When God Gets Fed Up

Dr. William A. Ritter

First United Methodist Church

Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture:  Ezekiel 36:16-30

The best definition of prevenient grace I ever heard suggests that ours is a God who goes searching for people who don’t possess the good sense to know they are lost. More than once in my early career in youth ministry, I frantically searched an amusement park, a campground and, in one case, the entire south side of Chicago, for a group of kids who, upon being found, couldn’t understand “what the big deal was.” In today’s text, the people of Israel knew full well “what the big deal was.” Not only were they lost, they knew both the why and the wherefore of their lostness. They were exiles, living in Babylon, having been carried off by their captors. Their deportation took place under the watchful eye (and with the full compliance) of their God. What did God do when the enemy came? The prophet Ezekiel tells us that God looked the other way and lifted nary a finger to help. There is even a hint that God played a more active role in their dispersal, given that in 36:17 Ezekiel says:

This is what I heard the Lord say. “When the people of Israel dwelt in their own land, their conduct was like the uncleanness of a women in her monthly time of impurity. So I poured out my wrath upon them, scattering them among the nations, dispersing them through the countries according to their conduct.”

Which is not a pleasant message to bear, let alone hear. After all, who wants to be told that when you are on the outside looking in, it’s pretty much where you deserve to be.

Then, at last, comes a hopeful word….a promising word….a counterbalancing word….just when you think the prophet will never get around to saying it.

I will deliver you, says the Lord God of Israel. I will lead you out. I will bring you back. I will take you home. Clean water I will sprinkle upon you. A clean heart I will place within you. Abundant grain will stand tall in your fields. Abundant fruit shall hang low from your trees. And you shall once again be established in the land that I gave to your ancestors.

The implied message would seem to be: “Therefore, start packing, lest you spend one more day in this godforsaken hellhole than is absolutely necessary.” Whether the Lord said exactly that is academic. That’s what the people heard.

And that’s more like it. That’s what you and I want to hear. “Tell us, Bill, that no place is so forsaken so as to be deemed godforsaken. Tell us, Bill, that even the world’s hellholes will have their darkness splintered by the sunlight of heaven. And tell us, Bill, that we can never be cast so far from shore as to preclude the possibility of being reeled back in. “Good Lord, deliver us,” we cry despairingly. “And He will,” cries the prophet, responsively. “He will.”

All of which has a familiar ring to it. Isaiah said it. Jeremiah said it. It’s just taken Ezekiel a little longer to get around to it. One has to put up with more gloom in Ezekiel on the way to the hope. Yet, sooner or later, even Ezekiel’s God comes through.

Except it’s not all that simple. For in the midst of this long-awaited promise, we find this strange word: “It is not for your sake, O house of Israel, that I am about to act, but for the sake of my holy name which you have profaned among the nations.”

“It is not for your sake, O house of Israel, that I am about to act.” What does that mean? It means just what it says. It means that while God is about to save his people, God is going to do so, quite apart from anything having to do with them. Which is not what we would normally expect to hear. We would expect to hear that God loves them….that God cares for them….and God’s heart goes out to them in spite of everything that may have previously come between them. But that’s not what the text says. It says that God has such a low opinion of this people (as a result of their cheating hearts and idolatrous ways) that, if there is to be a deliverance, Israel will have nothing whatsoever to contribute to that deliverance. “It is not for your sake that I am about to act, but for the sake of my holy name.”

Among Old Testament scholars, Walter Brueggemann currently occupies that pedestal reserved for the “fairest of the fair.” When Brueggemann comments on a passage of scripture, preachers listen. So it is interesting to read Walter’s word concerning these lines from Ezekiel. “I regard this as one of the most dangerous and stunning texts in the Bible, in that it dares to set God’s free and unfettered sovereignty at something of a distance from Israel.” Let me translate that for you. What Walter is saying is that God sometimes acts for reasons having more to do with who God is, than with who we are.

Think of it this way. Picture yourself as parents in a restaurant (a very nice restaurant), trying to eat a meal with your children (your very small children). It has been a long day, which means that your children are tired and not behaving very well. As their parents, you are just as tired as they are, to the point that you are not coping very well. With each passing minute, they (as children) are becoming more obnoxious. And with each passing minute, you (as parents) are becoming more embarrassed. Not really all that much is at stake for the children. They are behaving….well…pretty much like children. But much is at stake for you. For everybody is watching. You’d really like to swat them one, or find some similar means of letting them have it. But you don’t want the people at the nearby tables to think poorly of you, to the point of concluding that you who birthed these children, can’t control them. So you become the very models of “parental patience” (given your concern for the opinions of those who may be looking on).

This is pretty much what Ezekiel says happened to God. Israel had tried and exhausted God’s patience, having thrown one sufficiently long tantrum, until even God could take it no longer. What concerns the prophet is that even God may have a breaking point, and that the one who is said to be “slow to anger,” may (nonetheless) have a flash point to that anger. “What happens,” Ezekiel seems to wonder, “when even God’s compassion runs dry….when, having gone so many extra miles, He find himself reluctant to go one mile more? What then?”

Then (Ezekiel says) Israel’s last hope….our last hope….the only hope left…..is that God will be sufficiently concerned with his reputation that He will act to preserve his good name, even if God has long-since passed the point of worrying about ours. “I am going to deliver you,” says God, “not because of you, but because of me….so that the nations will see that I am God, and will know that it takes a very great God to love a people like you.”

Now that notion probably bothers many of you. I know it bothers me. What’s more, I know why. First, it bothers us because we have assumed that, at the core of his nature, ours is a rather mushy God. To whatever degree we have slipped into the habit of seeing God in grandfatherly imagery, such imagery has less to do with our belief in a God who is old, than in a God who is soft. Grandfathers, in the main, are more inclined to be soft than stern. And the notion of “sternness” (which is laced throughout Ezekiel’s writing, not to mention the entirety of prophetic literature) is hard to square with the notion of “softness.” Meaning that when push comes to shove, we will always choose soft over stern. We’ll opt (every time) for the Charmin God….squeezably soft. And there’s much to be said for a pliable God….easier to relate to….easier to be in touch with….and easier to be loved by.

But the word “soft” means absolutely nothing until it is measured against (and balanced by) something “hard”….something that neither yields nor bends. Some years ago, when my wife was working for a community agency known as Farmington Youth Assistance, she sponsored a lecture by a nationally-acclaimed parenting guru named Pat Hurley (a most insightful and funny man). As I remember it, the title of his talk was: “How to Raise Your Parents.”

