God Was In This Place

Now as they went on their way, he entered a certain village, where a woman named Martha welcomed him into her home. She had a sister named Mary, who sat at the Lord's feet and listened to what he was saying. But Martha was distracted by her many tasks; so she came to him and asked, "Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself? Tell her then to help me." But the Lord answered her, "Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things; there is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her." (Luke 10:38-42)

Let me begin this morning with a favourite story of mine, which led to the naming of my son:

Jacob was the grandson of Abraham, born to Isaac and Rebekah, and even while in the womb, the problems started (Genesis 25:22): "The children struggled together within Rebekah," it says, "and she said, 'If it is to be this way, why do I bother to live?'"

A feeling many pregnant mothers can identify with, I am sure. She prayed to God for an answer, and God told her that if she thought the boys weren't getting along now, just wait. The time came for the twins to be born, and the first, red and covered with hair, they called Esau, or "Hairy." The second child came clutching his brothers heel, so they called him "Jacob," which means "grasper," or "cheat," or "deceiver." Good name, eh? Who would give their kid a name like that? It may be better than "hairy," but only just.

The Bible tells us that they grew up as different as twins could be. Esau, whose testosterone levels were through the roof, became a man's man, "a skillful hunter," it says, "a man of the open country."

As for Jacob, we read that "he was a quiet man, staying among the tents." And then, what always leads to trouble (Genesis 25:28): "Isaac loved Esau because he hunted the wild animals that Isaac enjoyed eating. But Rebekah loved Jacob." Uh- oh.

As you might expect, while Esau worked on his physique, the better to surprise and bludgeon the gentle creatures of the woods, Jacob worked on his brains, the better to surprise and take advantage of shallow thinkers like his brother. The moment finally came.

Esau plods into the house, reeking of the fields and roaring out his hunger. He had been pursuing Biblical creatures through the open country, tracking the elusive hoopoe, eviscerating unwary rock badgers, running after roebuck. He spies Jacob, who is just putting the finishing touches on the evening stew, which he fears might be a little heavy on the marjoram.

"Gimme some of that stew, and quick, before I drop on the spot," bellows Esau, heaving and flexing. Jacob, who knows that this giant could and would inhale the whole pot, ladle and all, pausing only to wipe it clean with his beard, narrows his eyes.

"First," he says, delicately sipping from the tasting spoon, "sell me your birthright."

"Birthright? What good is my birthright when I'm dying from hunger? Gimme that pot." At which Esau makes a grab at the pot, fire and all. But Jacob, with surprising speed, whisks it aside.

"First swear to me that your birthright, your inheritance, your priority as firstborn, is mine," says the cunning Jacob, "and then the pot is yours. Along with the stew. And some bread even. Nice and fresh."

Esau pauses a moment, absently scratching while trying to encourage his brain to think. When nothing happens but a renewed rumble of hunger, he swears an oath, scrawling a hairy "X" on the "party-of-the-first-part" style contract Jacob produces from nowhere. And while Esau roots and snuffles his way through the mess of pottage, Jacob grins his Jacobite grin, having just secured his future with a few lentils and bit of leftover matzoh. But the final master stroke was still to come.

The years pass.

Esau marries a couple of Hittite girls, who become a source of unending grief to Isaac and Rebekah - you know what Hittite girls are like. Isaac grows older, and is burdened with cataracts through which he can barely see the sun. He feels his strength failing with the light, and he calls Esau, his beloved son, in to see him.

And, the Bible tells us (Genesis 27:2-4): Isaac said, "I am old and don't know when I might die. So take your bow and arrows and go hunting in the field for an animal for me to eat. When you prepare the tasty food that I love, bring it to me, and I will eat. Then I will bless you before I die."

Apparently, Isaac had never heard the birthright-traded-for-a-mess-of-pottage story. But Rebekah had, and she also heard Isaac send Esau out to the fields. She has a cunning plan. She sends Jacob out to fetch two young goats, which she will cook just the way the old man likes it. Jacob will bring in the food, and old Isaac in his blindness will bless him instead.

