to see that God’s love was more than just a nice idea, but a reality he lived fully. On that Sabbath day he set them free.

            How do we need to be set free? What is that binds us? What keeps our backs stooped and our eyes seeing only the ground beneath our feet? What binds our hearts and minds? How do we need to be set free? Is our time together in this place a means of liberation, or is it another way to keep our eyes closed? Do we feel the liberating Spirit of God moving in our midst, or are we bound to the narrow legalism that the religious leaders of Jesus’ time and our time conveyed? Are we set free in this place to love God and to love one another?

            Whatever it is that binds you, binds me, I pray for freedom. May Jesus set us free this day and every day. May Jesus straighten our backs, realign our vision, and set us free to praise God. If not now, then when?

            Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia.”

            Amen.

 

Ask. Search. Knock.

Luke 11:1-13

July 24, 2022

            The tornadoes that hit Oklahoma in 2013 were fearsome and formidable, and they were an event that marked our time living in that state. The second tornado, an E5, laid waste to Moore, Oklahoma, wiping out a large section of it, including an elementary school where both students and teachers lost their lives. It was devastating, and even though Oklahomans are relatively resigned to bad storms – you can’t live in tornado alley and not be – this tragic loss of life shook people to their core.

Shortly after the tornadoes hit, I was at an ecumenical Bible study where a man spoke up and said that he heard that on the day of the storm at one of the elementary schools in Moore, when everyone was taking shelter, all the children began to sing “Jesus Loves Me.”  As the storm raged more fiercely, they sang more loudly. And wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles, their school remained unharmed. Every child and teacher returned home to their loved ones that night. His implication was that at the other elementary school, the one where lives were lost, clearly this did not happen and just look at the result.

            He said this as though it was absolute proof that if you are just persistent enough, God will answer your prayers. If you just sing “Jesus Loves Me” loudly enough, God will change the course of the storm so that it doesn’t touch down on one elementary school, but instead hits the one where supposedly they weren’t singing. His assessment meant the tornados were no longer a terrible occurrence of nature, but a new sort of Passover. The children and teachers who prayed persistently, who sang and prayed loudly were saved, while those who didn’t weren’t. I was so shocked and appalled at this that I couldn’t find the words to respond. And it brought me back once again to what happens when we pray and what doesn’t happen when we pray.

            Preacher and writer, Debi Thomas, wrote that when she comes to this particular text in Luke’s gospel, she approaches it warily and with great trepidation. She wrote that it was a text full of landmines. And over the centuries, interpretation of this passage has resulted in what she called an understanding of God as a cosmic gumball machine. Your prayers are the coins, just put them in and see what color of gumball you get. I appreciate this analogy, but I think of this kind of interpretation more like a grocery list.

            In these days of Covid I have come to greatly appreciate curbside pickup at Kroger. I go to the app on my phone, put the items that we need in my cart, choose a time for pickup, check-out, and when its time, I go to the store and have my groceries brought to my car. There can be hiccups, sure, but for the most part it has been a great way to shop, especially when life is crazy and I don’t have an hour to walk up and down the aisles. So, when I think of the kind of understanding of prayer that Debi Thomas wrote of or what the man in the Bible study alluded to, this is what comes to mind. I give God my grocery list of needs and wants, and God fills my cart. And if there’s something that I can’t get, then God either makes a substitution or refunds my money for that item. But if my analogy holds any truth, and I don’t think it does, then there have been an awful lot of items that I’ve wanted that have been out of stock. So, what does this passage in Luke hold for us when it comes to prayer?

            At the beginning of our text, Jesus is noted as praying in a certain place. I’m not sure the geography of this place matters so much as the fact that Jesus set aside both a time and place to pray. When he was finished one of the disciples asked him to teach them to pray as John taught his disciples. As I understand it, at that time teachers and disciples were also known by their prayers. John’s disciples must have had a unique prayer that only he could have taught them. That prayer would have marked them as his disciples. So, Jesus’ disciples want that same distinction. If Jesus teaches them a specific prayer, then there would be no mistaking them for anyone else but his disciples. 

