Twelfth Sunday after Trinity 2022

 

Gospel reading: Luke 14:25-33

Jesus said, “Whoever comes to me and does not hate father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters, yes, and even life itself, cannot be my disciple.” Sorry, could you repeat that? It sounded like you said, hate. Surely you mean, love? ‘By this shall everyone know that you are my disciples: that you love one another.’ What’s all this about hate?

What, indeed? Well, here’s the context. Jesus is making his way towards Jerusalem. And everything that Jesus has to say in relation to Jerusalem is apocalyptic: that his coming announces the end of the world, at least as everyone has known it. Large crowds are travelling with him, convinced that he is the Messiah, the one sent by God to lead the people in revolting against their Roman oppressors, overthrowing the occupying forces, establishing a new Golden Age not seen since the days of kings David and Solomon.

But that isn’t how Jesus sees it. He knows that it is too late for that, and, in any case, that isn’t God’s plan. He reads the Scriptures differently, sees a suffering servant and a faithful remnant that will be vindicated on the far side of a terrible Day of the Lord.

And so, he turns around to the crowds following him, and speaks of legacy, of family lines and towering architecture and impressive armies, all of which end in death.

Thirty-three years after Jesus’ death and resurrection, the Jews rose in a Great Revolt against the Roman Empire. Rebels in Galilee were defeated and fell back to Jerusalem, but the urbane southerners did not welcome the rough northerners with open arms. Next, the Pharisees and the Sadducees joined forces, but they, too, had a history of falling out. In the Year of our Lord 70, the Romans laid Jerusalem to siege. According to the Jewish historian Josephus, the Jews set a fire to hold back the Romans; the Romans countered by setting a second fire; and a Roman soldier accidentally started a third fire that, coming together with the first two to form a massive conflagration, destroyed the Temple and much of the city. Now, Josephus is biased in who gets attributed with what—he knows which way the wind is blowing and wants to keep in with the Romans—but it is clear from his record and from archeological evidence that Jerusalem going up in a hell of fire was a perfect storm of farce and tragedy and apocalypse. The Day of the Lord.

When the fires burn themselves out, the Romans destroy whatever remains standing, leaving only three towers built by Herod the Great, to remind everyone how great Jerusalem had once been. Towers Herod had named in honour of his brother (Phaseal), his favourite general (Hippicus), and his favourite wife (Mariamne). Talk about rubbing salt in a wound. Nine hundred surviving rebels retreat to Herod’s desert fortress at Masada, which the Romans besiege for months, finally breaking through only to discover that the rebels had committed mass suicide the night before. In all, the eight-year war resulted in the death of over ten-thousand Roman soldiers, around fifty-thousand Jewish combatants, and, according to Josephus, over a million non-combatants. Truly, hell on earth, the end of the world.

Jesus says, if you try to secure the enduring future of your family, you will fail. If you try to secure your place in history, through impressive buildings and strength in numbers, you will fail. Those who seek to save their life will lose it. And those who want to follow Jesus to Jerusalem (and Judea, Samaria, and to the ends of the earth) will also die. Not in the rather serene sense that we all die one day, but in the urgent sense that there are forces at work in the world that are hell-bent on destruction. Mammon, the god of money; and the nationalist gods of empire-building. Gods that devour and devour, and are never satisfied, never sated, never consume enough.

Today, there are millions of people in this nation who just don’t know how they are going to survive this winter, who can see their businesses going under like watching a car crash in slow motion and not being able to do anything to stop it. You may be one of them. And churches, trying to figure out, how are we going to be able to be there for our wider communities when we, ourselves, can barely keep going? And Jesus says, to follow me will cost you everything, and even then, it will not save you, because we are going to our death, trusting that the end of the world as we have known it is not the End.

If the gods of money and nationalism are going to destroy you, and following Jesus isn’t going to shield you from the onslaught, then why follow Jesus? Well, just as the crowds had the wrong idea, so, often, do we. The God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ is at work to reconcile all creation in and through Jesus, the vindicated ever-Living one whom God has appointed to judge the empires and their gods. It is a long story, a big picture, a holding together of justice and mercy—of righting wrongs and healing wounds.

