The Care and Feeding of Saints

Sermon manuscript for Green Lake Church for June 6, 2015

(This is a pretty rough draft.)

Text: Luke 10:38-42

Once upon a time, Karin and I and a few friends climbed to the top of Angel's Landing in Zion National Park. You reach the summit by creeping along a knife-thin ribbon of rock that drops away on both sides in cliffs hundreds of feet high. The summit area itself, a large, flat rock bench is surrounded almost 360 degrees by vertical cliffs that, on the valley side, drop almost 1500 feet straight down. It's like you're floating in the sky. From the summit of Angel's Landing, the views of the Zion Canyon and the surrounding areas are magnificent. We were there late on a Sabbath afternoon. The weather was a bit iffy and we had the summit pretty much to ourselves. We fell into conversation with four college students. One of them mentioned he was studying drama. As the conversation continued, something prompted us to ask, “Can you do something for us? Can you recite something?” He hesitated just briefly, then agreed. He stepped a few feet away. Gathered himself, then launched into into a poem. The first line captured me, and the spell built through the entire performance. I don't remember now any of the words. I can't recall what the actor said. I do remember the astonishing power, the enchantment, my wish that it would never end. I was in Zion National Park again a few weeks ago. It was grand and beautiful, but I didn't climb Angel's Landing. The actor would not be there and I would be disappointed.

Here in Seattle most of us are familiar with the idea of the Ten Essentials. If you're going out in the mountains, you must take the ten essentials. Water and calories. Extra clothes. A headlamp. A map and compass. One thing I have never seen on any such list is an actor. And if I had not been there on Angel's Landing for that performance, I would never have imagined an actor could add the slightest value to the experience of the great outdoors. But I was there. And I bear witness: If you know a gifted actor who has devoted himself to his craft, if you know someone who has practiced and rehearsed, someone who has studied and submitted to the discipline of a teacher, take him to some rocky peak. Then wait for the magic.

Another story about the power of art. I purchased a book written by a New Mexico lawyer who was a Christian and an environmentalist. The book was his account of a week-long solo trek through a canyon in southern Utah. When I heard about the book, I knew I had to buy it. It brought together so many of my favorite things—desert, backpacking, contemplative Christianity, environmental ethics. It had to be good. It wasn't. I kept telling myself I had to like it. I would pick it up and read a few pages, but the writing was quite pedestrian. Days or weeks later I would pick up again, thinking maybe this time it would be better. It wasn't. The writing never did manage to hold my attention, but after a few weeks I realized that every time I noticed the book sitting on my desk my eyes were captured by the photo on the dust jacket.

It was a picture of a slot canyon. That's nice. I like slot canyons. I like pictures of canyons. But over time I realized this photo had a magic beyond merely the red rock and sinuous shape characteristic of that country. The photo itself was magic. It had a power beyond the mere subject matter. I became curious. What gave it such magic? Why was it so beckoning, so commanding. I went searching for information. It turned out the photo was by Elliot Porter. Then I understood.

In his day—1970s and 1980s—Porter was the most famous color photographer in America. He specialized in landscapes, creating lyrical, poetic visions of nature. I knew he was a professional photographer. I knew he had devoted his life to his art. But as that single photograph enchanted me over and over and over, I gained a much deeper appreciation of the power of his art.

Jesus and his disciples were traveling toward Jerusalem. The entourage arrived in a village where a woman named Martha welcomed him into her home.

Other gospel stories tell us about a man named Lazarus who was a very special friend of Jesus. Lazarus had two sisters, Martha and Mary. So we think this is the same Martha, the sister of Lazarus. If so, Jesus stopping here would have been very much the expected thing. He had been there before. Every time he passed through that town, he stayed at Martha's house.

As would have been normal in that culture, while the men were in the living room listening to Jesus, Martha was in the kitchen cooking up a storm. I imagine she had a whole tribe of other women working with her. Martha was a good general. She was busy and knew how to keep other people around her busy as well.

At some point in this process, she stepped into the living room to see if any of her guests would like some water and she saw her sister, Mary, sitting there among all those men, right next to Jesus, hanging on his every word.

“Jesus,” Martha said with confident indignation. “doesn't it bother you that I'm slaving away in the kitchen and sister Mary here, is sitting on her tusch doing nothing? Tell her to get and help me.”

Let's turn this into a movie.

We begin with a few scenes from Martha's and Mary's childhood. Martha is the older sister, responsible, focused. Mary is the dreamer. Martha has to constantly remind Mary to be busy. They're weeding the garden and Mary has gotten distracted by a caterpillar. They're working in the kitchen and Mary has stopped to talk to the dog.

You can hear the exasperation in Martha's voice, “Mary, we don't have all day. You can talk to the dog later!”