Marvelous lecture. Lots of kids in the audience. Lots of parents, too. Pat Hurley had the kids in the palm of his hand. At one point, he was talking about two different voices that parents employ to say the same simple word….the word being “no.” One voice says “no” in a way that says: “It’s not negotiable. It’s not discussible. Don’t moan, groan, whine, beg, make a face, throw a tantrum, or badger me 30 minutes from now with 17 additional arguments. It’s going to be ‘no’ then, just as it’s ‘no’ now.” But the other parental voice says “no” as if to say: “But if you want to take a shot at changing my mind, be my guest.” Then, Pat Hurley turned to the kids and said: “Raise your hands if you can tell the difference between yours parents’ ‘no’s.’” And virtually every hand of every kid in the room shot up.

Every home has a place for both kinds of “no’s.” Love renegotiates some things, while drawing the line at others. So, one suspects, does God. Soft and stern. We surrender either at our peril.

While I was thinking about softness and hardness….and the degree to which they could co-exist in the same God….I spent an evening with a dear friend of mine who was in the process of babysitting his grandchildren. My friend’s grandchildren are great kids. And he loves being their granddad. The role fits him like a glove. I hope, someday, to be half as good. But you need to know that his grandkids are both boys, ages two and a half and three and a half. And, as the saying goes, they are “all boy.” This means there are times when he wears out before they do. Which is partially his fault, given that he is the one who heats them up, only to wonder why he has trouble cooling them down.

But the bigger difficulty consists in the fact that they can’t conceive of their grandfather as having a stern side. To them, every “no” is negotiable. Meaning that they push the limits until they exhaust themselves in the effort….or until he gives them back to their mother….his daughter. We are talking about the same daughter who knows he has a stern and inflexible side, and was smart enough (in her growing up years) so as not to provoke him to demonstrate it. Remembering those early days with his daughter, he said: “All I had to do was look at her and she knew I’d had enough.”

I was talking about all of this with my own daughter (who I never felt much of a need to discipline). Whereupon she said: “That’s because I knew ‘the look.’ And when, at some point in the discussion I got ‘the look,’ I knew not to push things any further.” Today, I’m not sure I could reproduce “the look.” But it must have been pretty effective. I trust that my daughter loves me as much for “the look” as for my mushy malleability (which was, more often than not, my true fatherly nature).

Our hope, says Ezekiel, is not rooted in the fact that God will always bend to us, but that God will be true to himself. Which bothers us, because it strikes at the notion that God is a rather mushy deity. But it also bothers us because (down deep) we like to think of ourselves as being rather nice people. Why wouldn’t God want to deliver us? How could He become fed up with us? After all, aren’t we doing the best we can?

One of the nice things about reading as much Bible in any given week as I do, is that it forces me to read a lot of stuff I would skip over, were I merely reading the Bible in search of sermon material. One of scripture’s recurring themes that I would just as soon skip is the theme of divine depression over our sorry performance. In no small number of places, God is depicted as being sorry that He made us, even to the point of flirting with the notion of scrapping the whole enterprise and writing us off as a noble experiment, gone sour.

I don’t know what to do with all those passages. But I am forced to conclude that God may sometimes feel that way. It’s not (I suppose) that we’re so bad, but that we promise so much while delivering so little. Were we born losers, God could probably take it better. But I doubt that’s how He sees us. I think He sees us as Mike Ilitch does the Tigers, possessing so many good pieces, yet unable to put them together to the point of delivery.

Not that we lack for excuses. All of us have them. And when we run out of them, we lay the rest of our problems off against our nature. “Don’t look at us,” we say, “that’s just who we are.” I hear that phrase being used over and over again to explain, excuse and rationalize some of the stupidest behaviors. But it works. For if I am willing to understand that “you are just who you are,” then maybe you’ll understand that “I am who I am,” and neither of us will ask the other to be “other” or “better.” So it’s quite easy for me to say how nice I find you to be, trusting that you will say the same about me. Yet, is ours the ultimate judgment that matters?

Robert Coles of Harvard (who writes so beautifully of what life is like on the boundary where Christianity meets psychiatry) tells of a particularly troubling patient in his early years of clinical practice. His client was a woman of 25, a graduate student in literature, who seemed to be suffering from a hard-to-pin-down mixture of guilt and remorse. Upon concluding that her feelings of dis-ease were somehow connected to a sexual liaison with her professor, Coles began leading her toward some internal act of catharsis and cleansing. In doing so, he focused the therapy on the specific person of the professor, only to have the young woman keep insisting that the professor was only one piece of the problem, and that (in her own words), “there is someone else who needs to be mentioned.”

After exhausting all the possibilities as to who that suddenly-significant-someone-else might be, Coles changed the subject, only to notice that a strange new word surfaced in her conversation. That word was “transgression.” Suddenly Coles knew the identity of the “someone else who needed to be mentioned.” So he planted the suggestion very softly, leading her to acknowledge: “Yes, I will probably never be able to come to terms with myself until I come to terms with God, whose judgment matters more to me than my own. It’s not how I look at my affair that matters, but how God looks at it.”

I find myself wondering if any of us even care how God looks at our affairs….or at us. And were we to really ponder that question, might we be led to conclude (with Ezekiel) that if God acts to deliver us, it will have to be because of some graceful quirk in his nature, rather than some clear and obvious merit in ours.

There’s an old chestnut of a story, remaking the rounds of late. It concerns a minister who died, met Peter at the gate, and learned that he needed 100 points to get in.

“After all, I was a minister for 47 years,” the man said.

“That’s nice,” said Peter. “We’ll count that as one point.”

“I visited shut-ins every chance I got.”

“Shut-ins. One point.”

“I worked with junior high youth in every one of my churches.”

“Junior highs. One point.

“And many were the times I set up chairs and tables, and even mopped the church floors when nobody showed up to help.”

“Chairs and mops. One point. Making four points. Leaving 96 points.”

“Ninety six points? Save for the grace of God, I don’t stand a chance.”

“Grace of God. Ninety six points. Come on in.”

My friends, let the word go out to the nations that it takes a very great God to love a people like us.

When the Inmates Take Over the Asylum

Dr. William A. Ritter

First United Methodist Church

Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture:  Mark 12:1-12

Preliminary Notes:

This sermon was introduced in my Steeple Notes letter with the following paragraph:

When I lived in the bungalow on Wisconsin Avenue, a large apple tree covered most of the backyard. Alas, it was not our tree. It belonged to Jack and Rose Dempsey, our next door neighbors. It just leaned in our direction. Which meant that we got most of its blossoms and fruit. Given that we never sprayed, the apples were often wormy. But my mother performed miracles with a paring knife. I can still taste the applesauce and the pies. What was strange was how “territorial” we became about a tree that wasn’t ours. We didn’t want people messing with “our tree.” Which came to mind when I reread Mark’s wonderful Parable of the Wicked Tenants (Mark 12:1-12). I’ve preached it before. But I now have enough age and experience to preach it better. At any rate, it’s a good “harvest sermon.” Listen to it under the title “When the Inmates Take Over the Asylum.”