The way of God’s glory passes through suffering, through surrendering our lives—not because God desires that we should suffer, but because surrendering our claim to every other (and ultimately empty) promise of glory loosens the grip of the false gods, one life at a time. Even Death cannot hold us in its grip.

Maybe you are not ready to surrender yet. Perhaps you are hedging your bets, counting on your own resources, on being able to outrun the demons. I assure you that you cannot, and implore you to choose Jesus, and do not delay.

Maybe you already know the peace he brings, the simple trust in God’s grace, sufficient unto the day. The sure hope that nothing, past, present, or future, can separate you from God’s love, embodied in Jesus. May he bring to completion what he has begun in you. What you have left in his hands—family, buildings, nations—may you receive back tenfold.

Come, let us follow Jesus, and not turn back. Let us be his disciples.

 

Eleventh Sunday after Trinity 2022

 

The Gospel set for this Sunday, Luke 14:1-14, is wonderful. Let’s take a closer look. (The Lectionary skips over verses 2-6, but I’m including them.)

It begins like this: Once, Jesus was invited to a sabbath meal at the home of a prominent local Pharisee, and those present were observing him scrupulously.

The Pharisees were a grass-roots movement, committed to working out what it looked like, in practice, in practical ways, to live according to God’s law in their day, many centuries after it was given to their nomadic ancestors. They were passionate about God’s law, and how it sustained a righteous life, a life that embodied the justice and mercy the Lord desired. They were committed to scrupulous observation, being careful not to cause offence to God, even unintentionally, in how they worked-out their faith. To this end, they had developed an Oral law of interpretation of the Written law.

And like everyone else, they were intrigued by Jesus. Like everyone else, they were trying to work out what to make of him; and as with the wider community, we see Pharisees who approve of Jesus and Pharisees who oppose him.

In this instance, there is no hint of opposition, only approval. Jesus is the most-honoured guest at the table on the most-honoured day, and they are observing him scrupulously: it is important to the host that no offence is caused his guest, even unintentionally. The Written law prohibited cooking on the sabbath, but the Oral law upheld the principle of sabbath meals as celebratory occasions and enabled the eating of hot food by determining that food should be cooked on the previous day and maintained over a steady low heat. Indeed, the Pharisees made a point of eating hot food on the sabbath, while the Sadducess—the ruling class who controlled the Temple, and who rejected the Oral law—made a point of only eating cold food. What would Jesus eat? Would serving him hot food offend him, or be acceptable to him? The host longs to share their celebration of God’s goodness with Jesus but has an underlying anxiety that the intention might be spoiled by unintended offence.

Just then, right in front of Jesus, there is a man who has swollen legs, who suffers from fluid retention that would make walking painful, be a cause of shame, and perhaps an indicator of a slow but ultimately fatal internal organ failure. And Jesus asks those present, who are passionate about living in harmony with God and neighbour, whether it is permissible to treat an invalid on the sabbath?

Last Sunday we saw Jesus heal a woman in the synagogue on the sabbath, and the leader of the synagogue, indignant, argues that the law prohibits attending to invalids on the sabbath. In fact the community had been debating whether it was permissible to treat an invalid—which, undoubtedly, might require the preparation of medicines (which, like food, might be prepared the day before)—for two hundred years before Jesus, and would continue doing so for two hundred years after Jesus, before settling on a definitive answer that the higher principle of saving life was an exception—indeed, a mandatory exception—to the prohibitions of the law. In Jesus’ day, several prominent rabbis had argued that it was permissible to extinguish a light on the sabbath—something prohibited—if that light were preventing an invalid from the sleep that sustains life.

In the synagogue, Jesus calls the view that adherence to the law overrules saving life, hypocritical. But what happens at the home of the leader of the Pharisees is the absolute opposite of what happened in the synagogue. Before he acts, Jesus asks, is it permissible to treat an invalid on the sabbath? We know that, strictly speaking, it is prohibited; but is it permissible? I am a guest in your house: do I have your permission?

My English translation tells me, ‘But they were silent.’ Which could suggest that they were put to shame or being defiant. But Jesus does not come to bring, or add to, shame. Rather, he comes to usher-in sabbath rest, and to still the storms. The Greek text conveys the sense that ‘they rested from work, ceased from altercation, lived quietly.’ In other words, they took sabbath seriously, setting aside the work of interpreting the law (winnowing, prohibited). That is to imply, they had come to a sense of completion on this issue. Their silence is not hostile, but an affirmative response: Great Physician, you are welcome to attend to any invalids present here.