Jesus responded by teaching them these words,

“Father, hallowed be your name. Your kingdom come. Give us each day our daily bread.  And forgive us our sins, for we ourselves forgive everyone indebted to us. And do not bring us to the time of trial.”

Although it’s not exactly the same, this provides the basis for Lord’s Prayer which we will pray together in just a few minutes. A version of this prayer is also found in the gospel of Matthew. But Matthew’s context is very different from Luke’s. In Matthew’s gospel the prayer is taught as part of the Sermon on the Mount. Jesus is warning his disciples not to make a show of their religious piety.

“Don’t be like the hypocrites who love to stand and pray in the synagogues and at the street corners so everyone can see them and see how pious and righteous they are. Instead pray in secret. And when you pray, don’t worry about heaping up empty phrases, just pray these words.” 

            Luke’s context is different. As I said, Jesus has been praying “in a certain place.” His disciples want to be taught as John taught. They want something distinctive. Jesus, teach us to pray.

Luke’s gospel emphasizes the point that Jesus spent a great deal of time in prayer. It was prayer that kept him close to God. It was prayer that kept him on the path he knew he had to be on. Jesus prayed. Even as the disciples may have wanted to be known as his disciples by the prayer he taught them, they may have also wanted to experience the closeness and intimacy and deep connection that Jesus found in his prayers. I suspect that the disciples could see how prayer affected Jesus, how it kept him grounded and faithful and staying true to his call and his ministry. I would not be surprised if the disciples also wanted to experience that. They must have wanted to be in that close of a relationship with God as Jesus was. Jesus, teach us to pray. 

One other interesting point to note is that this story of Jesus teaching the disciples to pray follows on the heels of two stories about discipleship, the Good Samaritan and Martha and Mary.  To grasp the fullness of discipleship, you must both do and be – see a neighbor in need and help that neighbor in that moment and recognize that there is a moment to sit at Jesus’ feet and learn and be in that moment as well. It seems to me that the foundation of both the doing and the being is in prayer. You’ve taught us about doing, Jesus, and you’ve taught us about being. Now, teach us to pray.

Jesus did just that. He taught them the specific words we find our passage. But after the prayer, he also told them this small story about being persistent in prayer. If you have need of bread, go to your friend’s house, even if its late at night and keep knocking until you finally annoy the friend enough that he answers the door and gives you what you need. Here’s a landmine that Thomas spoke of. Does being persistent in prayer mean that we have to annoy God? Does that mean that the times when I have prayed and prayed and prayed – not for some materialistic desire but for someone I love to be healed or for people to be helped – and what I’ve prayed for has not happened, then I just haven’t knocked long enough or hard enough? That’s often the response we hear about prayers that seemingly go unanswered. You haven’t been persistent enough. Or another answer we hear is that God just said, “No.” Neither of these responses or explanations help. They don’t help me anyway.

When a parent prays for a child to be healed from a terrible disease or even just to come home safely from school, and that doesn’t happen, was that God saying, “No?” Because why would God say no to the safety of a child? To the health of a child? To the health and safety of communities? Or for an end to a terrible and unjust war?

Quite frankly, these responses – either you don’t pray persistently enough, or God just said, “No” – don’t help. So, what is Jesus telling the disciples? Maybe, it’s not about how a prayer is answered or not, maybe that has nothing to do with any of it. Maybe it’s just about praying, about being in that relationship with God. Does prayer effect change? Yes! But it most often effects change in the one who is praying. Maybe Jesus found his courage to continue because he prayed. Maybe Jesus found his strength to stand up to the powers and principalities because he made sure to spend time in prayer. Maybe that relationship with God that he had in prayer shone on his face, in his eyes, in his words, in his actions.

And let’s look at what Jesus actually promises will happen with persistent prayer. There is only one promise made, and that comes at the end of this passage.

“How much more will the heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him!”

Jesus does not promise that persistent prayer will bring about cures for diseases or interventions in the eye of a storm. Jesus promises that  those who pray persistently will receive the Holy Spirit.

