sisters

 

The painting known in English as the Mona Lisa, by Leonardo da Vinci, which hangs in the Louvre in Paris, is arguably the most famous painting in the world. Another painting, also known as the Mona Lisa, hangs in the Prado in Madrid. It was not painted by the great master; but it is neither a fake nor a forgery. It was created, in his workshop, by one of his pupils (which one is debated) and it is an exact copy of the original in every detail. (And because the Prado Mona Lisa has been cleaned, it shows us what the Louvre Mona Lisa would have looked like originally.) This faithful reproduction is an example of what is known as sitting at your master’s feet.

In Luke 10, Jesus sends his apprentices ahead of him to every place he planned to go, ‘as lambs among wolves’ to find someone who would receive them (and, therefore, Jesus) into their home. In this context, Jesus tells a parable about a man on the road set upon by robbers (a lamb among wolves) and an innkeeper who receives the man and cares for him.

And in this context, we hear about two sisters, Martha and Mary. Martha receives Jesus into her home. Mary is not there, we only hear that she is one of those who sat at Jesus’ feet learning from him. That is, she is out there, on the highways and byways. Martha is offering hospitality, but she is distracted. And she is bold to ask Jesus, ‘Aren’t you worried about my sister? Aren’t you worried for her, who has forsaken me to serve you out there?’ (the word for service literally means stirring up the dust by moving from place to place). Aren’t you worried that she is a lamb among wolves? If you can tell a recognisable story about a man left filor dead by robbers, what will they do to a woman out on the road?

Martha speaks her truth before Jesus. And Luke gives us only a summary. But we know that she is distracted. Perhaps she is a little envious of her sister, out there having an adventure. Perhaps more than a little resentful, at having been forsaken, that Mary didn’t take her along with her. Certainly worried for her sister’s safety, wanting her back here where she knows that Mary has come to no harm.

The first thing Jesus does is let her know that she is not alone (accompaniment). ‘Martha, Martha,’ is not dismissive, not ‘Oh, Martha, you silly girl.’ It is quiet and tender, and says, You are seen. When I was a child, it was widely thought that children acted out because they were naughty, and that they should be sent to their rooms until they calmed down. But children — and adults — act out because they are overwhelmed; and being sent into isolation to somehow regulate themselves is the worst possible thing. What they need is the presence of a safe adult who will sit with them, not trying to fix the problem, but simply so they know they are not alone.

Jesus acknowledges Martha’s concerns acknowledgement). He does not dismiss them. Martha, Martha, you are concerned about many things.

And Jesus normalises those concerns (normalisation). It is not surprising that you are worried about your sister. That is perfectly understandable, normal. There’d be something wrong with your relationship if you weren’t. This is not a failure, not a lack of faith.

But Jesus (re)connects Martha with what she has lost sight of connecting with resource). I don’t think she is alone, with no-one to help her offer hospitality; but she feels abandoned by her sister. She is unable to focus on her thing because she is worried about her sister’s thing. Jesus brings her back. There is only one thing needful/lacking/you have almost everything you need.

Then (only then, not rushing to fix anything) Jesus holds out hope (hope). Mary has chosen the good portion God has for her, and it will not be taken from her. Not by any wolf on the road. Not by any robber. And, if this is true of Mary, it is also true if Martha. No one will take away the good portion God has for her.

What are you anxious about today? What worries do you carry? Can you name your truth in the presence of Jesus? Perhaps you are worried about growing older, about the ways in which your body or the body of someone you live and care for is inevitably falling apart. Perhaps you are worried about the declining numbers of the church congregation. Perhaps you worry for your parents, or children, or grandchildren. Perhaps you worry about what you see and hear in the news. The climate crisis — if not for yourself, for your grandchildren.

Such worries are normal. They are not a failure of faith, or nerve. Jesus sees you, and cares. Calls you by name. Sits with you. Acknowledges your concerns as legitimate. But also, slowly, gently, connects or reconnects you to the resources of the kingdom of heaven. Also speaking a word of hope.

The current building of the church I serve — the inn to receive all, of which I am current innkeeper — opened its doors for the first time in September 1939. The nation had just entered what would become the Second World War in a generation. Uncertain times. Anxious times. We are here for such times. We are still here.

Luke 10.38-42

‘Now as they went on their way, he entered a certain village, where a woman named Martha welcomed him into her home. She had a sister named Mary, who sat at the Lord’s feet and listened to what he was saying. But Martha was distracted by her many tasks; so she came to him and asked, ‘Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself? Tell her then to help me.’ But the Lord answered her, ‘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.’’

 

Luke 10

 

In Luke chapter 10, Jesus sends out seventy(two) apprentices ‘like lambs into the midst of wolves’ to find, in the places he intended to go, someone who would welcome them into their home.