The Parable of the Wicked Tenants is dangerous to preach, but for reasons other than one might commonly think. That’s because this parable is also an allegory. Few are. But this one is. And whenever one confronts an allegory, the temptation is to treat it as a puzzle to be solved. So it becomes easy to look for “inner meanings,” wherein the vineyard owner is God….the vineyard is Israel….the tenants are the Jews….the watch tower is the parapet of the temple….the messengers are prophets….and the owner’s son is none other than our Lord Jesus Christ. All of which is probably true. But it allows us to treat the narrative as a crossword puzzle to be solved at an intellectual distance. Whereupon we can step back, savor our accomplishment, and wait for the puzzle the preacher is going to give us next week.

This “fresh look” is prompted by the very gifted prose of Barbara Brown Taylor who not only introduced me to the concept of the “sharecropper,” but suggested the parable be turned upside down to view it from the tenants’ perspective.

The Sermon:

Once in a while, when I take my memory bank and give it a vigorous shake, the names of Vinco Pogachar and Matko Farkas come floating to the surface. Not that many people ever called them Vinco and Matko. At least not in North America. On this side of the pond, people called them Vince and Matt. But in the old country….one of my old countries….the country presently called Slovenia (but once called Yugoslavia)….they were Vinco and Matko.

I came to know them because my grandfather sponsored Vince when he came to this country. My grandfather was Slovenian, too. Eventually Matt and Vince (who were married to sisters) went to Canada and settled north of Niagara Falls….by Lake Ontario….near the little town of Grimsby….in the Ontario fruit belt. Where they grew fruit. Lots of fruit. On lots of trees. On lots of land. Meaning they were good at it. And, most likely, got rich from it (although I have yet to meet a farmer who has ever admitted to having any money).

In my childhood, I spent a little time on those farms and even picked a little fruit on those farms. I hated picking cherries because of the size and peaches because of the fuzz. But I thought that apples and pears were okay….especially pears, because the size seemed to fit my hand better than any other growing thing that God (in his infinite wisdom) decided to hang from trees.

As of this telling, I haven’t picked a pear in decades. And the last time Kris and I went through Canada, we got off the QEW at Grimsby and tried to find Vince’s farm. But I couldn’t be sure….what with all the condos, I mean.

Times change. People, too. Today, I get my pears from the Royal Oak Farmer’s Market. And I buy my cherries from the little roadside fruit stand near Elk Rapids. That way I can eat them in the car and spit the pits out the window….or through the roof (when I drive with the top down). And I told you about the apple tree of my childhood….which wasn’t on our lot….but grew mostly over our lot….giving us lots of apples….which, although universally wormy, rewarded anyone with a high tolerance for worms or a nimble excellence with a paring knife.

It’s harvest time, isn’t it? And don’t you just love it? I mean, the Michigan crops are in. Abundant and sweet. Taken alone, the corn and tomatoes are to die for. For someone who loves to eat, it doesn’t get any better than this. Take that, Tuscon!

Did you ever stop to think how many stories in the Bible talk about harvests? Grape harvests. Grain harvests. Earthly harvests. Heavenly harvests.

            Even so, Lord, quickly come,

            Bring the final harvest home.

            All is safely gathered in,

            Free from sorry, free from sin.

This little story of the wicked tenants is all about a harvest. Which, as one of you will surely point out, I preached earlier in my tenure under the title “God and Banana Pudding.” But when I preached it before, I did so as Jesus preached it originally….and as every other preacher has preached it repeatedly….from the perspective of the landowner, who is God. And you can never go wrong preaching about God. Well, you can. And I have. But that’s another story. So let’s not get into that here. Instead, let’s try to come at this story fresh. And how shall we do that? By choosing a different place to start. Instead of starting with the owner of the land, why don’t we start with the tenants on the land. Indulge me as I do a little rewrite job for you.

* * * * *

Once upon a time, there was a wealthy land baron from Chicago who, while vacationing in northern Michigan, bought a derelict apple orchard and added it to his vast holdings. Not wanting to leave any of his acquisitions in the shape that he found them, he pruned the trees, cultivated the weeds, fixed up the sales shed and put a brand new sign out on M-72, just a couple miles east of Williamsburg. Then he leased the place to a down-on-their-luck family from Kalkaska, writing the lease at less than market price. But not before extracting an understanding that the new tenants would give him ten percent of the apples when the crop came in. Then he got in his Lincoln Town Car, drove back to Winnetka, and nobody in Williamsburg ever laid eyes on him again.

Now these were inexperienced tenants. But they were good tenants. They worked hard. And they worked long. They used organic pesticides. They hauled water by hand when their first clumsy attempt at an irrigation system failed and a mini-drought was in progress. And when an early frost threatened the crop (mere days before it was due), they built small fires and set out smudge pots so the fruit would not freeze under a blanket of smoke.

Come harvest time, the air smelled of applesauce. The trees were so heavy with fruit that they looked like painted ladies bound for a ball, wearing more jewelry than their bodies or gowns could comfortably carry. And when the harvest hit, it hit quickly. Which meant that the tenants had to summon every available cousin (first, second, kissin’ and otherwise) and they had to work in shifts. Some picked while others slept. Then the sleepers picked while the pickers slept. They kept at it until they were all in….and until it was all in (the harvest, I mean).

Proud of their accomplishment, you can imagine how surprised the tenants were….day next…. when, lo and behold, they saw a 16-wheeler with Illinois plates backing down the driveway and heading toward the barn. Whereupon two guys with pencils nestling in their ears and muscles bulging in their t-shirts, got out…..surveyed the crop….did some quick figuring….and then started loading apples onto the 16-wheeler without even introducing themselves.

When the tenants stepped forward to protest, it became apparent that the guys in the t-shirts weren’t about to be dissuaded. So the rest of the tenants….along with a few neighbors who just happened by to check out the action….decided to introduce these big boys from Chicago to a Kalkaska County version of People’s Court. One of them cranked up the Bobcat, while the rest of them got pitchforks, pruning hooks, the fire hose, along with several water balloons. And, before long, they had persuaded the muscle guys to return to Chicago, empty handed. “Get lost,” was a cleaned-up version of what they said. And the muscle boys did just that.

Which was wrong, of course. The tenants shouldn’t have done that. You know it. I know it. Who knows….maybe even the tenants knew it. They’d made a deal (including the ten percent cut). They should have honored it. Still, there is something about their situation that makes us at least momentarily sympathetic.

After all, they are the “little guy.” And some of us have been the “little guy”….and may still be the “little guy.” And little guys don’t always like big guys. Or respect big guys. Especially when the big guys are landlords. Absentee landlords. Let me ask you a question. Have you ever been a renter? Then you know what I mean.