So, Jesus heals the man with the physical condition, and, in contrast to the synagogue, no one disputes it. (Jesus articulates the principle that rescuing life is more essential than sabbath observance—given the context, I’d suggest that he is affirming the view of those present; in contrast, at the synagogue, Jesus had cited a milder example—basic care for life, rather than rescue—as an example of the hypocrisy of his critics.) And so, Jesus continues to attend to the infirm, bringing healing, first to the other guests, then to the host.

The guests are anxious, lest, in determining the order they reclined at the table, they should cause offence, should unintentionally rupture relationship. In an honour-shame society, everyone needs to know their place—who I ought to defer to, and who ought to defer to me—and, unless you lack any self-awareness and other-awareness, can cause considerable awkwardness. Again, there is no confrontation here. This story is not like Jesus rebuking his disciples for each arguing that they are the greatest. Rather, he seems to be observing a group tying themselves in knots in their desire to get it right. And Jesus unties the knots. (Both tying knots and untying knots are prohibited on the sabbath.) Assume the lowest place, Jesus says, and let the host decide. Moreover, Jesus reveals a fundamental principle of the heavenly banquet that the sabbath meal anticipates: God, the host, longs to honour you. So many of us have been raised, often subconsciously, to believe that we can unintentionally offend God, a God who is watching closely for this very thing to happen; whereas Jesus, the healer, says, God is longing to honour you, to exalt you, to delight in you in the presence of others.

Having healed the man who was retaining fluid, and the guests paralysed by anxiety, Jesus at last attends to his host. Again, the issue at hand is anxiety, around social standing; and, underlying this, just as internal organ failure can underly presenting dropsy, anxiety about our standing before God. When you host a meal, Jesus says, don’t do so on a reciprocal basis, inviting those who can invite you to be the guest of honour at their table in return. Instead, throw banquets for those who cannot reciprocate, the poor, the crippled who have no social standing. For you will know happiness in this present time, and you will be recompensed at the resurrection of the righteous—that is, when Israel is restored, and those who lived unjustly will be humbled, and those who lived justly will be raised up.

Again, this is not a rebuke, but an affirmation. For Jesus’ host is already living this way. He has invited as guests to his sabbath meal a man afflicted by dropsy, and an itinerant rabbi who, if he carries on like this, is going to get himself killed. Jesus is affirming his host and ministering to his anxiety that his desire to please God, costly as it is likely to be, will turn out to be for nothing. No, says Jesus, you are on the right track; you are modelling the table of the life to come. May your determination be renewed and restored. May you always have at your disposal the resources of the kingdom of God.

May you, also, know the presence of Jesus in our midst, untying your burden and setting you free.

 

Tenth Sunday after Trinity 2022

 

Lectionary readings: Jeremiah 1:4-10 and Hebrews 12:18-29 and Luke 13:10-17

One sabbath, when the community were gathered at the synagogue, Jesus was opening the scriptures so that they came alive for people, when a woman came in, late.

‘Excuse me…Excuse me…I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to tread on your toes…Oh, hello, I didn’t see you there. Are you keeping well?’

‘Be quiet! I’m trying to listen. To Jesus.’

‘Do you mind? You’re blocking my view. Would you just sit down!?’

Except that Jesus doesn’t let her just sit down, because there are now two people preaching in the synagogue, and, right at this moment, Jesus discerns, the sermon being proclaimed by the woman is the one that the Holy Spirit wants heard. So, Jesus stops delivering the sermon he had planned, and calls her over to him—which takes several moments, and feels even longer, because she is bent double and can only shuffle very slowly—and proclaims freedom. And in that moment, she is set free, from whatever the weakness was that had been constraining her for the past eighteen years. She stood up, straighter and taller than she had been for years: one vertebra stacked upon another; back muscles working in ways that have become unfamiliar. Healing and wholeness flowing through Jesus’ hands to her. And right there, in front of everyone, she starts praising God!