Those who pray persistently, those who ask, search, and knock will receive the Holy Spirit. And what happens when the Holy Spirit comes? What happens when the Holy Spirit descends and moves and blows where it will? People who were afraid gather their courage. People who thought they were weak discover their strength. People who thought they could not make a difference, see the steps they need to take to help a world in need.

And our world is in need. And our world needs prayer, persistent, relentless prayer. And what does that prayer do? How does that prayer help? It helps the ones who are praying. It effects change in the ones who refuse to stop asking, stop searching, and stop knocking. We pray, not so that God will supernaturally intervene, a giant hand reaching down from the clouds. We pray so that our faith will deepen and grow. We pray so that we will find within ourselves the courage to help and challenge and change. We pray because prayer changes us. Jesus has taught us to pray, so let us pray and pray and pray.

Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia.”

Amen.

 

Distracted

Luke 10:38-42

July 17, 2022

 

Chef Ina Garten, also known as the Barefoot Contessa on the Food Network, once told a story about the first dinner party she ever hosted. She was still a relatively young bride, a novice cook, and she thought that it would be a good idea to make all of her guests individual omelets.

            As she described it, that good idea turned out to be a terrible one. Omelets aren’t a hard dish to prepare, but they take a few minutes, even for the most experienced of cooks. Ina realized too late that making one for everyone at the party meant that she was trapped in the kitchen for most of the evening. That was the worst part about it, she said. Ina never got to spend any time with her guests. Instead, she stood in front of the stove all night, while her husband visited with their friends. At that moment, the Barefoot Contessa made a solemn vow. From that point on whenever she entertained, she would make sure she could prepare things ahead. She would never again ignore her guests while she worked in the kitchen all night long. Ina said she would make sure that she could prepare most of her meal in advance, and then she’d have maximum time with her friends. I’m not sure her show is even on the Food Network anymore, but if you have ever had a chance to watch it, you know that she has been true to the vow she made. Every recipe she offers, every entertaining idea she gives, is about what can be done well before the guests arrive. When the guests arrive for the meal, she is there with them, present and in the moment.

            I doubt Ina Garten would have described herself as a Martha or as Mary. But at her first dinner party, she was doing what we might call a “Martha”. She was in the kitchen, cooking, working, distracted by making the omelets for her guests, and unable to enjoy herself, her friends, or the food she was working so hard to prepare.

            I will confess to you that I struggle with this passage from Luke. I struggle with what seems to be the very derogatory tone in Jesus’ voice when he speaks to Martha. And if that derogatory and dismissive tone was not in Jesus’ voice, then it has been added over the years by interpreters and preachers of all sorts. You know the tone I’m speaking of, the one an adult might use when speaking to a naughty child.

            “Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things; there is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her.”

            Martha wasn’t a child. And she wasn’t breaking any rules either. In fact, she was doing what was expected of her by her culture, by the society she lived in, by the men who had gathered at her home expecting a meal. Martha was doing exactly what she had been taught to do her entire life, exactly what she was told was her duty to do. Hospitality was paramount and being hospitable took work. Martha was doing the work of hospitality.

            But Mary was not. In any other situation, Mary would have been seen as shirking her duty. And I can imagine – actually, I think I know – how Martha felt. I can feel the tension and stress rising in her. I can feel her growing frustration and anger. I can hear her slamming utensils and cookware around as she worked. And I can see her catching glimpses of her sister, sitting at the feet of Jesus, and not helping.

            I struggle with this passage because Martha too often gets a bad rap, and Mary gets all the praise. Many years ago a very wise woman said to me that if all the Marthas of the church sat down, the church would fall down shortly thereafter. And nine years ago, when I was attending the CREDO conference for ministers, one of our faculty members preached on this passage at our worship service. She stood before the communion table and commented that all of us gathered there were used to standing before the communion table, calling people to gather for the sacrament, calling people to remember Jesus as they partake of the bread and the cup. But then she said, the next time you stand before this table, you also need to remember the person or persons that prepared it, set it, and made it ready. That person was probably a Martha.