Or maybe it’s because most of us have relatives….parents, or likely grandparents….who once farmed somebody else’s land….bringing in somebody else’s crop….making somebody else’s profit. So we know how hard that life can be.

It’s not the American Dream, you know….to live the existence of a sharecropper. The American Dream is to own a small slice of paradise, or maybe even a big slice of paradise….your own home…on your own land….growing your own vegetables…for your own table. As Barbara Brown Taylor says: “None of this always-looking-over-your-shoulder-handing-your-profit-over-to-somebody-else stuff.” Most of us in this country (including more preachers than you would think) really do believe in ownership, autonomy and self-reliance. Some of us may have occasional quarrels with capitalism. But, by and large, they are lover’s quarrels.

In short, popular sympathy rides with the tenants. “Give ‘em a break,” we find ourselves saying. “Cut ‘em some slack. Knock ten percent down to five. And give ‘em additional grace periods….if not additional years. After all, Winnetka’s economy is booming. Kalkaska’s is struggling. Why, two years ago, they had to close the schools in Kalkaska 12 weeks early. They didn’t have the money to run ‘em.”

Two weeks ago, my brother-in-law took us out for a ride in his brand new boat on Higgins Lake. His brand new “performance” boat. It was a great day and a great ride. His boat is called “The Eliminator” and it can go over 70 miles an hour. Did you ever go 70 miles an hour in a boat? You have to scrape the flies from your teeth, I’ll tell you.

When we were going much slower (in order to look at the shoreline), we came upon several places where the shoreline held not one dock per lot, but several….with each built onto the one before it….six or seven docking spaces strung together….jutting out into the lake like mini-marinas. Up there, they call them “road ends.” It’s where a road coming down toward the lake, dead-ends at the lake. And people who couldn’t afford to own property on the lake started putting their boats in there. And eventually built docks there. One dock on another there. Without ever asking anybody there. And without ever paying taxes there. Some of them, now standing thirty or forty years there. Which means that it is not uncommon (especially on a Saturday or Sunday) to have tons of cars parked there. As well as tons of boats tied up there. With half million dollar cottages having been built adjacent to there.

Nobody knows quite what to do about the dock squatters. And those who think they know what to do….legally or otherwise….aren’t about to do it. Because, whether you know it or not, there’s a sympathy in northern Michigan that looks with favor upon people who can’t afford houses on the water and with disfavor upon people who can. And that sympathy is more widespread than you might think.

No, the tenants are clearly wrong. But a case can be made for them. And sympathy can be felt for them. And why do I want you to see that….and feel that? Because of where you and I fit into the story, don’t you see. Because we are not the landowner….even though we own a fair amount of land (and love Chicago). Neither are we the big muscle boys in the t-shirts….even though we have our share of worldly clout and love (just love) our trucks. And we are certainly not the owner’s son….even though we use his name a lot in popular conversation and remember his brutal death both fondly and yearly.

No, in spite of the fact that we have worked long and hard for everything we have….and in spite of the fact that we have deeds, titles, fence lines, mortgage payments and tax bills to prove it…. we are deluding ourselves when we attempt to deny our tenancy. For, in the economy of the Kingdom, we are not the fat cats. And, since this is Dream Cruise weekend, neither are we the fast cats. Who are we? We are the slow and skinny cats. And whether our holdings would suggest words like “bigfoot” or “smallfoot,” we (who hold them) are people of clay feet. Meaning that we have got it all over our shoes….and, most of us, clear on up to our hearts.

Since the deal made with the landowner was forged so long ago, most of us have forgotten it. We have conveniently misplaced the tenant’s agreement, so that we could write up a deed instead. Which was easy, given that the landowner seemed to spend so much of his time away. And when he sent messengers, it was easy to turn them back with “no” for an answer….or simply avoid them, because they tended to come on Sundays, and we have found more and more things to do with our Sundays (like making cobbler, shopping for antiques or playing golf).

The owner could have summoned the police or called out the dogs, I suppose. He could have even sent an army of angels. Warrior angels. But he never did. Which is, if you want the truth, one of the reasons I doubt he ever will (send the warrior angels, I mean).

He just kept sending messengers. And we kept roughing them up (in ways often silent, but equally deadly). Until he sent his son, unaccompanied and unarmed, to remind us that we were guests upon the earth. And his son said that while there were privileges to being guests….wonderful privileges….one of them was not the privilege of pretending that the guests had no Host.

You see, when the takeover came….when our takeover came….we gained the gift, but lost the Giver. And when we lost the Giver, we lost whatever perspective the Giver could offer on the proper way to manage and care for the gift. You’d think we would have known better. But history hasn’t proven it to be so.

All he wanted was to have us take care of it….and return a portion of its fruit to him. Not because he needed it, mind you. I doubt that the owner needs one more apple…..one more bushel of apples....one more butter-crusted cobbler made of apples….or one more cinnamon-sprinkled bowl of applesauce, for that matter. After all, once the owner gets his share of our apples, all he’s gonna do is give ‘em away. No, the reason he claims his rightful portion is for us….for our benefit. He does it to keep the tie binding….the relationship alive. So that we will never forget that whatever we have or whatever we own, we are the guests of a gracious God….who seemingly can forgive any sin but forgetfulness, because it begets a whole lot of sins that are worse (like ingratitude, haughtiness, arrogance and pride).

By the way, the tenants killed the son, too. But he would not stay dead. And, to this day, he haunts the orchard, reminding us that we are God’s guests upon the earth, so long as we remember whose earth is and how it is to be used. We can love it as our own. We can water it by hand. We can build fires against the frost. We can even take deep pleasure in the harvest.

All we may not do is spurn the owner and persecute his messengers. After all, we are sharecroppers. Which is a reminder I need to give myself more and more often, now that I live in nicer and nicer places….have more and more of the world’s resources….and own more and more personal stuff.

To pretend otherwise is screwy thinking. Backward thinking. Out-of-whack thinking. Me…. mine….and damn-everybody-else thinking. In short, crazy thinking. Hence, my title: “When the Inmates Take Over the Asylum.” Haven’t you noticed that crazy people tend to turn the world into a crazy place?

We get so territorial about things. But even territory is temporary. Need I remind you that we are just passing through? Not that it isn’t sweet while it lasts. But, as the old refrain goes, “We ain’t got long to stay here.”

So plant it. Prune it. Pick it. Process it. Bake it into a pie. Share it with a neighbor. Put a little in the freezer for a rainy day. But set some aside for the owner. Who, I am told, has a harvest plan that’s to die for. Or, as Vinco Pogachar used to say: “Billy, how ‘bout them apples?”

Where, Then, Shall We Go?