But the ruler of the synagogue, the person who liked to exercise power over the proceedings, was indignant. This is not how we do things around here. This is not the right way to worship. Therapy is work, and there are six days for that: but not the sabbath. Let another time be found. This disruption is unseemly.

Jesus replies, you hypocrites! Play-actors, putting on a religious performance, going through the motions, wearing your sabbath-best masks so no-one sees what is really going on, so that no-one is made to feel uncomfortable by your pain.

Jesus says, you untie your ox and your donkey on the sabbath and lead them outside and make sure they have water to drink. They have been tied up overnight. This woman has been bound for eighteen years, bound by the satan, the Accuser. Bound by accusing words, such as have just been spoken by the ruler of the synagogue, who, in seeking to exercise power has taken on the voice of the satan. For eighteen years, your weekly religious performance has done nothing to bring freedom to this woman from the thing that restrains her and weighs her down. You’ve given her nothing to praise God for. This is what God wants. It isn’t hard labour to release praise: praise, offered up to God, is the very thing the sabbath is supposed to gather, as we come, from our scattered lives, to celebrate God’s goodness.

In the Old Testament reading set for today, the Lord appoints Jeremiah to the prophetic task ‘to pluck up and to pull down, to destroy and to overthrow, to build and to plant.’ And in the New Testament reading, from the Letter to the Hebrews, we are told that God is shaking everything that has been created, so that only that which is unshakeable—the unshakeable kingdom of God—will remain: ‘Therefore, since we are receiving a kingdom that cannot be shaken, let us give thanks, by which we offer to God an acceptable worship with reverence and awe’.

In the synagogue, Jesus shakes things up. He is met with a power-struggle, by the vested-interest to do things the way we like it. God, on our terms.

But the sermon that the woman and Jesus tell together isn’t just something Jesus did, once. It was a demonstration of what Jesus wanted to do for all God’s people. To set them free from the things that bound them. Free to praise God, from the heart. To set us free from the things that bind us, from the scripts and roles we are afraid to depart from and improvise under the direction of the Holy Spirit.

Come, Lord Jesus! Set your people free to worship you without fear. Amen.

 

Ninth Sunday after Trinity 2022

 

Gospel reading: Luke 12:49-56

I have the Met Office weather app on my phone, and I check it, religiously, every morning. If it forecasts rain, I don’t go out without a waterproof layer, and if it forecasts heat, I leave my jumper at home. But that isn’t what Jesus is talking about. He spoke into an agrarian society, where longed-for rain might soften the ground for ploughing, or activate seed in the soil, but where you would push to bring in the harvest before it was ruined by rain. Or where a hot wind could wither shoots before they were established, and a prolonged hot spell could devastate that year’s harvest. Our own farmers have been hit, first by a lack of rain and then by heat waves. The UK harvests will be greatly reduced this year, at the same time the war in Ukraine is cutting grain off from the global market. Our farmers are already eating into food set aside for their animals for this coming winter. And when the rains do come, on hard-baked ground, there will be flooding and soil erosion to contend with.

For those with eyes to see and ears to hear, we are in the tightening grip of global climate change provoked by human (in)action, and we need to read the signs of the times and know how to respond. But Jesus calls the crowd play-actors (hypocrites, theatre mask-wearers) who act as if the material world was all that exists, and not as a people dependent on the loving-kindness of a faithful covenant-making God.

Longed-for rain in a dry land, and wind that blows wherever it will, are both ways of speaking of the activity of the Holy Spirit. Moreover, they should be understood as metaphors for the lives of Spirit-filled women and men, of the Spirit-filled community. We are called to bless our communities, in Jesus’ name, as life-giving rain falls on a dry land causing crops to bear fruit, resulting in economic stability and in joy. We are called to live lives that are as free and as note-worthy as the wind. We live this way when we are led by the Spirit, who enables us to hear Jesus’ voice, to discern what the Father is doing, and who empowers us to respond with all we are.

We learn to hear the voice of Jesus through the discipline of prayer, rooted in Scripture. All those who are baptized into Jesus’ baptism have the incredible privilege of hearing his voice; but the process is fascinating. Jesus says he has come to bring division within the family, the Church, three against two and two against three. What ought we make of this?