However, Jacob panics. He says, (Genesis 27:11-12): "Look, my brother Esau is a hairy man, and I am a man of smooth skin. Perhaps my father will feel me, and I shall seem to be mocking him, and bring a curse on myself and not a blessing."

"Details, details," says Rebekah. "Let his curse fall on me. Now go do what I tell you."

As Esau scours the far-away fields for an ibex to bash, and Isaac sits in his tent smacking his lips at the thought of the meal to come, Rebekah slaughters and cooks the goats, while Jacob wrings his hands and paces the floor. The cooking complete, she instructs Jacob to dress in Esau's clothes, and then for good measure wraps his arms and neck with the fresh goatskins, which smell just the way you might expect fresh goatskins to smell.

In fact, they smell just like Esau, and they feel just like Esau too, so when Jacob brings Isaac the supper, the old man is completely fooled, despite suspicions raised by the gentle nature of Jacob's voice, which he uses to talk in words of more than one syllable. Wary, the old fellow calls him over, feels his goat-skin covered arms and kisses his goat-skin covered neck, and breathes deeply of dirt, manure, sweat, and blood.

"Ah," says Isaac, "(Genesis 27:27) "Ah, the smell of my son is like the smell of a field that the LORD has blessed." And so Isaac blesses Jacob with Esau's blessing, a blessing which could never be revoked. When Esau returns from the hunt, and hears of the deceit, he roars and weeps and bellows curses upon the hiding Jacob, making it clear that as soon as the old man breathes his last, Jacob won't be far behind, with additional references to the bones which will be broken, etc.

Jacob, wisely, flees. He sets out for Haran, and you can see his deep respect for Esau insofar as Haran is about seven hundred miles away by foot, and after a long, hot, hard day of travel he decides it is safe enough to set up camp, and does so, it says, "in a certain place." It was like any other of a thousand places in the land we now call Israel; some scrub, some stones, some dirt and sand, not much else, or so Jacob thinks.

The Scriptures, though, are winking and nudging us, preparing us for what is to come: it is not only a place, it is a "certain place." He not only takes a stone for a pillow, but "one of the stones of the place;" he lays down "in that place." Wink, nudge. Something is about to happen.

That a pillow of stone would provide comfort is a sign of how gruelling the journey had been, and there were many more miles to go. It is hard to walk and to ride while looking over your shoulder for the sign of an approaching brother with murder on his mind. It is hard to labour under the hot sun with the crushing weight of a conscience as guilty as Jacob's. But now the sun had set, the servants were watering the camels, his eyes had closed, and Jacob falls into a fitful sleep in the middle of nowhere, his blanket a carpet of stars.

And Jacob dreams a dream. He dreams a dream of a ladder, a ladder made of stone, a ladder reaching from the earth to the heavens and back again, angels going up, and angels going down. He dreams he stands and watches, and he dreams that beside him stands the LORD.

"I am the LORD, the God of Abraham your father and the God of Isaac; the land on which you lie I will give to you and to your offspring; and your offspring shall be like the dust of the earth, and you shall spread abroad to the west and to the east and to the north and to the south; and all the families of the earth shall be blessed in you and in your offspring. Know that I am with you and will keep you wherever you go, and will bring you back to this land; for I will not leave you until I have done what I have promised you."

It was the dream his father Isaac had dreamed when he was young, it was the dream first dreamed by Abraham; they were the words God had given them, and had now given Jacob; Jacob the shyster, Jacob the con-man, Jacob the cheat.

Waking from his sleep, Jacob was surprised to see that the place he was in had not changed; the rocks had not changed, the sand had not changed, nor had the stars in the sky. Yet somehow, it had all changed, all changed. "God was in this place, and I, I did not know!"

It is a haunting line, that of Jacob. To be in the presence of God, and to have had no inkling, no sense, no idea. Not surprising, really. Jacob had not been anything near very religious up to this point in his life. Jacob had been primarily concerned with Jacob up to this point in his life, and little else. This night of nights he was not in a temple, not in a shrine, not engaged in fervent prayer, not seeking a vision. He was nowhere, interested only in sleep. And that's when God came.