Dr. William A. Ritter

First United Methodist Church

Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: John 6:60-71

There is a story I have come to love, told to me by a man you will come to love. The man’s name is John Claypool (a preacher out of Mississippi, by way of Kentucky). John will spend a weekend with us next March, at which time he will probably not repeat this narrative.

It concerns a Mexican bank robber, Jorge Rodriguez, who operated along the Texas border around the turn of the century. He was so successful in his thievery that the Texas Rangers deployed a whole extra posse along the Rio Grande to try and stop him. Sure enough, late one afternoon, one of the special Rangers saw Jorge slipping quietly across the river into Mexico. So he trailed him at a discreet distance until the bandito returned to his home village. He watched as Jorge mingled with the people around the town well and then went into his favorite cantina to relax.

The Ranger slipped in and managed to get the drop on Jorge. Pointing a pistol to his head, he said: “I know who you are, Jorge Rodriguez, and I have come to get back the money you have stolen from the banks in Texas. Unless you give it to me, it is my intention to blow your brains out.”

There was, however, one flaw with the marvelously conceived and (to this point) exceedingly well-executed plan. Jorge Rodriguez spoke no English and the Texas Ranger spoke no Spanish. They were two adults at a verbal impasse.

About that time, an enterprising little Mexican approached the Texas Ranger and said: “I am bilingual. Would you like me to translate for you?” The Ranger nodded, whereupon the bilingual Mexican told Jorge Rodriguez who the Ranger was and why he was pointing a gun at Jorge’s head. Nervously, Jorge answered back: “Tell the big Texas Ranger that I have not spent a cent of the money. Then tell him to go to the town well….face north….count down five stones….find the loose stone….pull it out….reach behind….where he will discover the money. Please tell him quickly.”

Nervously, the Ranger inquired: “What did he say? What did he say?” Leading the bilingual Mexican to respond in perfect English: “Jorge Rodriguez is a very brave man. He says he is ready to die.”

* * * * *

Make no mistake about it. In a picture-driven culture, words are still important. And attention will be paid to anyone who can speak them clearly and in ways that lead to connections. We are hurt by what we can’t say….and by what we don’t hear. Ask the bandito in the cantina or the Ranger who chased him there. As a preacher, I have learned that I can open wounds with words and I can close wounds with words. In my professional life….and in my personal life….words have gotten me into trouble and words have gotten me out of trouble.

But why should I be any different from other people….like you….or you….or even Jesus? Who, more than once, got into trouble by what he said. In our little text of the morning, Jesus finds himself very much in trouble because of what he said. Not that I read enough of the text so that you can see all the trouble. To do that, I would have had to take you all the way back to the beginning of chapter six and read 60 verses more than I did. Suffice it to say that the unifying theme of John’s sixth chapter is bread….and the degree to which Jesus gives it (as in “here, take and eat”) measured against the degree to which Jesus is it (as in “here, feed on me”).

Trust me when I say there is plenty in chapter six to offend. The offense begins when Jesus says that he is God’s own bread….come down from heaven….and that whoever eats of it will live forever. Which pretty much equates him with God. And which pretty much elevates him over us. Which does not strike our ears harshly. We’re used to hearing this by now. But picture yourself hearing it for the first time. Picture yourself hearing it from another human being who looks and sounds like you (“I am God’s own bread, come down from heaven; whoever eats of me will live forever”). It would probably make you scratch your head….at the very least.

But Jesus notches things to a higher level by choosing some rather gory words to describe what he means. In the earlier gospels, Jesus calls this bread “his body.” In John’s gospel, however, he calls it “his flesh.” In the earlier gospels, he calls upon it to “be eaten.” In John’s gospel, however, he uses the words for “chomp” or “gnaw.” So a more literal translation might go like this: “Those who chomp my flesh and guzzle my blood have eternal life….for my flesh is true food and my blood is true drink.”

This is language more appropriate to butcher shops than churches. And when you add the fact that Hebrew law clearly forbids the drinking of blood, you can understand why Jesus’ followers began pulling away from him. Twice, in the text, we are told that they began to “murmur among themselves.” I love that phrase, given that I have known what it is like when people in the congregation begin to “murmur among themselves.” Finally, John tells us that many who were disciples (suggesting that, at this point, there were far more than 12) said: “This is a hard saying. Who can listen to it?”

But rather than making it easier for them, Jesus makes it harder. “Does this offend you?” he asks. “Well, if it offends you, what would you say if you were to see the Son of Man ascending to where he was before he came?” Meaning: “What if I were to take off right now (like an over-filled helium balloon), leaving you with nothing to show for this little encounter but stiff necks?”

To which you can almost hear them say collectively: “We don’t get it. We don’t get any of it. We don’t get the living bread bit. We don’t get the gnaw-my-flesh bit. We don’t get the guzzle-my-blood bit. And we especially don’t get the up-up-and-away bit.” To which Jesus says: “No, and you probably won’t, unless it be granted you by the Father.” Meaning that your lack of comprehension probably means you haven’t been chosen….and that you don’t belong here.

Picture yourself in class….a very high-powered class….in a very high-powered school…. listening to a very high-powered lecture…..delivered by a very high-powered professor…..whose words are floating in a very high-powered way….right over your very low-powered head. In short, you’re not getting it. Which frightens you, until you look around and realize that nobody else seems to be getting it, either. So you suddenly get very brave. And you raise your hand very high. But, when called upon, all of the courage leaks out of your voice as you hear yourself mumble: “Could you please back up and go over that again? Some of us are not getting it.” Only to hear (in response): “Then I guess you don’t belong here.” That could take the wind out of your sails or the starch out of your socks. And it might even make you fold your tent and depart.

Which several did. Depart, I mean. People do, you know. At all kinds of times. And for all kinds of reasons. What’s more, it’s hard not to take it personally when they go, even if they say things like “Nothing against you, preacher” or “Ritter, this really isn’t about you.”

But allow me to let you in on a little secret. You can’t do this work without getting your ego caught up in it. A lot of people say you’re not supposed to. But they’re stupid when they say that. Simply stupid. No one of us will ever become a sufficiently pure messenger of God, so that all you see is God and nothing that you see is me. There’s always ego there. In greater or lesser amounts, to be sure. But I would advise you to never trust a preacher who says there isn’t. Instead, trust the preacher who is honest enough to name it, because it is only the preacher who names it who has half a chance to tame it.

People leave. All the time. Which hurts. And irritates. Probably both. This is true, even for Jesus. I can’t speak for you, but I can hear it in his voice. We are now at the end of chapter six. Most of the room has bailed. And to the few who remain….to the dozen who remain….he says: “Do you also wish to go away?” And for all Jesus knows, maybe they do. I’m not sure he’s sure about any of them….about any of us….or about me, for that matter. Oh, I’ll stick it out. In part, because I’ve already stuck it out. But there were times….not that I want to talk about them. But there were times. Everybody has times when they could just as easily go with the flow, when the flow is going for the door.

