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.)

Winged Things

I unlocked the Church this morning at 6:00 and headed for the sacristy, flipping on lights as I went. I paused on the chancel steps to admire the nave. It was still dressed for Pentecost, with red and orange gauze draped from rafters to floor and an abundance of white origami doves. As I stood there, a small winged creature whisked by, just clearing my left shoulder. For an instant, I was delighted. A live bird fluttering amidst the doves! The third verse of Psalm 84 sprung to mind: Even the sparrow finds a home, and the swallow a nest for herself, where she may lay her young, at your altars, O Lord of hosts, my King and my God. Then I realized that it was a bat. Ah well, bats are listed among the birds in Leviticus and Deuteronomy. A bat…last seen fluttering around in the narthex before heading off for parts unknown.

And while we’re on the topic of winged creatures, allow me to introduce the Liturgical Grouse. I confess to some considerable ambivalence in allowing the Liturgical Grouse to make an appearance on these pages. I find liturgical grousing to be an easy and oddly satisfying diversion. But it’s also a pastime where I’m far too likely to catch myself displaying a distinct lack of charity. And so, in this venue, liturgical grousing always will be accompanied by an image of a Spruce Grouse. Why? Because the Spruce Grouse also is called the Fool Hen because it is so easily caught.



And so, without further ado, today’s Liturgical Grouse: When I arrived to prepare for this morning’s Eucharist, the paschal candle stood beside the high altar. This struck me as odd, as Pentecost was observed last Sunday. I expected the candle to be beside the baptismal font or even stored away in its sacristy closet. I checked with the Celebrant (one of our elder retirees). He seemed quite surprised that I should ask and informed me firmly that the Pascal Candle should remain in place beside the altar throughout the season of Pentecost. “Lit?” I asked, struggling to come to terms with this idea. Yes. Lit. So I did. And then I sat, as the entering congregants looked sharply at the paschal candle and cast meaningful looks in my direction. At the end of the service, I extinguished the altar and paschal candles. But before I could even complete my reverence, I was assailed by two annoyed elderly female voices tripping over each other in their urgency to correct my error in having allowed the paschal candle to linger. I shrugged helplessly. Not my decision. I’m just the altar guild-acolyte-postulant around here. Father Celebrant wanted it. Ah! Well, why hadn’t I said so earlier? Of course the paschal candle should stay! One of the women quickly began spinning an explanation. The Octave of Pentecost. That was it. In the old days, the 1928 Prayer Book days, the Rite I days, the paschal candle always remained beside the high altar for the eight days of Pentecost. This creative account was brought to an abrupt halt by a snort from Priest Two (another of our retirees; we have several). Nonsense! Despite having trained at the Anglo-Catholic High-Church Seminary (where I, too, am a Daughter of the House), he’d never encountered such a custom. It was time, Priest Two declared, for the paschal candle to be removed…and he delivered an impromptu lecture on the history and uses of the paschal candle so delightfully authoritative that it swept aside all further grousing.

Pentecost

Fire and Breath. Jan Richardson. Used with permission.

Nine Long Ignatian Months

Last September, I began a 9-month Ignatian Spirituality program (Spiritual Exercises in Everyday Life or SEEL) through a local Franciscan spirituality center, with the goal of being more intentional in attending to my own spiritual health. That program now is drawing to a close. To be honest, I’m so glad the 9-months are nearly over! Two reasons. First, since Lent, I’ve been experiencing a sort of “liturgical whiplash” as the SEEL meditations often roam far afield from where we’re at in the liturgical calendar and the lectionary. Second, I seem to have reached a place in SEEL where my cup is full, if not overflowing. The meditations are arriving in my email inbox faster than I can truly engage with or pray them. And so, I am printing the incoming meditations and setting them carefully aside (for now). In the meantime, I have returned to several of the earlier meditations. I’m now savoring these at my own pace.

That said, I think that the SEEL program has been good for my prayer life. SEEL has helped me notice and appreciate the spontaneous moments of prayer that emerge unbidden amidst my days. I’ve always known that I’m prone to drifting off, captured by a glimpse of a bird or the movement of branches in the wind. SEEL helped me realize that these unguarded moments are far more than mere daydreaming; they are prayer. These are the moments where I rest most quietly in God’s presence. Moments (to paraphrase Jesuit priest James Martin) when I look upon God and God gazes back upon me.

SEEL also helped me notice a particular pattern in my approach to prayer. During Lent, I realized that I consistently began both SEEL meditations and the Daily Office by apologizing for my less-than-perfect prayer habits. It seemed as if every prayer began with “I’m sorry…I haven’t…I didn’t…I forgot…I overlooked…I was too busy…I started, but then got distracted…” Simply stated, I’d gotten so self-absorbed in enumerating my prayer inadequacies that I’d become lousy company for any sort of prayerful dialogue. And so, I decided to relinquish those apologies (at least for the duration of Lent). That is not to say that I stopped considering the quality of my prayer life. But, I don’t let myself get stuck there nearly as often. Being less judgmental about “doing prayer right” makes it easier for me to begin again, especially when a hectic day has derailed my efforts to be prayerful. It lets me actually pray, rather than just apologize about being bad at prayer. It helps me turn back toward God, over and over and over again.

