Sermon. Proper 11 (Year C). Luke 10.38-42.

+ In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Today’s Gospel calls us, like Martha’s sister Mary, to be still and listen. Otherwise, we risk reducing Martha to a caricature, rushing about in some sort of Martha-Stewart-style tizzy. Preoccupied with soapsuds and dust cloths and other trivialities, rather than matters of lasting spiritual substance.

As we heard proclaimed a few moments ago: “…Martha was distracted by her many tasks…”

Many tasks? What exactly were those tasks that so distracted Martha? The text is maddeningly vague on this point. And curiously, the various English translations of this passage of scripture can’t seem to agree on just what it was that distracted Martha. While our lectionary (which uses the NRSV translation) says “many tasks,” other English translations report that Martha was distracted by “all the preparations to be made,” (NIV) or by “all the things she had to do” (ISV), or by “great provision,” (Chilton) or, in the traditional language of the King James Version, “Martha was distracted with much serving.” These variable translations share one thing…they’re all vague.

My curiosity to understand what preoccupied Martha led me to the original Greek. The Greek word for whatever it is that’s distracting Martha is diakonia (dee ak on ee ah).

Aha! Now things are really interesting, for diakonia is a very important word. It appears many times in the New Testament, primarily in Paul’s letters and the Acts of the Apostles. It’s an “early church” word that’s almost always translated as meaning “ministry” or “ministration” or “ministering”…that is, as service given in the context of the early church. Diakonia, of course, is where we get the word “Deacon”…those ministers who are charged…both in the early church and in our own times… with the care of the poor and assuring the distribution of food and other resources.

The word diakonia occurs only one time in the Gospels. Here. In Luke’s story about Martha and Mary. I suspect that Luke’s use of the word diakonia explains the ambiguity and inconsistencies in our English rendering of the Gospel. For here we have an early church word applied to Martha…but there is no church yet. Jesus himself is right there, in Martha’s home. Nevertheless, Luke’s use of the word diakonia offers us a window into how this gospel writer viewed those tasks that distracted Martha…Diakonia helps us step away from our caricature of Martha and listen to this story with fresh ears.

For whatever it was that preoccupied Martha, her work was valued and taken very seriously. The word diakonia dismisses any suggestion that Martha was occupied with trivialities. It communicates that she giving service in a way that manifested the Kingdom of God in her present moment.

New Testament scholar Bruce Chilton suggests that Martha and Mary probably were “widows, no longer young. That they were honor bound to provide food and shelter for Jesus and the ever-changing contingent of disciples who depended on them. Meeting those needs would have consumed the sisters with the purchase and trade of goods, housekeeping, and cooking. No doubt they wished that Jesus provided instructions for managing what was suddenly an unwieldy household. The center of spontaneous and joyous festivity…but also (given the village of Bethany’s proximity to Jerusalem) a crucible of rebellion and apocalyptic energy.” (Chilton p. 235, paraphrased)

Diakonia is not the stuff of mundane household management, but of holy service offered up in a mundane setting. In diakonia, Luke gives us Martha as a pivotal forerunner, one of the mothers of the early church.

The idea that Martha’s work was valued and important is reinforced by Jesus’ response. Jesus chides her not harshly, but gently and with good humor. Listen closely to his “Martha, Martha” and you can almost hear the fondness, perhaps even a chuckle in his voice.

So if Martha was offering up holy service, what then was the problem?

Martha, alas, bore her burden of holy service ungraciously. The problem was not her occupation with the tasks per se, but that she allowed those tasks to distract her, to draw her away. And that state of distraction inevitably shaped her behavior.

In culture where honor and shame carried great weight, Martha marched up to her Lord and said, “Do you not care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself? Tell her to help me!” Martha shamed her sister. She put a guest on the spot. She violated the expectation of hospitality. In short, Martha took service to God and her neighbors and made it about herself. About what she was giving.

The gospel writer doesn’t tell us how Martha responded to Jesus’ gentle corrective. But I imagine that she learned a lesson about the risks of serving others. Such service is seductive.

Dorothy Day, the co-founder of the Catholic Worker Movement (and, as an aside, a cradle Episcopalian) expressed this idea especially well.