I want to suggest that the division Jesus brings is intentional, between people who are committed to one another and to Jesus himself, and that it is this messy, and at times painful, tension that creates the necessary environment, or conditions, for the life-giving creativity of the Holy Spirit. This is not the radical individualism of five against five, a familiar malaise in our culture, which leads to paralysis. But neither is the goal unity based on all thinking the same thing: that describes a cult. Our unity is in Jesus, alone, and he has come to bring division.

In recent days, Anglican bishops and archbishops from all around the world have gathered for the Lambeth Conference. Almost all the commentary has focused on matters on which they disagree. The Communion is undoubtedly stretched, to what feels like the very limits, and to some extent already broken. And yet it is over this unpromising face of the waters that the Spirit hovers, calling out all manner of life.

Some identify as progressive Christians. Progressive Christianity can be nothing more than the latest iteration of Gnosticism, the heretical belief of possessing a superior faith to the majority. Or it can be the Spirit blowing where the Spirit will; and filling our sails. Others identify as traditional or orthodox Christians. Traditional Christianity can be nothing more than legalism, possessing a form of godliness but denying the presence, and therefore the power, of God. Or it can be faithful countercultural witness in a hostile or indifferent world. Neither camp is right or good by its own virtue, but only in as much as we hear and respond to the voice of Jesus, who calls three against two and two against three, thus opening-up creative space. Moreover, it is possible to set out in step with the Spirit, but to go off track; and it is possible to wander, lost, but be led back into the Way. There is, therefore, no place for confidence in our own wisdom, but, on the other hand, no need for despair. In the tension of three against two and two against three, while remaining members of the family, committed to one another, we may be used by the grace of God to save one another from our own hubris.

In this process, fire, yet another image of the Holy Spirit as witnessed on the day of Pentecost, is kindled on the earth. Fire, by which those who are cold may be warmed, and over which those who are hungry may be fed. We live in days of great turmoil, and in it all, our churches may look to be disappearing. What if, in fact, these are days in which Jesus is renewing our churches in preparation for a great harvest?

 

Sixth Sunday after Trinity 2022

 

Sermon not preached in person, due to having Covid-19

Eventually, one of Jesus’ disciples asks his rabbi to teach them to pray (Luke 11:1-13).

So far, Jesus has mostly been performing healing miracles and exorcisms, engaging in public debate about how to live a life that pleases God (in contrast to trying to live a life that does not offend God), with a handful of nature miracles and raising the dead thrown in for good measure.

Now one of his disciples asks, teach us to pray. This disciple reminds me of the boy in the film who asks the old man to teach him karate but becomes disappointed with waxing his car and painting his fence day after day.

Jesus tells them, pray that God’s wonderful sovereignty would be more fully manifest in the world around us; that everyone would have enough to live, a fair share of the earth’s resources; that our failings would not be held against us, but removed from the record, in the same way that (and so, and also that) we cancel every debt owed to us that cannot be paid back; and that God would not put us on probation, to ‘prove ourselves’ worthy, but move to rescue us from the pain-ridden experience of life labouring under hard-hearted indifference.

It is, in essence, a form of prayer lifted straight from the ancestors living in Egypt, whose cries reached heaven and moved God to send Moses.

Jesus continues, drawing on the dynamics of relationships, emphasizing persistence in prayer, as an active pursuit: keep on asking, until you receive an answer; keep on searching, until you find an answer; keep on knocking at a closed door, until it opens. The door might not open onto the room you expected, the answer might not look like the one you imagined—the persistence of prayer is in part about transformation of ourselves; the shaping of a people through whom God’s sovereignty is manifest—but God’s answer, when it comes, will certainly not disappoint.

Imagine a hungry child asking their parent for something to eat, a fish or an egg. Even if the parent did not have a fish or an egg at hand, even if they could not respond as requested, when requested, they would not give something harmful instead. Jesus continues, If you, then, who are evil (that is, whose existence is pain-ridden due to collective, systemic, and even personal hard-heartedness) know how to give gifts that are inherently good to your own children (to alleviate their pain, to acknowledge sheer goodness in the world) how much more will the heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him!