Jesus arrives in the village. We see him and his entourage—a large group of people walking into town. Martha runs out of her house to say hello, then runs back inside to get dinner on. Women in the traveling company wander into the kitchen to help out. Martha gives everyone directions while somehow also accomplishing enough work for two people herself.

The camera switches back to the living room of the house. There is a close up of Jesus talking, then the camera pans left. We see Lazarus and Jesus' disciples, Peter, John, Judas, Thomas. There are other nameless men from the village and the traveling company. People are asking questions—not the “gottcha” questions of the religious experts, but genuine questions about the great issues of theology and the personal realities of spiritual life. Jesus' words were irresistibly charming and persuasive. It seemed to people that just listening to Jesus talk made you a better person, a happier person, a more hopeful and generous person.

Then the camera wanders slowly back to the right, and we see Mary. She's the only woman in the room full of men. But we are not surprised she's there. We could feel it coming. We see her listening with rapt attention.

The camera switches back to the kitchen and Martha. We see Martha head into the living room to offer water to her guests, and we know what's going to happen.

Ever since they were five and three years old respectively Martha has been telling Mary what to do. Martha is a general. If you were looking for a wedding coordinator or someone to organize the reception for your daughter's wedding, Martha would be your first choice. Everything would be done—just right and on time. Part of that focus means making sure other people stay on task.

“Jesus,” Martha says, hands on hips, “doesn't it bother you that I'm slaving away in the kitchen and sister Mary here, is sitting on her rear doing nothing? Tell her to get up and get busy.”

“Martha, Martha.” Jesus says, “You are all stressed out over the thousand details of entertaining this crowd. There is really only one thing worth that kind of obsession. Mary has chosen that one thing, and it will not be taken away from her."

Martha was a bit deflated. Not many people could boss her around, but Jesus could. Jesus had spoken. She yielded and headed back into the kitchen. Mary kept listening.

It's a classic story about the tug of war between being practical and being visionary, between being an activist and being a mystic, between praying and doing.

When I read this story in preparation for today's sermon, I heard in this story an affirmation of the spiritual, visionary, mystical heart of our faith. Religion tells us to do good, to get things done, to be busy. Yes. It also asserts that all this doing and busyness is subordinate to something greater—the ineffable experience of God.

Most of us agree that the Ten Essentials are a useful, truthful descriptions of how we should engage with the outdoors. And most of us, I'm pretty confident, would recognize the value of a photographers eye and an actor's voice.

Elliot Porter with his photography and that actor on Angel's Landing were not less valuable than extra clothes. They were not even less valuable than food and water. As human beings, we need more than bread alone.

Because our ordinary needs are so demanding and obvious, we can sometimes forget their subordination to the glory of art and faith.

This spring, I spent a week in the desert with a geology student. Late in the week, he told me of his spiritual journey. He had grown up in the Catholic Church. Happily went to church every week. Graduated from high school and went to work, still happily involved in church. Then he headed off to university. The culture there was strongly atheistic. He was told he had to choose between engagement with the “real world” and the fantasies of church.

When it's put that way, any self-respecting scientist is going to go with reality. But reality—rocks and numbers and chemistry and physics did not satisfy his soul. So now he asked me, was it possible to live in both worlds? Was it possible to respect the knowledge of science and to connect with the other world, the world of spirituality?

He ended the week by attending church. It was a first step back toward the glory hinted at by the poet on Angel's Landing. Above the rock and the glorious canyon there was another reality—God.

Just this week, I received an email from a university student. He dreams of getting his Ph. D. and teaching English literature. In his email he said, “I believe that all great literature reveals something of God to those who are discerning. I want to help students see the light that shines through the words.”

This student is not an Adventist. A friend had given him a copy of my book on spirituality and it spoke to him. He wanted to be part of a community that saw God in that light. But, he asked, is there actually room for me in the Adventist Church? Is there room for someone who sees truth not just in the Bible but also in the Tolkien and Beowold and Harry Potter?

Is there room for me in your church? Can I recite my poem, can I show my picture in your church?

The world is like Martha, constantly demanding that we be busy. We must be constantly productive, constantly striving to control the world, improve our situation.

But people are hungry for something else, for poetry that stirs the soul, for photographs that enthrall us, for an experience of God that satisfies the soul.

Our job as a church, is to join with Jesus in saying, those who pursue these hungers have chosen the best. Here at church we push back against the imperious demands of realists and reductionists. Beauty and grace are precious. Faith, hope and love are worthy of our time and attention.

Here in church we keep alive the secret knowledge that above all other beauties and wonders is the glory of God. Here in church we bold assert that our hunger for God is a reflection of the desire of the All Mighty.

We understand the clamor of the necessary. We understand the urgent needs of the world. We ourselves endeavor to feed people and clothe them and heal them and provide them with all the blessings of technology. We are not scornful of the tangible, material world. We simply insist there is something higher and more beautiful. Here, we honor the quest for God.