Lectionary Commentaries for July 20, 2025
Sixth Sunday after Pentecost

There is a famous legend told about Martha of Bethany that was popular in the Middle Ages. In this story, which takes place after the resurrection of Jesus, she becomes a traveling preacher and ends up in a small town in France that, unfortunately, has a chronic dragon problem. She manages to slay the dragon and, in doing so, wins the whole town over to Christianity. In that same story, her sister Mary, on that same trip, ends up starting a monastery in the wilderness, meaning they both live out the roles assigned to them in Christian history: Martha acts and Mary studies. Martha represents an active faith, while Mary represents a contemplative faith. 

This dichotomy comes in many ways from Luke 10:38–42, in which Martha shows Jesus hospitality while Mary sits at his feet. The two women embody different aspects of Christian discipleship in Luke’s Gospel, and both are lifted up as positive characters. They are both doing good things. There is no villain in this story. 

But ultimately, Jesus tells Martha that Mary has chosen the better part, and this represents a tension point for most readers. Why is Jesus, who has just told the parable of the Good Samaritan, now saying that sitting at his feet is the better thing to do than serving him? Does Luke think contemplative practices of Christianity (prayer and study) are really better than the active practices (hospitality and service)? Should we think that too?

To see if we can make any headway on this, let’s take a step back and look at each character’s actions. 

Two good things

First, we see that Martha is described as welcoming Jesus into her home. She is showing him hospitality by receiving and preparing a meal for him. Earlier in Luke 10, Jesus tells his disciples that those who welcome them will be blessed and that the Kingdom of God has come near to them (verse 9). Similarly, in Luke 19, Zacchaeus will also welcome Jesus. Welcoming is the act of a true disciple in Luke. Martha is doing the right thing.

Her sister, Mary, is described as sitting at Jesus’ feet while listening to his words. Both actions suggest the posture of a true disciple. In the New Testament and in its wider culture, sitting at someone’s feet is a sign of deference to a teacher and indicates a teacher/disciple relationship. For instance, Paul describes himself as sitting at the feet of his teacher Gamaliel in Acts 22:3. Similarly, the theme of listening to the word of the Lord is a recurring one in Luke–Acts (Luke 5:1; 6:47; 7:29; 8:14, 21; 10:16; 11:28; 14:35; Acts 2:22; 4:4; 10:22; 13:7, 44; 15:7; 19:10; 10:28) and appears as a core piece of authentic discipleship. Thus, we have two sisters and two disciples.

The better part?

The trouble, then, is not what either sister has done. The trouble comes when we are told that Martha is distracted by many things. These distractions feel relatable as she juggles a household and serving the Lord. She then turns to Jesus and asks why he does not seem to care, and why he hasn’t asked her sister to help. Again, this feels relatable, and I think we, as readers, are supposed to sympathize with Martha in her request. She is working hard and needs help.

But by making this request, she is forcing Jesus to choose between the two (good) behaviors:  either telling Mary to stop listening and help her sister, or rejecting Martha’s plea.

But Jesus flips the script on her (and on us) by telling her that she is worried about so many things, but only a few things, indeed, only one thing is needed (verse 42). Mary, he tells her, has chosen the better part, one that will not be taken away from her. 

The problem wasn’t that Martha was serving, which is worse than sitting at Jesus’ feet. The problem was that she was distracted by the wrong things. She became focused on the fact that her sister wasn’t helping. Like the older brother in the Parable of the Prodigal Son or the Pharisee in the Parable of the Tax Collector, Martha is focused on the actions of others and their perceived shortcomings, as opposed to focusing on her own relationship with Jesus. It is this misorientation, not her service or her hospitality, that leads to Jesus’ gentle rebuke. Mary has chosen God as her portion, and that will never be taken away.  

In this way, the story of these two sisters serves as a powerful example for disciples today. It turns out that maybe Luke isn’t attempting to prioritize one act of Christian discipleship over another. Maybe instead he is presenting the idea that we can do right and good things but still be distracted by the wrong things. We can focus more on the perceived shortcomings of those around us than on our own relationship with Jesus.

So yes, in Luke, disciples both serve and listen to the word, just as disciples today navigate both the contemplative and the active practices of faith. Sometimes we slay dragons, and sometimes we start monasteries. But Luke’s deeper concern is that our orientation be in the right place: that we focus on Jesus, and let the main thing be the main thing.