            Debi Thomas wrote in a commentary about this passage that she was frustrated with Jesus not about encouraging Martha to do what was really necessary, but in not pushing the disciples gathered to step up and help so Martha could do what was really necessary. As Thomas wrote, Martha’s anxiety did not come from a vacuum. Her anxiety and worry go back to all the expectations laid on her, the expectations that I spoke of earlier. Thomas said that she would have been thrilled to read that Jesus told Peter to go chop the vegetables, and for James to knead the bread, and for Andrew and Bartholomew to set the table. After all, Jesus was already going against the tradition by allowing Mary – a woman ­– to sit at his feet as a disciple would. What would the next 2,000 years have looked like, asks Thomas, if Jesus had pushed the men to do something so counter-cultural as well?

            But that didn’t happen, or if it did, it has been redacted from this story, so we must deal with what we have before us. And what we have before us is Jesus telling Martha, not as a parent to a child, but maybe as a teacher to a disciple, that she has missed the point. She is worried and distracted by many things, but the only thing necessary in that moment was being with Jesus, sitting at his feet, and learning from him. That was the only thing necessary.

            According to scholarship, the root of the word for worry is “strangle” or “to be seized by the throat.” The root of the word, distracted, is “a separation or a tearing apart of something that is meant to be whole.” Literally, Martha is being strangled by her responsibilities and her distraction is a fracturing or a fragmenting of who is supposed to be, who she is called to be.

            Does that resonate with you as much as it does with me? I know that sometimes my worry and my anxiety make me feel like I can’t breathe. I can’t make my body take a deep and restorative breath. I am too worried, I am too anxious, too strangled by my fears and anxieties and expectations to fill my body with the oxygen it requires. And in turn, my worries and anxieties, much less my responsibilities render me so distracted that I don’t feel whole. I just feel like bits and pieces of my self are being flung hither and yon.

            Strangled and torn apart. Worried and distracted. Martha was being strangled by her worries and torn apart by her distractions. She needed only one thing, and that was to be with Jesus. She needed only one thing, and that was to be single-minded in her pursuit to sit at Jesus’ feet and learn from him.

            When I was a student intern in a church in Virginia, I was invited by the men’s bible study and fellowship group to give a presentation about my trip to the Middle East. They had a monthly dinner, and each month they would invite a special guest to speak. I was that guest. I worked hard on my presentation. I had a whole slide show put together. I brought souvenirs from my trip. I was excited to be their guest and to share stories of my travels.

            And when it came time for the meal, I got up and started to help with bringing food out to the tables, and making sure folks had what they wanted to drink, extra napkins if they needed them, etc. The pastor, Greg, who was my supervisor during that year, came over to me and said,
            “Go sit down. You were not invited here to serve or to work. You were invited here as a special guest. It is the men’s responsibility to serve you. Not the other way around.”

            Feeling like I needed to help was ingrained in me, but on that night, it was making me worried and distracted. I had lost my focus. But I did what Greg said to do. I sat down. I allowed myself to be served, and when it came time for the presentation, I was on it. We had a wonderful evening, and I left grateful for the opportunity and grateful for Greg’s reminder not to be distracted by many things, but to be true to my purpose for the evening.

            It seems to me that Jesus was not reprimanded Martha but reminding her. Martha needed to be reminded of what her purpose was in that moment. Yes, hospitality was important. Her work was of great value, something that we still forget, but there was only one thing necessary and that was being with Jesus. There was only one thing that would release the grip of worry on her throat and make her whole, and that was to be with Jesus. That was her single purpose at that moment. That was what was necessary.

            What distracts us? What keeps us torn apart? What worries keep us strangled and gasping for breath? What keeps us from the feet of Jesus? Because it is at his feet that is the foundation for everything else we do. It is sitting at the feet of Jesus that gives us the strength and the courage and the hope to stand up again and do the work that we are called to do. Sitting at his feet is what makes us whole.

            Thanks be to God for the Marthas in our lives and for the Marys. Thanks be to God that all of us are necessary and all of us are loved.

            Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia.”

            Amen.