Maybe what Jesus said was: “I suppose you guys want to go with those other guys”…..all the while hoping they don’t (or won’t). Which is how it turns out, of course. They don’t. But not because they haven’t considered it. Peter speaks for them. And what Peter says is: “Lord, to whom can we go? You have the words of eternal life.” Meaning: “We don’t fully get it either. But we sense we can hear something here that we can’t hear any place else, from anybody else. Which is why we haven’t left. And don’t plan to.”

The phone rings late at night in the house where I live. It is you on the other end of the line, phoning from the house where you live. You have just hung up that very same phone, following a call from the hospital where your loved one lives. “You’d better come,” the voice from the hospital says. “He has taken a turn for the worse.” Which often means that your loved one has died. But since the caller does not possess hospital authority to tell you that….or because the hospital does not want to be responsible for your driving if you know that….the caller does not say that your loved one has died

So you go. And I go. To see the one who is already gone. Upon arriving at the hospital, everyone is ushered into a designated meeting place they call the “family room” (which is where families come together before they come apart). And the floor nurse says: “I’ll call the doctor. She’ll be here in just a minute. Meanwhile, can I get anybody any coffee?” And the doctor comes (before or after the coffee). But the doctor does not stay long. Her job is done. She did what she could. For as long as she could. Working as hard as she could. But it wasn’t enough. Which, whether she tells you or not, makes her uncomfortable.

Strangely enough, this is often where I (as a pastor) feel most useful. Not that I have anything in my bag of tricks that the doctor did not have in hers. Indeed, it is past the time for tricks (hers, mine or anybody’s). Just as it is past the time for techniques (hers, mine or anybody’s). Suddenly I am forced to go to work, precisely at the point where all the things that are supposed to work, no longer work. When the machines no longer work. When the mechanics no longer work. When the technology and the technicians no longer work. When the wonders of science and the well-cultivated intuitions of the medical staff no longer work. When everything and everybody we have counted on to keep the work working no longer work. And when we are confronted (in the face of all we do know) by all we don’t know….and (in the face of all we can do) by all we can’t do….how ironic it is that I am the only person left who is still working.

Not that I was ever taught what to say. Which used to frighten me. But it frightens me no longer. For I know something that the doctor didn’t know (when she said: “We tried everything we could, but we lost him”). What I know is that he wasn’t ours to lose. He was God’s. Or, more to the point, he is God’s. And God translates the language of victory and loss far differently than we do.

            “Do you also wish to go away?”

            “To whom would we go, Lord? You alone have the words of eternal life.”

* * * * *

Two months ago, a young man died….suddenly and tragically. His grandmother called a friend and said: “See if you can reach Dr. Ritter, he’ll know just what to say.” Notice that she did not say: “He’ll know just what to do.” So her friend called me. I called the boy’s grandmother. And I spoke words that I didn’t really think about beforehand….nor was I scripted to say beforehand. Words which changed nothing. But may have altered something.

Two weeks ago, after praying with a cancer fighter who is now in her 17th round of a 15 round title fight, she said: “Those words are beautiful.” To which I said: “I don’t have the faintest idea where they came from.” To which she said: “I know where they came from.”

But this is not about me, don’t you see. The title of today’s sermon departs from the text. My title is not “To Whom Shall We Go?” Instead, it is “Where, Then, Shall We Go?” I am talking “church” now. For this is where we would come to know the Holy One, whose thoughts are not necessarily our thoughts and whose ways are not always our ways. This is where we try to penetrate what the Celts call that “thin membrane” that separates things temporal from things eternal. And this is where we come to tell the stories which take some of us years to “get”….and then, in a transforming moment, get us. Life saving stories.

Do you remember Scheherazade? She was one of the wives of the Emperor of Persia. And Persia’s emperor was a man who was convinced that all women were unfaithful. So he vowed he would marry a new wife each day, have his way with her at night, and would have her executed early the next morning. Which constitutes a rather large problem. Except that Scheherazade was a very clever woman, who set out to save all the women of Persia. So on her wedding night she began to tell the emperor a tale that so fascinated him, he decided to stay her execution for an additional night so he could hear the rest of the story. You know the outcome as well as I do. Scheherazade kept on talking and so fascinated the emperor that he listened to her tales for 1001 nights, after which he was sufficiently convinced of her fidelity that he made her his consort.

Let me ask you a pair of questions. How do you get from one day to the next in a world where, sooner or later, everything “dear” dies? And where do you hear the stories that stay the execution.…or point beyond them?

Friday morning….48 hours ago….58 of us are walking through the sanctuary of Hartford Memorial Baptist Church in Detroit. What we are not doing is going to the front of Hartford Memorial Baptist Church in Detroit. That’s because there is a casket at the front of Hartford Memorial….an open casket….holding a 12-year-old girl….outfitted in her very best and prettiest come-to-Jesus dress. She is lying there because she was the little girl who was raped and murdered, just a few days previous, by an 18-year-old boy whose family is also a part of that church.

We weren’t there for the service. We were there for a tour. We just happened upon the casket. As we left, people were gathering. And I suppose the preacher, Charles Adams (who’s as good as any, and better than most), was sweating over what in the world he could say. But the truth is, there is nothing “in the world” to say. He could (and probably should) agree with everyone in the house that it doesn’t get any worse than this.

But somewhere, in the midst of the utter hopelessness of it all, he should hint….maybe just hint….that it doesn’t get any better than this, either.

            “Will you also go away?”

            “Where shall we go? You have the words of eternal life.”

Note:  John Claypool’s story of Jorge Rodriguez is drawn from his Beecher Lectures at Yale Divinity School, published under the title “The Preaching Life.” I am also indebted to the biblical scholarship of Barbara Brown Taylor who cleverly and carefully unwrapped the “offense” of John’s sixth chapter, leading many of the disciples to “murmur among themselves” and “go away.” Unfortunately, I was not able to stay and hear Charles Adams’ sermon or eulogy for 12-year-old J’Nai Glasker. But given his homiletical skills, I have reason to believe it was as helpful as it was excellent.

Additional Note:  In the Detroit Free Press of Thursday, September 14, it was suggested that murder and rape charges against 18-year-old Michael Gayles (accused of the crime that took the life of J’Nai Glasker) may be dropped because of insufficient evidence. Michael Gayles’ attorney has suggested that his client’s DNA did not match DNA taken from the victim’s body, even though he allegedly confessed to the crime on September 4. I include this information in order to update my closing story in a timely and responsible fashion.