(The icon of Ignatius under the stars was written by Fr. William McNichols and commissioned by Creighton University.)

Office Hours

It is the last week of the semester and, now that a major paper for one of their other classes is done, my doctoral students (finally) are getting serious about writing their research proposals. This is not at all unexpected and we’re treating this morning’s class as an open workshop session. They are in the classroom, surrounded by laptops and stacks of articles. I am down the hall in my office, available for individual consultations as needed. In between the students’ visits, I plug away at cleaning my office. I’m doing my best to tame the piles of paper that clutter all horizontal surfaces before my 1-year (unpaid) leave of absence begins in a couple of weeks.

A arrives first, visibly agitated. Perhaps A’s approach to the proposal should be overhauled yet again? It appears that I am to indicate whether this is the right course of action. I respond not with the answer, but by reviewing the key issues to be considered in making this decision. Really knowing the literature is at the top of the list. “But that will be HARD!” Yes. It will be.

B fidgets in my office door and has to be coaxed to sit down. A long and circuitous conversation reveals a plan to recruit a sample based on a criterion for which there is no extant measure. I attempt to persuade B that such a strategy would be impossible to implement. B reminds me (for at least the third time) that B’s advisor approves of the proposed study. I remain unimpressed. I remind B, with a (not entirely successful) gesture toward humor that the advisor in question won’t be grading the final paper.

C sheepishly confesses having spent zero-time on this proposal in the last 2-weeks. D also is in the same boat. Laughing, I reinforce their candor. They settle in and hammer away at their laptops for the duration of the 3-hour class period. This is good. They know where to find me when the inevitable questions crop up later in the week.

E brings me a Specific Aims draft, fresh off the printer. It reads like a dream. I walk E through the grading criteria, pointing out how I’m easily able to locate and understand each of the major required elements. We pinpoint some spots that would benefit from elaboration. But it’s icing and E knows it. E is in fine shape.

F appears just before the end of class. F’s list of questions is long, but focused and on-target. We grapple with the relative merits of dichotomized versus continuous variables, a topic that would be tough for any of my students. F comes from a culture where it’s not okay to articulate confusion to the professor; so, I monitor F’s non-verbals closely. Once the eyebrows unforrow, I’m confident that F understands.

G and H don’t stop by at all; this is an ominous sign, as they are the two students about whom I’m most concerned. I resist the temptation to go looking for them.

Few students notice—or at least few students comment upon—the strategically placed visual cues in my office. First, a mobile shaped like a question mark hangs over the only open chair. As students sit and talk to me, the question mark drifts gently above their heads. Second, two small magnets from the Wizard of Oz are stuck to the filing cabinet, placed to fall directly in my line of vision every time I look toward a student. One magnet is the Wicked Witch of the West; the other is Glenda the Good Witch. I’ve had the question mark mobile since I was a graduate student myself. I hung it in my office to remind me what an effortful and vulnerable process it is to be the one asking questions. Glenda and her wicked counterpart help me keep my sense of humor whenever I encounter a student who wants me to solve a problem for them—as if I could wave Glenda’s magic wand—rather than helping the student solve the problem for themselves (which is, of course, what good teachers do). Such students often leave, I suspect, feeling as if I’ve been rather witchy.

Office hours are done for the day. In fact, they’re done for the semester and it will be a year (or more) before I teach again. When I finish this blog entry, I’m going to take down the question mark mobile, gather Glenda and the Wicked Witch and take them all home with me. I’m pretty sure I’m going to want—and need—them in the tiny seminarian’s apartment that awaits me in Manhattan.

Being Church

Another of the elders to whom I’d carried communion died—our second in less than a week. Several of my fellow Lay Eucharistic Ministers (LEMs) were at the funeral to keep company with D on the last steps of his earthly journey. There were LEMs in the pews and LEMs as crucifer, reader, chalice bearer, and acolyte (me). As the Rector remarked just before the service began, it was time for us to “be church.”

The funeral itself was loving and dignified. I was humbled to learn that D kept up a weekly vigil against the war in Iraq long after most people habituated or resigned themselves to that endless war. My spouse and I talk often of what we could—or should do—about the war. But while we were talking, D was out there every Friday on the pedestrian mall, whatever the weather, increasingly frail and bent, holding a lonely protest sign.

There was no trip to the cemetery after this funeral, for D donated his body to the Anatomy Department. His wife of 56 years told me how pleased she is that D’s ashes eventually will return home to rest in the Parish columbarium. He will, as she said, be “right there.” I am pleased too, for I intend that my own ashes eventually will reside in that same place. D will be fine company.

In the meantime, my office window looks out over the building that houses the Anatomy Department. With every glance outdoors, I hold D and his family in my prayers and I express my gratitude for D’s quiet and powerful witness for peace.