How much more will the parent of all, who is not wearied by slavery to evil (and yet, who is not impervious to our pain, but who, in Jesus’ torture and execution at our hands will take into god-self the pain-ridden bodily existence, and, ultimately, transform it into something unexpected, into glory) breathe the Life of heaven into our earthly bodies.

Thinking back over your experience of prayer,

How has praying changed you? How has prayer, including ‘unanswered’ prayer, transformed what you prayer for, and how you, yourself, seek to be God’s answer to your prayer?

Where have you seen God’s sovereignty made manifest in your circumstances, in answer to persistent prayer?

What part of ‘the Lord’s Prayer’ do you find most challenging, and why?

What have you given up praying for?

 

Sixth Sunday after Trinity 2022 Hosea

 

Sermon not preached in person, due to having Covid-19

What is the Bible for? Not for accepting, nor rejecting, but for engaging with, wrestling with, in community. And, often, for reaching pragmatic compromises over ideological purity, and finding strength to live those compromises.

One of the Old Testament passages set for this coming Sunday is the profoundly disturbing Hosea 1:2-10. Hosea’s story begins just as the northern kingdom of Israel is about to plunge into a relentless spiral of assassinations and coups that will only come to an end with invasion by a neighbouring superpower and total destruction. Against this backdrop, God (Yahweh) instructs Hosea to marry an adulterous wife and raise children born of adultery. Moreover, Hosea is instructed to name their firstborn son Jezreel, after the site of a bloodthirsty coup, the root of the unravelling to come. Gomer has two further children—it is implied that Hosea is not their biological father, or at least, cannot know for certain that he is—and he is instructed to call her daughter No Mercy and the younger son Not My People.

Here we are presented with a man whom subsequent generations will acknowledge as a prophet, convinced that Yahweh has instructed him to undermine at least two of the Ten Words, the Constitution of the People whom Yahweh had delivered out of their servitude to the Egyptians. For how can one uphold the commandment ‘You shall not commit adultery’ while taking, and taking back, an adulterous wife? And how can one uphold the commandment ‘Honour your father and your mother, so that your days may be long on the soil that the Lord your God has given you’ while burdening your children with such painful, literally godforsaken names (by extension, identities)? Though perhaps the point is that the Commandments have already been thoroughly abandoned, and the people are about to be uprooted from the soil in which they were planted.

This passage is disturbing for so many reasons, for so many people. Neither Gomer nor her children have a voice, and their existence, whether historical or parabolic, has been used—unacceptably—to justify all manner of abuse against women and children. Paradoxically, there are many men who have been cheated on, raising children a paternity test would not identify as theirs. Some are in deeply dysfunctional relationships, while others are doing a fantastic job, doing their best to provide stability, enabling fresh starts and new possibilities. Is it possible to love after betrayal? To forgive? Is such a stance commendable or weak?

Then, again, there are pertinent questions concerning the breakdown of a society and the detrimental impact on its children, the loss of opportunity, of hope—and whether hope, once lost, can be restored? There are questions concerning which episodes in our history we choose to memorialise (or which celebrities we name children after)? The role of mercy in a society without mercy? The commitments necessary to hold together as a people, and how we might agree on them, how far they can be abandoned before a society collapses, the limits of inclusion?

There are questions concerning God, what God is like, and whether God can be trusted? Whether God is good, or a harmful presence (or absence) in our lives? And the same questions can be asked of human beings. How do we live together—whether at the level of intimate relationships, or as a society—when people don’t intervene as we would like, or act in ways we do not like? Are we able to enter-into one another’s deepest, darkest, pain and shame? Is that what makes us truly human (in the likeness of God?), or does our refusal to do this (denying our own shame, while exposing the shame of others) make us less-than human?

This text is not an abstract text. It was a story told into a context, and it remains a story read aloud in countless other contexts, at personal, local, regional, and global levels. If it were less disturbing, we would likely have abandoned it long ago. And what we make of it will have to vary, from context to context, as we make space to see our lives brought into focus, and, for Christians, to ask, where do we see Jesus: the king whose throne of peace God has established for ever; the Compassion of God, embodied; the One in whom a new people of God are constituted? Where will we meet Jesus?

As we wrestle with the text, let us be gentle with one another, honouring each other’s scars and aching limbs. Lord, have mercy.