Let’s Stop Beating Up on Martha….and Martha’s Husband

Dr. William A. Ritter

First United Methodist Church

Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: Luke 10:38-42

Dorothy Nickel was a Martha. More to the point, Dorothy is still a Martha. Now living with her husband, Warren, in our Clark United Methodist Home in Grand Rapids, I talked with her just a few months ago. But the years when Dorothy and I crossed paths weekly (if not daily) were my Dearborn years at the beginning of my ministry, where Dorothy and Warren could not have been any kinder to me, to Kris, or to anybody else for that matter. Dorothy was the ultimate behind-the-scenes dispenser of Christian charity and performer of good works. Casseroles to the sick. Cards to the lonely. Flowers to the grieving. Clothing collected here and recycled there. Need a driver….need a donor….need a server….need a chief cook and bottle washer….Dorothy would do it, uncomplainingly and well. She took me under her wing until my soft, downy ministerial feathers hardened into a tough-enough skin to enable me to survive ecclesiastical life in a local congregation.

Early on in our relationship, Dorothy said to me….in the church kitchen, as I remember it…. “Bill, you don’t know me all that well. But when you get to know me better, you’ll learn that I’m a Martha.” Which, when I thought about it later, was not so much her way of telling me who she was, but who she wasn’t. She wasn’t Mary. Meaning that while I would see her in church, I shouldn’t expect to see her in front of the church. While I would see her reading, I should never expect to see her teaching. And while her daily planner would record the comings and goings of a life of lived-out prayer, I shouldn’t call upon her to pray in public or lead a 24-hour prayer retreat. Organize it, maybe. Drive the van to it, probably. Prepare and serve meals at it, likely. Whitewash rocks for an outdoor meditation circle overlooking the lake, certainly. Bake bread for the closing communion service, unquestionably. Good things. Practical things. Needful things. Which, across the years, have become identified as Martha-type things.

As to whether First Church, Dearborn has ever been able to replace her, I cannot say. Given the number of years she’s been gone, I am sure they have. But I wonder how many people it took. More than one, I reckon.

All of which comes to mind every time I read this little five-verse story in Luke. The story is simple. Jesus is coming from north to south….from Galilee to Jerusalem….when he pauses in a small village and accepts an invitation from a woman named Martha. It is entirely possible that the village is Bethany (a mere seven miles from Jerusalem). And it is equally possible that this is the same Martha of “Martha, Mary and Lazarus” fame, who figure so prominently in the gospel of John…. where they are identified as good friends of Jesus at whose home he often stopped. But if this is true, Luke does not say it. Nor does he seem to know it. Meaning that Martha and Mary could be anybody to Jesus. Or they could be prior friends.

No matter. The story speaks for itself. What we’ve got is Jesus….on the road….in a home…. along about mealtime….with two sisters (of different temperaments and inclinations). The text doesn’t tell us a whole lot. But it does tell us that Mary sits at Jesus’ feet, listening to his teachings, while Martha busies herself with much serving. The text does not say “with much cooking.” But in the days before carryout chicken and home-delivered pizza, one can safely assume that serving implies cooking. The text also says that Martha is “worried and distracted”….dare we say “irritated”….and wonders aloud why she (Martha) is on her feet, while her sister (Mary) is on her….whatever. Whereupon Jesus identifies Martha’s problem not as overwork, but as anxiety, and dares to suggest that Mary has something that Martha could use a lot more of….namely, himself.

Which is, when you think about it, something of a put-down of Martha. At least it feels like a put-down of Martha. And it is virtually always preached as a put-down of Martha.

But I have noticed something odd over the course of my ministry. I have had any number of women identify themselves to me as a “Martha.” But I can’t recall that anybody has ever identified herself to me as a “Mary.” Not that I haven’t known some. But none of the Marys of my acquaintance have willingly owned their identity (at least out loud). Funny, isn’t it, that Martha, as the lesser character….or as the seemingly-lesser character….is widely embraced, while Mary, whose “part” Jesus said was the “greater part,” is seldom embraced by women of the church. In other words, why would church women identify more readily with the scolded character than with the praised one? A feminist scholar could have a field day with that one. But I will simply point it out and leave it alone.

I do, however, have some comments to make on the text. And it seems that the best way to organize them is around the three characters in the story, namely Martha, Jesus and Mary (in that order). Martha first.

I do not know everything Jesus feels about Martha. But I am here to tell you that if she didn’t exist, the church would have to invent her. Which is why the church loves her. Because the church desperately needs her. So it rewards her. Which, in turn, puts out the welcome mat for more of her.

And not just for her, but for her husband. I am talking about Mr. Martha. Don’t tell me she didn’t have a husband. I know better. Because I see her husbands over all this church. Martha was a bigamist….praise God. And I can’t imagine life in the local church without Martha’s multiple offspring of either gender.

Three weeks ago, to this very day, I was trailing my wife through an antique shop in Kennebunkport, Maine, when I came across a dust-covered frame holding an artistically-embellished poem. I quickly discerned that it was a poem about today’s text. And I secondarily discerned, upon locating the price tag, that I was unwilling to purchase it (just so that I could hold it before you as a sermon prop). So while my wife and the proprietress were otherwise occupied….buying and selling, as it were….I copied it so that I could read it to you this morning.

Lord of all pots and pans and things,

Since I’ve not time to be

A saint by doing lovely things

Or watching late with Thee,

Or dreaming in the dawning light,

Or storming heaven’s gates,

Make me a saint by getting meals

And washing up the plates.

Warm all the kitchen with thy love

And light it with thy peace.

Forgive me all my worrying

And make my grumbling cease.

Thou who didst love to give men food

In room, or by the sea;

Accept this service that I do,

I do it unto thee.

                                                --Klara Monkres

Quite apart from the pedestrian quality of the poetry, it occurred to me that many of you might like it. Just as many of you, upon learning of her, readily identify with Martha. That’s because temperamentally, there are far more Marthas in the world than Marys. Hear me out.

Many of you have taken the Myers-Briggs Typology Inventory, if not here at church with Dick Cheatham, then at the university where you study or the industry where you work. You know whether you are an INTJ, an ESFP, or any one of the 16 possible combinations….I won’t stop to explain them here. And you know that for purposes of simplification, these 16 categories have been boiled down into four basic temperaments labeled SP, SJ, NF and NT. What you probably do not know is that in addition to having enormous impacts on your marital, familial and workplace interactions, much has been written about how each of these four temperaments impact your life in a local church….in short, how you approach things like religion, worship and prayer.

Focus on the SPs of the world, often called the artisans. These people are flexible, free-flowing, adaptable and easy to get along with. They live in the present (rather than the past or future) and prefer a life of action over contemplation. They like their reality literal, not symbolic….simple, rather than complex. For them, work is prayer, and they love to work with their hands or tools. They would find a liturgical retreat boring, and a silent-contemplative retreat positively stifling. In fact, they wouldn’t sign up unless they were given something to do (drive the bus….bake the bread….or carve little communion cups from blocks of balsa wood).

