Sixth Sunday after Pentecost: July 20, 2025

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Sermon by The Very Rev. Peter DeVeau

Let the words of our mouths and the meditations of our hearts be always acceptable in your sight, O Lord, our rock and our redeemer. Amen.

This past Monday, my father would have been 102 years old. And the reason why I know that is because his birthday was a week before mine—which is tomorrow—when I will be 72. They had me when my father was 30, and my own son was born when I was 30. So I could always know the age of my son and what the age of my father would have been.

My father died of inoperable cancer in the house where I grew up, northeast of New York City, at age 73. He was the kind of guy who still wore the same waist-size pants at 65 as he did when he was 28—which, frankly, was a pain. He was always in good shape and very active. But this cancer just took him.

I would give anything to have a day, an afternoon, even just five minutes to sit and talk with my dad—on the phone, or better yet, in person. I’d ask his advice, his counsel, question him about my grandparents, my great-grandparents, other relatives, in-laws and outlaws, about his slow-evolving, dyed-in-the-wool opinions on politics (which changed slower than science), sports, religion—you name it. We could talk about anything, and he always had an informed opinion.

But truth be told, I do have frequent one-way conversations with him—my own WWD times: “What would Dick do?” (That was his nickname.) At those times, I go to that place where I can ask Dick anything—expecting lots of questions in return. Responses formed by logic, reason, experience, and the facts at hand. Always the facts. All tempered with humor and appeals to go easy, not get too worked up, and to do what is best. That was my father.

I think all of us have people who have been—and still are—close to us, whether far away, near, or long gone: parents, siblings, teachers, advisors, coaches, mentors, workmates, neighbors, wise ones. If only we could be with them again. If only we could sit and listen.

Here we are, sitting in a place where we intentionally come to seek wisdom and counsel and ask questions. It’s okay to do that. We come to connect with others, with those who have gone before us in the mystery of the table here—and to meet Jesus. We come to connect and share the story that prepares us to encounter and be ready for whatever may come our way in the days ahead.

In a world that seems to be spiraling into pieces—economically, environmentally, politically—and at the same time is growing and expanding with the newness of discovery, invention, and ancient ideas come to light again, there is useful, life-giving wisdom for each of us today.

It’s hot. Abraham is sitting in the shaded opening of his tent by the oaks of Mamre. While he sits there in the heat of the day, not exerting himself, he looks up to see three men standing nearby. He gets up and goes over to them, bowing in greeting and inviting them to take their rest. Abraham shows the visitors hospitality. He offers them rest and replenishment in the shade of a tree.

But this story from the book of Genesis—of Abraham and Sarah showing customary hospitality—holds more than refreshment on a hot afternoon. There is more to the encounter. One of the three visitors says to Abraham, “I will surely return to you in due season, and your wife Sarah shall have a son.” Whoa.

Sarah, if you remember the story, is way past her prime and has been unable to conceive a child, no matter how hard she and Abraham tried. And now Abraham is to have a proper heir—very important in that society.

Luke then takes us to another place. Jesus stops by to see Martha and Mary. To many, it’s a familiar story—or maybe a story you’re hearing for the first time today. It’s a story in which we can see ourselves.

Jesus arrives at Martha’s invitation. Martha gets busy whipping up some hospitality. Mary, her sister, plops down in front of Jesus. She doesn’t lift a finger to help. She sits and listens. Not only is this not afternoon tea—these are sisters. A trouble is brewing in that house like a fierce summer pop-up storm.

“Jesus, tell Mary to help me!” Martha pleads. Mary is not having it, and she is not happy.

We’ve been there—in both roles. Doing all the work while others sit. Or sitting while others are doing the work. Paying attention in the moment, or being so busy we don’t see what’s right in front of us. The story digs up all kinds of feelings. I bet you’re even going there now.

But if we drag ourselves into the abyss of things done and left undone—and I tell you, that is not a downward spiral you want to get into too frequently—I’m afraid we’ll miss the point today.

We all relate to Mary and to Martha. We may be the one who does all the work. We may expect things to be done a certain way—the “right” way, whatever that happens to be. But we also need to hear the things that help us to know ourselves, to know others, and to understand this world better. To find meaning. To ask: What is it we are to do? Who are we to be?

Many years ago now, I attended a Christian formation workshop down in Arkansas. The presenters of that workshop suggested that Sunday worship might include, along with the usual things—offering praise to God, hearing and responding to scripture, praying for the Church and the world, sharing the Lord’s Supper—something more.

Before heading out into the world, everyone would be seated around tables. Imagine tables in here today, and you’re all sitting around them. Around those tables, people would talk about how their lives are affected by what they’ve heard and felt today. That, they said, would be the best model for church—for everyone present to (buzzword alert) process what they’ve heard. To figure out how the Word becomes part of their own lives and part of the worshiping community—and, by extension, the world around them.

In one way, I think what was being proposed at that workshop with these listening tables was, yes, a little contrived. But I also believe it was a way of getting to know the better portion. That better portion—the good thing Mary chose that day when she sat in front of Jesus.

Ideally, when we assemble as Church, we sit with Mary and listen to what the Teacher has to say. Yes, like Martha, we are always going to be anxious and distracted by many things. That’s life. But we can choose the better part—the portion which can’t be taken away.

We’re only here for a time. I personally can tell you that I spent most of my life running around doing as much as I could on any given day. Then I had a stroke. And the only “hurry” I have left in my life is my hurricane.

I can’t do everything I’d like to do. Believe me, I do not at all like being limited—not here. And I do not like hearing people say, “There’s got to be something good in all of this.” But there is a silver lining to being differently abled—as you can say in PC terms. Crippled—you know, I’ll say that too.

I now ask for directions. Think of that. I even ask for help. I need to take time and do what I do deliberately. I listen better—though my wife Mary would laugh were she here. (We might have to put her out of the room.)

I have some time to listen—to people and to myself. To listen to what the Spirit might be saying. To listen for God’s will in my life. To listen deeply—even to what is difficult to hear.

The ability to listen, I believe, is the good portion Jesus talks about. It creates the relationships that nurture and sustain us. The listening heart is the good portion that can never be taken away.

A listening heart and mind make for a full and fully abled life. This is ours. We come closer to being whole people when we are all ears.

Jesus drops by unannounced—in family, in friends, co-workers, strangers, enemies, people not like us, pesky people, and saints.

Let’s listen to what he’s saying. Let’s savor living words. As in the time of Abraham and Sarah, of Martha and Mary, you and I are invited to listen.

This is the better part of faithful living that cannot be taken away from us.