Lectionary Commentaries for July 20, 2025
Sixth Sunday after Pentecost

from WorkingPreacher.org


Gospel

Commentary on Luke 10:38-42

Jennifer S. Wyant

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.


First Reading

Commentary on Genesis 18:1-10a

Kyong-Jin Lee

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.


Alternate First Reading

Commentary on Amos 8:1-12

Tyler Mayfield

Amos is a social justice prophet.

We remember his famous line: “Let justice roll down like waters” (5:24).

He’s concerned foremost about justice in his society. He’s troubled by the treatment of the poor and rejected, those, as Howard Thurman identifies, “with their backs against the wall.” Therefore, this prophet, who understands himself foremost as a herdsman and dresser of sycamore trees (7:14), travels from his home in the south to the northern kingdom of Israel to prophesy.

What societal wrongs are so severe as to cause a sheep breeder to leave his home and country?

What is God’s prophetic calling all about?

The people’s offense has almost entirely to do with how they treat each other. It’s ethical. Amos 2:6–8 makes this clear:

Thus says the Lord:
For three transgressions of Israel,
and for four, I will not revoke the punishment,
because they sell the righteous for silver
and the needy for a pair of sandals—
they who trample the head of the poor into the dust of the earth
and push the afflicted out of the way;
father and son go in to the same young woman,
so that my holy name is profaned;
they lay themselves down beside every altar
on garments taken in pledge;
and in the house of their God they drink
wine bought with fines they imposed.

The prophet is upset at the sight of the oppression of the poor. Amos is clear that sacrifices alone—that is, pious religious rituals only—do not bring praise to God. Proper worship is not the only facet of a vibrant spiritual life. In fact, offering sacrifices to God while treating your neighbor poorly is simply bad religion to Amos. It’s hypocrisy, an offense to the covenant relationship between Israel and God.

During the mid-8th century BCE, the northern kingdom of Israel enjoyed some prosperity because of the lack of threat from the major empires of this period. Egypt was weak; Assyria was in decline. So, even though Israel was a small kingdom in the face of a larger empire such as Assyria, they lived in peace during this time. These peaceful moments, however, led to an accumulation of wealth by some folks and to unethical treatment of the poor. Some people in the ruling class of the kingdom of Israel treated the poor and disenfranchised badly.

In sum, it was a time of economic inequality.

Today, we know about this type of inequality as well. For example, regarding income inequality, the United States contains significant disparity: “Between 1979 and 2021, the average income of the richest 0.01 percent of [United States] households … grew nearly 27 times as fast as the income of the bottom 20 percent of earners.”1 Concerning global wealth inequality, the small-in-number wealthy own a substantial amount: “According to the UBS Global Wealth Report, in 2023 the world’s richest 1 percent, those with more than $1 million, owned 47.5 percent of all the world’s wealth.”2

So, what’s the prophetic word from Amos during Israel’s moment of injustice?

Amos 8 contains a vision (verses 1–3) and an oracle (verses 4–12).

Amos’s vision in 8:1–3 follows three earlier visions in Amos 7. Each vision begins with the formulaic “This is what the Lord GOD showed me.” The object of the vision this time is a basket of summer fruit. While some scholars seek to find a deeper meaning in this choice, the image is likely chosen primarily to create a wordplay in the original Hebrew. The word for “summer fruit” is qayits, and the word for “end” is qets. The prophet uses similar-sounding words to craft a message.

Just as ripe fruit will ultimately spoil and come to an end, the kingdom of Israel is at its end. The time of judgment has arrived.

To be clear, the end imagined here is not the end of the world. It’s the end of the kingdom of Israel. The people’s commitment to injustice is bringing about the kingdom’s fall.

The oracle that follows provides additional details about this judgment. Certain folks are accused of trampling on the poor; merchants are condemned for their fraudulent practices. Therefore, both the land and the community will suffer. The land will experience the consequences of humanity’s practice of injustice.

And, finally, God will bring about a famine—not of bread but of God’s word. Prophecy will be scarce. How will the people know what to do in this terrible moment? How will they receive knowledge of God? Not listening to God through God’s prophet may in fact cause God through God’s prophet to stop speaking.