In this context, Jesus is asked what makes for that quality of life we long for — a life characterised by loving God and our neighbour — and, when pushed to define who is in and who is out when we speak of ‘neighbour,’ Jesus tells a parable of a man on a journey who falls into the midst of robbers (cf. sent out like a lamb among wolves) and who is taken to an inn (literally, the place where all are received) where the innkeeper (host; cf. the person who welcomes Jesus’ apprentices into their home) might ‘take care of him.’

Also in this context, we meet two sisters, Martha and Mary. Martha receives Jesus into her home, as a person of peace or as the innkeeper. Mary is described as sitting at Jesus’ feet, which is a way of describing the apprentice to a master. That is to say, Mary is one of the seventy(two) who are sent out as lambs among wolves; and Martha is one of the people who receive Jesus into their homes and extend hospitality to him and to others.

We are told that Martha is distracted, or pulled in multiple directions, by much service or ministry. And while ministering hospitality to Jesus, she takes the opportunity to ask him that, at such time as he comes across her sister Mary out on the road, out identifying other ‘inns’ — other homes of hospitality where all are received in Jesus’ name — he might tell her to return home and cooperate with her sister, Martha, sharing the load.

What is interesting is that Martha feels safe enough to name her truth — her sense of overwhelm; her need for help; her sense of being abandoned by her sister, perhaps with attending resentment; perhaps even her concern for her sister, sent out as a lamb among wolves or a man who falls among robbers, perhaps her longing that her sister returns to the inn that she keeps, so that she might know that her sister is safe.

In this place, Martha is bold enough to ask Jesus if he does not care, if he is not prepared to be the innkeeper who attends to the wounded and weary?

In this safe space, Jesus responds with deep listening — demonstrating that he does, indeed, care. He speaks her name — ‘Martha, Martha’ — which is a way of expressing that she has been truly seen, truly heard, truly recognised. Her being overwhelmed by much service is understandable. Yet, the solution is not to tell Mary to come home. Rather, Jesus helps Martha to see that Mary has taken hold of the call of God on her life, which is different to Martha’s life, and that this will not be taken away from her, at least not by Jesus.

The call on Martha, likewise, is not a call to much ministry — to an overwhelming burden — but to something good, something life-giving, she has lost sight of through distraction, through anxiety. She has the resources for what she is called to — to offer hospitality, to receive all — and, in being heard and affirmed is enabled to reconnect to her resources.

Our churches are called to be inns where all are received, where weary travellers experience hospitality, refreshment and safety. Where they are fed, as Psalm 23 puts it ‘in the presence of our enemies,’ for there is no place where we do not face anxiety or overwhelm, but nonetheless we can be brought back to the place of emotional and nervous system regulation.

Our churches are also called to be communities of apprenticeship, of sending out, of establishing other such communities, other ‘inns on the way.’

What, then, is our experience of the church? Is it a place where it is safe, to name our anxieties, to name the sensations that are felt first in our bodies? Are they the kind of communities that help us bring those unconscious responses into our conscious thoughts and memories, our stories by which we navigate life? Are they places of healing and wholeness?

This is slow work, patient work, that takes deep listening, deep hospitality (it is no coincidence that we get our word hospital from the practice of providing hospitality to travellers).

 

the parable of the inn on the way down

 

Today as the church gathers we will hear one of Jesus’ most well-known parables. A parable is a short story that allows Jesus to explore with us what it means for God to have come into the world as one of us, as a human being in search of his frightened friends, in a way that allows Jesus to remain hidden in plain sight.

In the parable we will hear today, Jesus is the road, the way, down from Jerusalem to Jericho. The way God leads us on is down, the way of self-emptying. This road was notorious, known as the Red Road because the blood of pilgrims and travellers, spilled by robbers, flowed so regularly. The Way is the way of self-sacrifice.

Next, Jesus is the man travelling the way, who fell in the midst of robbers, was stripped, wounded, and left for dead, ignored by the priest. Here the parable points to the cross where Jesus, having been stripped and whipped, is crucified between two robbers, one on his left and the other on his right, as the priests look on and mock.

Next, Jesus is the chance by which first a priest and then, in the same manner, an assistant to the priests, come across the man in need of assistance, as they are busy trying to make their way up, not down. The word Luke uses for chance literally means ‘with the Master,’ or divine coincidence. Who will Jesus bring across our path—or, whose path will Jesus bring us across—this week? And how will we respond?

Jesus is also the Samaritan, who enters into a covenant with the man in need, binding-up his brokenness.

And Jesus is the inn to which the Samaritan brought the man, and the innkeeper who would continue to minister to him. The Persian word for inn is caravanserai, or travellers’ palace. The Greek word Luke uses is pandocheion, or ‘all-receiving,’ the place where allmare welcomed. Elsewhere, Jesus uses yet another related word to describe the sheepfold to which he is the gate. Such inns provided rooms for traders, travellers and pilgrims, on one or more levels, around the four sides of a central courtyard, with one way in and out. Jesus is both the gate, and the innkeeper, the host who welcomes all.

Jesus is everywhere you look in this parable.