Now throw in the SJs. Unlike the SPs, SJs have a strong sense of tradition and prize their continuity with the past. Which is why they tend to appreciate liturgy. But they are also extremely practical and are possessed of a strong work ethic. SJs desire to care for those in need and have a desire to be useful. Religiously, they would much rather give than receive.

Both groups are filled, don’t you see, with Marthas. And how many SPs and SJs are there as a percentage of society? Over seventy percent….that’s how many. Which means that seventy percent of church members are temperamentally inclined to Martha-like behavior. Which is why most church people, in confronting a hard-to-resolve problem, are far more likely to respond to suggestions of what they might do, than about how they might pray. Or when I suggested to a man that he might “pray about it,” he answered: “And then what?”

Enough about Martha. Let’s turn to Jesus. Who, in his own life, needed somebody to behave in a Martha-like fashion. I mean, somebody had to cook, wash clothes, buy food and count money. As I recall, someone was dispatched, by Jesus, to make dinner arrangements….upstairs….in Jerusalem….on a Thursday. Just as someone else was dispatched to borrow a colt….four days previous….to ride down a mountain….on a Sunday. And it was Jesus (in the story Luke told just before this one) who praised a man who stumbled upon a mugging victim….bandaged him up….lifted him up….delivered him up….and then anted up….leading Jesus to say: “You want to see what I mean by ‘neighbor?’ That guy is what I mean by ‘neighbor.’” No, Jesus is not without a warm spot in his heart for Marthas.

So what is this about? Well, part of it is about timing. Earlier, I said that Jesus was on his way from Galilee to Jerusalem….his last visit to Jerusalem….his dying visit to Jerusalem. Does he know that this is his “dying visit?” It would seem that he senses it. Which certainly changes his demeanor. And which certainly changes the tone of his encounters. After all, don’t most people suspend normal routines at such moments? I certainly think they do.

It is 10:30 at night. Your daughter calls from the car phone to tell you that the love of her life has just slipped an incredible diamond on her finger. She wants to swing by and show you. You don’t say: “We’d love to see it. But tomorrow’s a work day. And when tomorrow is a work day, we are always in bed by 10:30 and asleep by 10:45. Why don’t you come by on the weekend? That way, we’ll have more time.” You wouldn’t say that. Please tell me you wouldn’t say that.

Or perhaps a college friend calls from the airport. You haven’t seen him in 35 years. But he remembers that you live in the general vicinity and tracks your name through the phone directory. He has three hours before his connecting flight. What do you do? You drop everything and go to the airport. That’s what you do.

Or your son finishes basic training and has one day before shipping out….a Monday. But Monday is your wash day. And most Monday afternoons you go to K-Mart. But you don’t tell that to your son. Of course you don’t tell that to your son.

I was talking this over with Dick Cheatham when he suddenly started to sing an old World War II song. Not one that I remembered. But I can see how Dick would. It was recorded by the Hoosier Hotshots. Surely, you remember them. The song depicts a father who hears a doorbell and opens the door to greet the surprise arrival of their boy….in full uniform….home from Germany. Whereupon dad turns in the general direction of the kitchen and sings:

            Leave the dishes in the sink, Ma,

            Leave the dishes in the sink.

            Each dirty plate will have to wait,

            Tonight we’re gonna celebrate,

            So leave the dishes in the sink.

Sometimes you drop everything when the beloved makes an entrance, no matter how unexpected or unannounced.

But enough about Jesus.  How about Mary? What makes hers “the better part?” Well, that’s harder to define. But it’s not because spiritual things always trump practical things. No, that’s not it at all. For I would contend that hands-on work….practical work….Martha-type work….can often be incredibly spiritual, and that “serving” Jesus is a wonderful way of attending Jesus (and as good a means of praying as ever there was).

No, Mary’s part is “better,” because it suggests an antidote to the inevitable frustration experienced by those who serve. Martha’s sin….if there is one….is not the sin of dishing plates or washing plates, but becoming anxious and irritated that everyone else isn’t doing it and applauding it.

I know the feeling. I sometimes get frustrated, even with you….when you don’t work as hard as I do….go as far as I go….care about the same issues….put your shoulder to the same plows….or log the same number of hours. “Lord,” I cry, “do something about this.”

That’s one frustration. And the second flows from it. In addition to sometimes feeling unsupported, preachers have a tendency to feel that their labors are unrewarded. I’m not talking “finances” here….but something deeper. Everything I want to fix, doesn’t get fixed. Or stay fixed. People don’t stay fixed. Churches don’t stay fixed. Society doesn’t stay fixed. Sin….especially sin….doesn’t stay fixed. I have learned that both dishes and people have a remarkable tendency to re-dirty themselves. And you have no idea how few permanent victories I really see. Which is why idealists sometimes turn into pessimists….and why youthful, bleeding-heart liberals retire (if they’re not careful) as 65-year-old cynics.

Which can happen….ever so easily….if your focus is solely on the work. If, however, you occasionally throw off your apron, lay down your toolbox, and come out from behind your plow (your desk, or even your pulpit) to sit at the feet of him whose work it is you do….cynicism, like fat, tends to flake from your frame. And you’ll arise leaner and lovelier than you were before you assumed that Mary-like posture. So much leaner and lovelier that you might even volunteer to get up before the crack of dawn, put on the coffee, and make biscuits from scratch for Jesus…. and whoever else happens to come along.

Notes:  To make sure I wasn’t on the wrong track in my interpretation of this narrative, I consulted the work of Lukan scholar Joseph Fitzmyer (the Anchor Bible Commentary on Luke) who writes: “To read this episode as a commendation of contemplative life over against active life is to allegorize it beyond recognition and to introduce a distinction that was born only of later preoccupations. The episode is addressed to the Christian who is expected to be contemplative in action.”

As concerns the relationship between the timing of Jesus’ visit and the gentle rebuke of Martha, I have taken instruction from Thomas Cahill (in the book, Desire of the Everlasting Hills: The World Before and After Jesus) who writes: “Rather, we should read this anecdote in the context of Jesus’ understanding that his time is short and that his entire life is lived against the horizon of apocalypse. Mary is one of the wedding guests who rejoice while the bridegroom is yet among them, refusing to deprive themselves of the joy of his presence for the sake of some lesser goal. Whatever Martha is huffing and puffing about can be put off till Jesus moves on.”

For more information about “prayer and temperament” with reference to the Myers-Briggs Typology Indicator, see a book entitled Prayer and Temperament: Different Prayer Forms for Different Personality Types by Chester Michael and Marie Norrisey.