Yesterday's gospel was about Martha and Mary - probably the topic on which I've heard some of the best and worst sermons. I was restless on Sunday, and attended the early Eucharist, and, since the homilist was a new priest whom I do not know at all, I certainly hope he intended his references to be witty, because I was laughing quite a bit (in recognition of his points, not disdain.) I'm a bit weary for exegesis at the moment, but, though my sympathies are primarily with Mary (being a disciple does tend to give one the unfair tag of 'lazy'), I've 'done a Martha' many times. Yet it had never really occurred to me, as the homilist emphasised, that this is one of several gospel passages in which Jesus is extremely rude.
I'm smiling - remembering Pasolini's film about the Gospel of Matthew, which many critics hail as a masterpiece, but which viewers sometimes found offensive because Jesus seems very blunt and crude... at least until they realise the text and action are taken entirely from Matthew's gospel itself.
John Dominic Crossan is no favourite of mine, to be sure, and I disagree with nearly all of his presentation of doctrine. (I have to admit I rather enjoy him - he reminds me of a sly rogue, and he has a brilliant mind - but consult his works for superb details about first century Palestine, full stop.) Yet I must admit that he was spot on, in discussing Jesus' trial and death, in commenting that this Galilean was a 'peasant, nuisance nobody.' (I can identify with this... takes one to know one, I suppose...though I always wash my hands, and only would help myself to others' corn in the most desperate of circumstances.) By worldly standards, that is quite true.
I'm thinking of the stories we heard in school - and even of the 'scriptural epic' films, which Monty Python later would spoof so brilliantly. One would have received the impression that Jesus walked the earth surrounded by people who resembled the pictures on soppy greeting cards, the lot of them in awe of his every word. (I've said it before, but it merits repetition. We seemed to think that holiness would leave everyone loving the holy, yet forgot that perfectly natural circumstances were the cause of Jesus' crucifixion. I suppose we thought that he'd only gone to the cross because God willed this.) I'm the more impressed, today, that the Church ever began - and know (and this with full acknowledgement of Jesus' divinity!) it only could have been because of the resurrection and Holy Spirit.
There were many miracle workers, itinerant preachers, and undoubtedly quite remarkable, devout Jews in first century Palestine. Jesus was distinguished mainly for applying words about God to himself. His followers were few enough, and he was not a man of great learning (though indeed of brilliance) or achievement. Perhaps he was a good carpenter, but it appears he spent his adult life, or at least the time of his ministry, dependent on the good will of others.
Raymond E. Brown, in his work on New Testament Christology, commented, again aptly, that most of us accept only as much of Jesus' humanity as we wish. Somehow, we seem to think we are insulting his divinity if we admit just how very human he was. I sometimes can all but feel the sense of futility he must have endured at times. ( Howard Marshall notes how Luke’s narrative of the Last Supper is “impregnated with apostasy, self-seeking, denial, and betrayal – attendance does not transport the disciples to Paradise or lift them out of trial and temptation. The grim narrative heightens Jesus’ self-giving, and the promise that, through his death, salvation and the heavenly banquet are offered to weak, fickle disciples.” And what followed that night is not anything upon which I'm sure the apostles later cared to dwell.)
On another note, I was just telling a friend today that I'm caught up in what might be termed "Martha tasks" (as well as such bizarre diversions as 'liking' things on Facebook in the wee hours, or dozing over Lifetime films, if only to remember that no one has a more complicated life than those in the latter). The Jesus who was 'too real' for his rudeness to be accepted by those in our congregation (who may not know that I think 'politeness' can cloak distance, and does not necessarily mean virtue...) was speaking to me, because, since I'm in one of my tense periods, I can't deal with what is totally real! I stumble through my prayers, cannot study or write essays, cannot find inspiration, write disjointed and dreadful blog entries if any at all. I can't even read the great literature I love, or listen to the high-brow music that is my passion. I'm sure this is common: what is troubling us can't be shaken at times, and we can lose ourselves in silliness because what is too genuine leaves us in a muddle. And this though we were created to be as real as it gets!
So bear with this diversion, if you will. Jesus of Nazareth indeed was lower class in his ways (in fact, I'm sure my mother wasn't the only one who thought him cheeky even by the standards of our class, especially with reference to a particular incident that occurred when he was 12.) But I'll take his ways over those of the 'polite.' He was always willing to heal and forgive (in fact, Martha and Mary, in particular, would see a most striking example of that - under circumstances where some would have shrunk anticipating the stench.) He never lacked compassion, or sent away those in pain with 'you're feeling sorry for yourself!' I would imagine, were he in church today, that he wouldn't raise his eyebrows if someone were choking, thinking they had no manners and should leave because they were spoiling the music. He might not be appalled that babies cry and spit up (and might even know that, at that age, they can do little else), even though it's far better form to have children who are hatched, fully formed, at the age to be sent away to school. He would even deal with that adults sometimes cry, or call out in pain, or utter the equivalent of "Son of David, heal me!" even when the hearer is so tired he'd like to take off on a boat over the Sea of Galilee, and respond to their pain rather than calling for a security guard or reproaching them for unseemly behaviour.
No inspiration today, my friends - but take heart, if you are in a muddle as well, that you're not alone. Now, off for me to compose an answer to someone who wanted to share the enormous grace she believes she received in the 'gifts of tears and tremors.' Aside from that, if my soggy memory serves me, most writers on that topic were speaking of repentance (a gift, indeed, but I doubt that is the sort of gift to which she was referring), I'm trying to find a delicate way to say that I've heard other things can cause tears and tremors... and I don't want to be rude.
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