“I have found myself rushing from one person to another—soup bowls and more soup bowls, plates of bread and more plates of bread, with the gratitude of the hungry becoming a loud din in my ears…This is dangerous work…It’s a grave temptation—to want to help people…we run the risk of thinking we’re God’s gift to humanity, those of us who struggle in our soup kitchens and hospitality houses to be loyal to Him. It is a message I hope none of us forgets, though we do; all the time we do.” (p. 185-186, Pohl)

This gospel calls us to think about our service in own daily lives. Our work places. Our families. And here, in this parish.

Who is your Mary? Who is that person who irks you? Who looks like they’re not doing much? While you…YOU!...You’re hurrying about doing good work. Important work. Giving of yourself in service.

Finding your Mary probably won’t be difficult. Here at Trinity, in fact, you might find your Mary in our Rector, who is just back from a 2-month of sabbatical. What was it like for you to continue your efforts in our parish while Father M was away?

For me, I most often find “Mary” in my much beloved spouse, J. I confess that it annoys me to no end that J moves so slowly in the mornings. By the time he finally makes an appearance in the kitchen, I’ve already scurried about, rushing through Morning Prayer to make the coffee, feed the dogs, and skim the news headlines. I know I’m not alone in this experience. Survey research tells us that both spouses in any couple consistently estimate that they themselves shoulder more than 50% of the household chores.

We do well to remember that what looked like “doing nothing” to Martha was, in fact, a great gift of hospitality to Jesus.

Throughout his public ministry, Jesus entreated those surrounding to listen. To hear. Over and over again. As we heard in the Gospel reading three Sundays ago, Jesus’ face is set toward Jerusalem and all that awaits him there. And today, he encounters Mary on his journey. Mary who, in her hospitality, is responsive to his need to be heard. Imagine what a respite it must have been for Jesus, after days and weeks among jostling crowds, hostile opponents, and often slow-witted disciples, to be welcomed by Mary, who sat at his feet and listened.

In doing so, Mary no doubt nourished both Jesus and herself. For it is our ability to listen that provides the sustenance we require if we are to serve graciously for any length of time. If we are to keep the service we offer up about Christ, rather than ourselves, we must listen for God’s voice…in both scripture and amidst the mundane…but potentially holy tasks…that fill our days.

It is hearing the small, still voice of God that keeps the Church from being just another not-for-profit organization. We are not called to serve as a social welfare agency. Instead, as Christians, we are called to live:

“A life of hospitality [that] begins in worship, with a recognition of God’s grace and generosity. Hospitality is not first a duty and responsibility. It is first a response of love and gratitude for God’s love and hospitality to us.” (p. 172, Pohl, paraphrased)

Amen.

Roots

When I first began serving as a lay reader, I developed a curious sense of rootedness. The roots seemed to sprout from my feet, anchoring me through the layers of Trinity’s foundation into the black Iowa soil deep below. The sensation was palpably real. Soon I found myself waiting whenever I stepped to the lectern to read scripture or lead the Prayers of the People. The pause, I suspect, is just discernable; but I wait to speak until I can feel those roots firmly grounding me in place.

As my departure for seminary draws nearer, I am acutely aware of how much I will miss my home parish. The fussy twins in their exhausted parents’ arms. Four-year old YY, big girl that she is, taking herself to the healing alcove for the laying on of hands. D, who was a member of my discernment committee, sitting beside me in the pew, reading the New Testament in its original Greek. J offering up a reggae version of Hymn 659 that was arranged by one of our jazz students. The Rector, home now from the first of two sabbatical pilgrimages, speaking words I needed to hear about traveling light. The Assistant Rector, absent on vacation this morning, but present nonetheless because I can still feel how she traced the sign of the cross upon my forehead when we parted.

Amidst all this, I had the irresistible urge to slip out of my shoes. The 8:45 service is known for its informality…but bare feet? Please. I attempted to push the desire aside, albeit unsuccessfully. Finally, during the reading of the Gospel, I gave in. I wanted to feel those roots and I wanted nothing—not even my sandals—between me and the worn hardwood floor. And so, I discretely tucked my sandals beneath the pew and stood with my bare feet on the cool wooden floor. Wood that is saturated with generations of prayer. I remained barefoot throughout the rest of the service, feeling those roots. Feeling, to paraphrase the psalmist, like a tree, planted beside a stream of water.

(The image, "Getting Grounded," is by Jan Richardson and is used via subscription.)