Genesis 18:1–10 tells the story of the Lord appearing to Abraham by the oaks of Mamre. But rather than coming with thunder or fire, God shows up in the form of three travelers—ordinary, embodied visitors who stand nearby, receive food, and speak a quiet but life-changing promise. On the surface, the story may seem simple: a moment of hospitality in a desert tent. 

But when read in light of Pentecost—the moment when the Holy Spirit was poured out on the church—this passage takes on deeper meaning. It reveals something central to God’s character and to the Christian life: that God meets us not in distant power, but in closeness, in our ordinary lives, and in the very flesh-and-blood realities we often overlook.

The first striking thing about this passage is how God chooses to reveal himself. He doesn’t speak from the heavens or send angels in shining garments. He comes as three human figures—mysterious, but familiar. They stand nearby, they wait, and they are received. 

This matters because it shows that God comes near, not as an abstract idea or overpowering force, but in a form we can recognize, approach, and respond to. In the post-Pentecost church, this resonates deeply. At Pentecost, God again came near—not in fearsome spectacle, but in the form of the Spirit who fills ordinary people, empowering them from the inside out. Just as God appeared to Abraham in human form, so he now dwells with us through his Spirit, meeting us not in perfection, but in the middle of everyday life.

Abraham’s response is equally important. Without knowing exactly who his visitors are, he runs to greet them, bows before them, and invites them into his tent. He offers water, food, and rest. His whole body, his household, and his home are involved in the act of welcome. He welcomes without knowing, responding with generosity and care before any divine identity is revealed. 

This is not hospitality based on certainty or obligation, but a radical act of openness, exposure, and mutual vulnerability. Abraham risks comfort, security, and social boundaries to receive the unknown other—and it is precisely this vulnerability that becomes the space for divine encounter. Faith, in this light, is not the possession of clarity, but the courage to remain open to what exceeds our comprehension.

After Pentecost, the church is called to this same posture—to receive others not when it is safe or convenient, but when it is costly, uncertain, and relationally exposed. Openness to the stranger is not a weakness, but a sign of trust in the God who chooses to dwell in the unfamiliar, the inconvenient, and the overlooked. Spirit-formed hospitality is not grounded in control, mastery, or theological certainty, but in loving and compassionate receptivity—the willingness to be interrupted, to be transformed by encounter, and to let the boundaries of self be gently redrawn by the presence of another. 

This mutual vulnerability—where host and guest meet in shared risk—is not a liability in the Christian life. It is its very center. For in that space of exposure, where we are neither self-sufficient nor guarded, God still chooses to appear. 

Then comes the moment of divine speech: In verse 10, one of the visitors speaks a promise—that Sarah, though old and barren, will bear a son. God does not wait for ideal conditions before he speaks. Instead, he speaks into human weakness, into tired bodies and broken timelines, into situations that seem utterly closed. His promise is not given after the limitations are overcome, but precisely within them. That’s also what Pentecost is about: God empowering ordinary, imperfect people to do extraordinary things by his Spirit. 

The hope God gives does not come in spite of our frailty—it comes through it. Just as the Spirit descended upon hesitant, uncertain disciples and filled them with boldness, so too God’s promise to Sarah is spoken into a place of vulnerability. God’s power, as Paul would later write, is made perfect in weakness.

Perhaps most powerfully, this story shows that God comes not as a ruler to command, but as a guest to be received. He does not arrive with thunderous declarations or demands. He waits to be welcomed. He sits. He eats. He speaks gently. This posture of God—as guest rather than force—reveals the kind of relationship God desires. It is not built on coercion or control, but on hospitality, openness, and trust. 

This same pattern is fulfilled in the incarnation of Christ, who came not in domination but in humility; and in the sending of the Holy Spirit, who fills rather than controls, empowers rather than overpowers. God’s presence is not about force—it is about relationship. God desires to dwell with us, not over us, and his nearness is always invitational, never imposed.

In the season after Pentecost, the church lives in the reality that God has drawn near. Genesis 18:1–10 reminds us that God continues to show up in human form—in the stranger we receive, the promise we believe, and the Spirit who dwells within us. God is not far off. He is near, speaking and acting through our most ordinary moments. Like Abraham, we are invited to respond—not with fear or distance, but with openness, generosity, and faith. In our bodies, our relationships, and our small acts of welcome, God still chooses to appear—not with force, but with grace; not in domination, but in communion.