And the church is called to be those who accompany Jesus on the way down, who lay down our lives, who notice divine coincidences, who enter into covenant relationships with our neighbours, who bring them to the travellers’ palace, to the host who welcomes all, who receives all.

Today, I want us to pay particular attention to what it means for the inn to be the gathered church in the parable. For the building we come to on a regular basis, as a place of hospitality on our journey through life, to be a community that receives all who comes through the door.

What would that look like, in practice?

Luke 10.25-37

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

‘But wanting to justify himself, he asked Jesus, ‘And who is my neighbour?’ Jesus replied, ‘A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and fell into the hands of robbers, who stripped him, beat him, and went away, leaving him half dead. Now by chance a priest was going down that road; and when he saw him, he passed by on the other side. So likewise a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side. But a Samaritan while travelling came near him; and when he saw him, he was moved with pity. He went to him and bandaged his wounds, having poured oil and wine on them. Then he put him on his own animal, brought him to an inn, and took care of him. The next day he took out two denarii, gave them to the innkeeper, and said, “Take care of him; and when I come back, I will repay you whatever more you spend.” Which of these three, do you think, was a neighbour to the man who fell into the hands of the robbers?’ He said, ‘The one who showed him mercy.’ Jesus said to him, ‘Go and do likewise.’’

 

come near

 

‘As you go, proclaim the good news, “The kingdom of heaven has come near.”’ Jesus

‘The kingdom of heaven has come near’ means that the very life of God — the life that creates and redeems and sustains all life — is reaching out to us, is made available to us, that we might know life in all its fullness. That the character, power, and resources of God might shape our lives, enabling us to be not superhuman but simply, astonishingly, fully human.

Are you anxious? It is possible to know peace.

Are you in a position to administer justice? It is possible to be strengthened to do what is right even when it is hard, even when it is not expedient.

Are you on the receiving end of injustice? It is possible to know that long-suffering endurance that transforms anger into resilience and restrains us from adding our own wrongs to theirs.

Is your body and/or mind shattered by pain? It is possible to know the wholeness of being held together, by love.

Are we struggling to forgive ourselves, or someone else? It is possible to know forgiveness.

Do we grieve the loss of a loved one? It is possible to know what it is to be comforted.

Has the life you hoped for come to a tragic end? It is possible to receive a new life, and even to flourish within it.

The kingdom of heaven has come near. That is good news, wherever we find ourselves. Whatever life looks like in this moment, or season. Good news, in a myriad of ways.

If you have ever known life, known your life renewed or given back to you or simply still here against all the odds, you have experienced the kingdom of heaven drawn near, whether you realised it or not.

Not that this is easy. It is neither a magic wand that erases difficulty nor a drug that numbs us. It is a daily dependency on a higher power, on the highest power, on power given away to others, made perfect in human weakness.

But it is good news, worth proclaiming.

 

weighty

 

In the Gospels, we read of Jesus sending out seventy (or seventy-two) of his apprentices, in pairs, ahead of him to every settlement he intended to pass through, to prepare the way. Luke’s account turned up in the Lectionary (the set passages read day by day, and Sunday by Sunday) on Sunday, and Matthew’s account turns up tomorrow.

In Matthew’s account, Jesus instructs them to find out who is worthy. The Greek word translated ‘worthy’ means, ‘who is the same weight as them.’ Not in a literal pounds and ounces or kilogrammes sense, but in a social and relational sense.

An example: imagine a White British grandmother, whose neighbours are a Pakistani Muslim family. She might feel that they have nothing in common, yet might come to find a connection with the Pakistani grandmother, because, despite real cultural differences, at one level a grandmother is a grandmother is a grandmother, and grandmothers might share a bond that no one who is not a grandmother can know.

And the point is not that we cannot build bridges across divides — intergenerational divides, cultural divides, or any difference — but, precisely, that if we are to build such bridges, the best place to start is where we find common ground. Common experience. Someone whose ‘weight’ is equal to our own.

The best place to start proclaiming good news is to find someone worthy, someone of comparable weight, or life experience, to your own. And from there, god news spreads through their connections, to other people whose lives have some common point — some point where their lives balance — with theirs.

So, who do you know who is the same weight as you?

Matthew 10.7-15

‘As you go, proclaim the good news, “The kingdom of heaven has come near.” Cure the sick, raise the dead, cleanse the lepers, cast out demons. You received without payment; give without payment. Take no gold, or silver, or copper in your belts, no bag for your journey, or two tunics, or sandals, or a staff; for labourers deserve their food. Whatever town or village you enter, find out who in it is worthy, and stay there until you leave. As you enter the house, greet it. If the house is worthy, let your peace come upon it; but if it is not worthy, let your peace return to you. If anyone will not welcome you or listen to your words, shake off the dust from your feet as you leave that house or town. Truly I tell you, it will be more tolerable for the land of Sodom and Gomorrah on the day of judgement than for that town.’