"Go and Do, Sit and Listen"
Dr. George R. Sinclair, Jr.
Pastor
July 22, 2007
Sibling rivalry is as old as the Bible itself—Cain and Abel come to mind—Esau and Jacob, the Elder Brother and the Prodigal. In each story, the first-born comes off rather badly and no less so in Luke’s famous story about the two sisters—Martha and Mary. We can hear Martha’s whine all the way from the kitchen: “Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to do all of the work by myself?”
Poor Martha, she just didn’t get it—Mary chose the better part. Can’t you see Mary sitting quietly at the Lord’s feet, listening intently, obediently, with just a trace of a smile breaking across her sainted lips? Who could forget Mary at the feet of Jesus and her older sister Martha with dishes stacked high in the kitchen?
Luke pairs the story of Mary and Martha with the equally famous Parable of the Good Samaritan. The two stories unquestionably belong together. Both are about hearing God’s call. Both are about responding to God’s grace, which is a lot like breathing. Breathing is about inhaling and exhaling. Likewise Christian life is about both worship and service. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Before going further, I want to first back up and visit Luke’s story about the man who knew his Bible well but was told to “go and do” what the Bible taught.
Thirty some odd years ago when I was fresh out of seminary I accepted a job in the little town of Warsaw, Illinois—way up the Mississippi across from where the DesMoines intersects that mighty river. Warsaw was so small it didn’t even have a traffic light—well, actually we had a four-way flashing light, but that was it.
Not long after I arrived in Warsaw, a well-meaning member suggested that I call on Mrs. Fennor. In the three and a half years I lived in Warsaw, I never once heard anyone call Mrs. Fennor “Hulda,” which was her first name—always Mrs. Fennor. And if you ever met Mrs. Fennor you immediately understood why everyone called her Mrs. Fennor. She was about 90 years old and no bigger than a pencil and didn’t exactly give off warm-fuzzies.
I was told to go see Mrs. Fennor who lived in a walk-up apartment on Main Street above the shoe store she and Mr. Fennor ran for many years. Mr. Fennor was long since dead as was the shoe store and from the looks of her apartment, Mrs. Fennor hadn’t changed a thing since he died. She was a pack rat. Magazines and newspapers were piled high everywhere. I mean, I had trouble finding a place to sit.
Mrs. Fennor had a funny way of looking at you. When talking she squinted as if she were studying you real closely. So I’m sitting there squeezed between stacks of Life magazines and Farmer’s Almanacs from 1935, and Mrs. Fennor is studying me. I’m telling her my story, how I came from North Carolina, how I just finished seminary, was married to a school teacher, about to have our first baby, and so forth, and she started quoting Scripture—“God so loved the world he gave his only son.” John 3:16. For whatever reason I spouted back, “The Lord is my Shepherd I shall not want.” Psalm 23.
So she quoted Psalm 27, “The Lord is my light and my salvation.” And I came back with, “Blessed are the peacemakers for they shall be called children of God.” Matthew 5. Our Bible battle went on for some few minutes until thankfully Mrs. Fennor called a truce. And I was glad she did because I was about out of Bible bullets. Anyway, she smiled as if to say, “I think he’ll do,” and our conversation went on to I’m sure other important churchly matters.
Now, here’s the thing: Mrs. Fennor was a whole lot like the scribe who comes up to Jesus and wants to know what he has to do to inherit eternal life. Like that scribe, Mrs. Fennor knew her Bible. She could quote it from one end to the other, but she didn’t exactly exude love and affection. Fact was, she was kind of mean. Well, maybe not mean, but she was hardly the kind of person you’d want to spend your day with. I don’t think she had any real friends. Everyone was about half afraid of her, but she could quote the Bible.
The scribe in Luke’s story was a lot like Mrs. Fennor. He knew the Bible. When Jesus asked him what the Bible said about going to heaven he got it right: “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength, and with all your mind; and your neighbor as yourself.” But the scribe also found a loophole, or tried to anyway, “Who is my neighbor?” Jesus answered him with a parable. And we all know that very famous parable, the parable of the Good Samaritan.
A man was going down the road from Jerusalem to Jericho and he was attacked by robbers. The robbers beat him up, took his money and left him for dead. Along comes a priest and he “passes by” on the other side. Preachers are like that—we pass by—got a meeting to go to—some place important, have our suit on and can’t get it dirty, too big of a hurry, don’t want to get involved—so we pass on by.
Next, said Jesus, comes a Levite. And he passes by too. He’s probably joining up with the preacher for a late dinner. Point is he beats it on down the road. And then along comes a Samaritan. We all know he is the unlikely hero. He’s the Roman Catholic among Irish Protestants, the Arab Muslim among American Christians. He’s the one who stops. When he sees the man in the ditch he is “moved with pity.” And we all know that’s the critical point of the parable. “He’s moved to pity.” That’s what neighbor love is about. And the fact that a Samaritan can have pity shows that neighbor love is not so much a religious affection as it is a sign of our common humanity. To be human is to have pity for fellow humans, especially ones who are suffering. That’s neighbor love. It’s not hard to figure out. And you don’t even really need a Bible to figure it out.