Commentary for this text is forthcoming.

Commentary for this text is forthcoming.

No offense to the developers of the Revised Common Lectionary, but this pericope from the first chapter of Colossians starts and ends in rather awkward places. While the preacher might certainly choose to add or cut verses on either end of the prescribed pericope, I am choosing to stay with the lectionary’s selected verses as I think it might allow us a chance to engage in the intersection of the divine, communal, and personal.

This pericope might best be divided into three sections. Verses 15–20 can be understood as a christological hymn that grows from the declarations of thanksgiving and the intercessory prayer reports that came in the verses prior. The second part, verses 21–23, moves the focus to the application of Christ’s work for God’s people, or the impact on the present community, the church. The third part, verses 24–28, is Paul’s understanding of his role in relation to the community to whom he is writing, but whom he has never met. 

The sentences in this section are long—in Greek and in English—and include lots of christological, Jewish apocalyptic, and Hellenistic references. An exegetically enthusiastic preacher could certainly find joy in untangling the web of references and images for Christ found in the hymn or in unwinding Paul’s concern for this community as they are tempted to follow another philosophy. And yet, there is something intriguing about considering these three sections all together as they invite us to sit at the crux of the cosmic, ecclesial, and personal.

The christological hymn offers readers a glimpse into how we might understand Christ’s self and work. Verse 15 begins by claiming that Christ Jesus is the “image of the invisible God.” We are reminded, first and foremost, that in Jesus, God’s enigmatic self was revealed in human, accessible form. But Jesus is not simply some divine avatar or a holy Rosetta Stone. The same Jesus who came to earth, walked among us, and died on the cross is the Jesus who was at the start of creation. The hymn reminds readers that “all things have been created through him and for him” (verse 16c), and within him “the fullness of God was pleased to dwell” (verse 19). 

But Christ’s work is not finished in either creation or incarnation. The author of Colossians insists that Christ still seeks to “reconcile to himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven” (verse 20). So, this Lord we worship is both cosmic and close, both creator and reconciler. This hymn uses liturgical and poetic language to remind the readers that they worship a God who has creative power to form and ultimately heal the world, while at the same time choosing to stand among us and reconcile us to himself.

Without skipping a beat, the hymn turns into a plea for the church’s response. Because of what Christ has done on the cross and is doing in the work of reconciliation, the people of God have reason to hope. The author makes clear that the community of Christ sits in this in-between time, where Christ has already begun the work of reconciliation “in his fleshly body through death” (verse 22). But at the same time, the church is summoned to participate in the completion of this work by remaining “securely established and steadfast in the faith, without shifting from the hope promised by the gospel that you heard” (verse 23). 

If the first part is a hymn that reminds the reader what God has done and is doing through Jesus—divine agency—the second part invites the faithful’s engagement and response—communal agency. 

Finally, Paul turns to the matter of introducing himself. He articulates his personal response to the reconciling power of Christ’s work—to be a minister of the gospel, even suffering for the work “to make the word of God fully known” (verse 25) and to join in “warning everyone and teaching everyone in all wisdom, so that we may present everyone mature in Christ” (verse 28). The commitment of Paul in response to the reconciling and creative work of God in Christ and for the good and upbuilding of the community adds the dimension of personal agency.

And so, the three collide in these 19 verses: God’s work, our shared work, and our personal faith. So often, there seems to be a divide in church conversation (and even proclamation) between our agency versus God’s agency, or communal care versus personal faith. This text invites preachers and faithful readers to consider the intersection of God’s work, our communal response, and our personal faith commitments. 

As with the text, the gracious, hope-filled, and reconciling work always begins with God in Christ. But it impacts us—and all of creation—immediately, inviting our gratitude, awareness, and response. And the faith we share as communities empowers individuals to proclaim the gospel in their spaces, places, and ways. Likewise, personal lives of faith feed, sustain, and empower the community. We need not hold these three realities apart.

In a world that so quickly forms binaries—rich or poor, black or white, gay or straight, mine or yours—this text invites us into a theological dance that blends together God’s work, our shared work, and our personal response. Colossians 1:15–28 invites us to ask how our communal life responds to God’s grace and feeds personal relationships with God, even as people’s personal faith supports the efforts of the community and the reconciling work of God.