 

Fifth Sunday after Trinity 2022

 

Sermon not preached in person, due to having Covid-19

Genesis 18:1-10a and Colossians 1:15-28 and Luke 10:38-42

Writing to ‘the saints in Colossae,’ Paul says: if you want to know what God is like, look at Jesus. For everything of God has delighted in making Jesus its permanent resting place. Who God is, is fully revealed to us in who Jesus is. What God is like is fully revealed to us in what Jesus is like. And, moreover, this Jesus has chosen to make his resting place the church: being among his sisters and brothers.

In his account of Jesus, Luke tells us that Jesus had sent out seventy (or seventy-two) disciples ahead of him in pairs to every town and place where he himself intended to go. They had returned to him, and they appear to be travelling onward together as one group. The implication is that Martha has recently welcomed two disciples into her home and is now welcoming more than seventy guests! No wonder she is ‘worried and distracted by many things’…

In the record of Abraham, we hear of a time when God, walking with two companions, appeared to be about to pass by Abraham’s tent, on his way. Abraham approaches and says, ‘My Lord, if I find favour with you, do not pass by your servant.’ Abraham wishes to minister rest and refreshment to the Lord, washing their feet and breaking bread together, and after that he may pass on his way. The Lord receives Abraham’s hospitality, and promises to return, and that his return will be to celebrate with Abraham and Sarah the birth of her son. This is the son already promised to them by God, a promise that had remained unfulfilled until now, a promise on which all the other promises of God hung.

In other words, Abraham’s salvation depends on these ‘others’ (who are a manifestation of God and God’s companions) to whom he shows hospitality.

Two-thousand years later, Martha is acting as a daughter of Abraham. She comes out of her home and asks Jesus and his companions to turn aside from their way, their journey, and experience rest and relaxation in her home. And yet she herself experiences anxiety: will her hospitality be acceptable? Will it stretch to meeting the needs of so many?

If you want to know what God is like, look at Jesus.

God moves at human walking pace. You might think that is a concession to our limitations, but if we are created in the likeness of God, it is not a concession but a revelation. God moves at an average pace of three miles an hour. Interestingly, for the average height human, the horizon is never more than around three miles away, wherever you are on earth. Wherever you are, the span of what you can take in is bounded by divine pace.

God never walks alone. God walks with friends. This was God’s intention from the beginning, when God walked with the human in the garden in the cool of the evening. God is not always where we expect God to be, nor with whom, but God is never alone. And those friends might seem unlikely fellows to onlookers: God visits Abraham accompanied by a counsel for the defence and a counsel for the prosecution, natural opponents to one another; Jesus travels with a ragtag crew. The purpose of this walking together—ultimately to the cross, and beyond—is reconciliation.

God comes in hope of hospitality. Indeed, God prepares the way for this very thing, and moves among us with this very intention in mind. To be with those who will welcome God, and every possibility that comes with God, is not a set-back in God’s schedule; time that must be made up elsewhere. It is the schedule: the mystery by which peacemakers are shown to be children of God.

God is not worried or distracted. Jesus is the calming, non-anxious presence, the still-point at the centre of all the activity undertaken, and directed by, Martha. God does not judge her performance, nor fret that she will disappoint expectations, nor lose patience. Not with Martha, nor with Mary. God draws them—first Mary, then Martha—to Jesus, and, in Jesus, to one another. To what really matters. To being present to one another in the present moment.

God reconciles all that has fallen into division. This is the fruit of all that Jesus is the first fruit of, for all creation.

God’s commitment to us is permanent. The home of Martha and Mary, and their brother Lazarus, becomes a home-from-home for Jesus; they become sisters and brother to him; which neither the death of Lazarus nor the death of Jesus can break apart. This is what God has done: has made a permanent home among us, as one of us, in Jesus, and us in him. Despite all our urgency, our restlessness, our resentments, he remains true: moving at walking pace, never alone, in hope of hospitality, without worry or distraction, reconciling all things to God, with us forever.

If you believe that, if God exists, he, she or it is too busy with more urgent or important matters to take an interest in you, think again. God is not a politician on the election campaign trail, nor a president in the war room trying to second-guess and pre-empt rivals and enemies. God has all the time in the world for you and wants to spend that time with you. If you want to know what God is like, look at Jesus.