Notes

  1. Institute for Policy Studies, “Income Inequality in the United States,” Inequality.org, accessed June 23, 2025, https://inequality.org/facts/income-inequality/#income-inequality.
  2. Institute for Policy Studies, “Global Inequality,” Inequality.org, accessed June 23, 2025, https://inequality.org/facts/global-inequality/.

Psalm

Commentary on Psalm 15

Matthew Stith

The question posed by Psalm 15:1 in two parallel clauses—“O LORD, who may abide in your tent? Who may dwell on your holy hill?”—sets the agenda both for the psalm itself and for any interpretation of it.1 The question, in and of itself, relates to the identification of those people who enjoy access to God’s presence, as it was understood to be specially manifested in the temple. 

For the preacher, the obvious connection here is to the understanding that the church, and every gathering of two or more of its members (Matthew 18:20), represents similar opportunities for access to that presence. The psalm’s answers to the question will have implications for people who publicly participate in such gatherings. Are there requirements that must be met for rightful attendance and participation? If so, what are they? If not, how else are we to understand what the psalm says about those who “may abide” in the presence of the Lord?

First and foremost, it is noteworthy that the psalm’s description of the person who may abide in the presence is entirely ethical. There are no ritual or liturgical elements whatsoever. This may be surprising, since such requirements are, in other texts, given in considerable detail and applied with considerable rigor, and one would expect such elements to be part of any actual list of enforceable requirements.

Psalm 15, however, is entirely concerned with the conduct to be observed by those who would draw near to God, and so it seems likely that the text is intended to function in some other way than as a list of admission standards. It is not a sort of checklist that must be completed before coming to church!

Consideration of the specific sorts of conduct listed may shed some light on how the text is intended to be used, and will in any case offer sound ethical instruction, which can itself be the basis of fruitful preaching. Specific ethical imperatives urged by the psalm for those who would “walk blamelessly and do what is right” (verse 2) include:

    • Truthful speech, both about one’s inner thoughts and about one’s neighbor (verses 2–3)
    • Good conduct toward one’s neighbor (verse 3)
    • The giving of approval to conduct in others that is aligned with God’s will, and the withholding of approval from what is contrary to it (verse 4)
    • Integrity and fidelity in keeping one’s word (verse 4)
    • Refusal to engage in financial exploitation of the vulnerable (verse 5)

It will not be difficult for the preacher, if so inclined, to find examples of professing believers who strive to exemplify these activities. It will be even less difficult to find widely known and public examples of professing believers who do not.

It is the fact of human inability to perfectly execute the ethical program of Psalm 15 that makes it crucial to understand how this list of behaviors is meant to function. If they are absolute requirements that must be fulfilled in order to enter God’s presence, no one will ever be qualified to do so. Happily, it is consistent with Christian teaching on God’s forgiveness and renovation of the flawed and fallen members of God’s people to construe them not as requirements that must be met to enter the presence, but rather as markers of a person who has been touched by that forgiving and renovating presence. 

In other words, these ways of behaving with respect toward neighbor, worshiping community, and world are made possible by the encounter with the powerful presence of the Lord. The message of Psalm 15 to the church is thus a hopeful rather than an exclusionary one: Those who regularly enter the presence of God by coming to the place of worship are enabled, more and more, to walk in righteousness, to do what is right, and, more specifically, to strive to display the ethical marks set forth in the text.

In this light, the closing line of the psalm, “Those who do these things shall never be moved,” reads as a promise of the reliability and solidity of God’s agenda for redemption, as it applies to the individual believer walking through life in the world.

Approaching the text in this manner allows either for preaching on the psalm alone or for drawing connections to any number of New Testament texts that address forgiveness, sanctification, and/or Jesus’s habit of welcoming surprising people into his presence with equally surprising results.


Notes

  1. Commentary previously published on this website for July 17, 2022.

Second Reading

Commentary on Colossians 1:15-28

Kimberly Wagner

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.