But there’s more. The Samaritan is not only moved with pity but he also gets down in the ditch with the beaten man; he dresses his wounds, sets him on his animal and brings him to safety. The Samaritan must be some kind of traveling salesman. He’s been up and down the road before. He knows the place and people know him—“Here’s a few days rent. Take care of this guy and when I get back this way I’ll pay you whatever else is needed. Just take care of him and I’ll pick up the tab later.”
Neighbor love is like that. It doesn’t ask anything in return. Neighbor love is not about the art of the deal—you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours. We all know neighbor love when we see it. And so did the lawyer. “Which of the three was a neighbor?” Of course we’re all screaming the answer with the lawyer because we absolutely know: “The one who showed him mercy.” And so Jesus says to the scribe and to us, “Go and do likewise.” It is no mystery, if we want to go to heaven we must do the Word of God. We all know that—faith leads to mercy. Faithfulness leads to neighbor love. Christians demonstrate compassion. “Go and do likewise.” James, the Lord’s brother, never forgot that. “Be doers of the Word,” he reminds us, “and not hearers only.” Enter at this point the story of Martha and Mary.
“Now as they went on their way. . .” That’s how Luke connects the two stories. The “they” are Jesus and his disciples. And “their way” or destination is Jerusalem. On their way to Jerusalem the disciples and Jesus enter “a certain village” where a woman named Martha welcomes Jesus into “her home.”
We know from John’s gospel that Martha and Mary lived in Bethany, which was a suburb of Jerusalem. Luke is either unaware of that information or more likely it’s too soon in Luke’s narrative for Jesus to be in Jerusalem so he refers to Martha’s home as “a certain village.” At any rate, when Jesus arrives he is welcomed into “Martha’s home.”
The fact that Martha is mentioned first and that the house is described as “her” house and that Mary is named in reference to her all suggest that Martha is the older sister and is most likely not only widowed but is at the very least of modest means. First century Palestinian women did not routinely own and manage their own households. Martha is a woman of independent means. She knows about work.
Luke has added another twist when he describes Martha’s sister sitting at Jesus’ feet. That Mary sat at Jesus’ feet says much about her but perhaps more about Jesus. First century self respecting rabbis simply didn’t let women near them. Only male disciples sat at their feet. Jesus broke a long observed tradition when he allowed Mary to “sit at his feet.” And she likewise broke from her assigned role by doing so. By her day’s standards she should have been in the kitchen, a point which is not lost on her sister Martha: “Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself?”
Some years ago I went to a management seminar which focused on leadership styles. We were supposed to interview our staff before we attended so when we arrived we could use their responses to analyze our management style. The leaders of the seminar told us that good managers pay attention to both tasks and relationships. If you’re all tasks and no relationships, work suffers. Likewise, if you’re all work and no play, work again suffers.
I went to the seminar thinking, “I’m fairly task oriented.” I like projects and I tend to measure work more by how things turn out than how things go along the way. Going to that seminar confirmed that I’m a lot like Martha—I’m task oriented. I’m result oriented. I’m more inclined to doing than I am to being. So, I have a lot of sympathy for sister Martha. Somebody’s got to make church coffee. Somebody’s got to pay the light bill. Church is not just about showing up—it’s about all that stuff that happens that nobody sees. And like any other work it can be rather thankless—“Lord, don’t you care that they’ve left me to do all of the work?”
I’m right there with Martha. I want to snatch little Mary and tell her to get off her duff. “Wipe that silly saintly smile off your face and get down in the trenches with that beat up neighbor. I’m sure it must be wonderful sitting and cooing at the feet of Jesus, but we could use some help in the soul kitchen of life.” But Jesus doesn’t say that, nothing close to it.
Luke tells us that Martha was “distracted by her many tasks.” The word Luke uses actually means “pulled in many directions.” Are you ever “pulled in many directions?” It happens to me all of the time—I’ve got people wanting me to do this, people wanting me to do that. Some days there are more needs than I’ve got time or inclination. And it’s tough deciding which ought to come first. Should I rush over to see Mrs. So and So who’s in the hospital or call on that new young couple who just moved to town? Do I jump on budget preparation or write a newsletter column? But of course the pulling goes deeper than tasks. We’re pulled by relationships, by pleasing others, pleasing ourselves, doing the right thing. And when you’re pulled in that many directions your soul gets stretched thin.
“Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things; there is need of only one thing.” Sometimes we need to stop doing and just sit and listen. Sometimes we need to tell ourselves that the world is going to be just fine without us. Sometimes we need to say, “I’ve done all I can. This is now in the Lord’s hands.” Sometimes we need simply to sit at the feet of Jesus and be loved by him.
If Martha had the gift of giving, Mary had the gift of receiving. One is no less important than the other. We cannot give what we have not received. Grace is not just for everybody else, it’s also for us. God’s love is not first of all a demand: it is a gift. To be sure, Jesus wants and expects us to love our neighbors but he also wants us to receive his love. “Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her.” God calls us to go and do but he also invites us to sit and listen. Like every breath we take, God’s love must first be received before it can be given. Amen.