Jacob rises to his feet, the glow of the dawn warming the eastern horizon, and looks around at the distant hills, at the jagged rocks, at the dust of the earth. "How awesome is this place! This is none other than the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven." And he took the stone that he had put under his head and set it up for a pillar and poured oil on the top of it. He called the place Bethel, which means House of God; and that place was never just another place again, even as Jacob; Jacob the con-man, Jacob the shyster, Jacob the cheat: even as Jacob was never the same again.

Jesus has just finished a long day teaching, wrapping things up with the Story of the Good Samaritan, which isn't a bad day's work, and he's heading off on his own for a bit - "Now as they went on their way," it says - they went, he didn't - and Jesus, spotting some rooftops in the valley below, decides to drop in. He "entered a certain village," it says - not just any old village, but a certain village, it says - Wink, nudge. Something is about to happen.

"Where a woman named Martha welcomed him into her home." Perhaps she was around earlier when Jesus told that Good Samaritan story, and thought maybe he had a couple more up his sleeve. Perhaps she had been in an earlier crowd when a sermon had been preached, a convention had been challenged, a child had been healed. Perhaps she didn't know him at all, and was simply extending the customary Middle Eastern hospitality to a stranger.

Whatever the situation, she welcomed him into her home - the house she shared with her sister - for a little R and R, a little food and drink, a little hummus and pita and babaganouj, maybe a falafel, and where did I put those figs - I know I had some figs - if Lazarus ate those figs when he was here this morning I'll kill him - and in her hustle and her bustle she overhears, just catches bits of, another story from the man she had invited in, whose dinner she was scrambling together, and suddenly the part of her brain not searching for figs, the part not cursing Lazarus, the part not finding the platter she thought she had left over here, realised that if Jesus is telling a story, it means that he's telling it to someone, and she stops in her frantic tracks, and looks around the kitchen door, and what she saw was this: "She had a sister named Mary, who sat at the Lord's feet and listened to what he was saying."

Martha's jaw drops. Martha's eyes blaze. Martha's hands go to Martha's hips, Martha's foot taps in that warning way that only a woman's foot can (I know the sound of such a tap) and she, Martha, strides into the room.

"Lord," she says, with that exaggerated slowness and careful enunciation of someone whose stack is dangerously close to blowing; "Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself? Tell her then to help me."

But the Lord answered her, "Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things; there is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her."

Luke does not tell us the reaction to this bomb dropped by the courageous Jesus, a better and braver man than any man here. The next thing we read is, (Luke 11:1) He was praying in a certain place, and after he had finished, one of his disciples said to him, "Lord, teach us to pray, as John taught his disciples." Change of location and subject. The story has moved on. Just as well. But I want us to take a few steps back and see what Jesus said, and how Luke tells the tale. Here's the whole thing again:

Now as they went on their way, he entered a certain village, where a woman named Martha welcomed him into her home. She had a sister named Mary, who sat at the Lord's feet and listened to what he was saying.

But Martha was distracted by her many tasks; so she came to him and asked, "Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself? Tell her then to help me." But the Lord answered her, "Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things; there is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her."

So what's Martha's problem here? That she's the one taking responsibility for getting some things done? That she's busting her hump trying to get dinner on the table while her sister is slacking off? That she's the type of person who needs to do, and that sitting around is for other people, for lazy people, for people unwilling to take responsibility?

No, those are problems, but not her main problem: look at the story. But Martha was distracted by her many tasks… "Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things… there is need of only one thing. And that one thing? What is that one thing? The same thing Jacob needed to discover: "God was in this place, and I, I did not know." Mary picked up on it; Martha, worried and distracted, did not. "God was in this place, and I, I did not know."

For Jacob, this awareness changed a patch of scrub and desert into a holy place, into the very House of God. For Mary, this awareness changed her old familiar living room into a sanctuary, sitting at the feet of the Lord.

For Martha; well, for Martha, distracted - distracted - by her many tasks; for Martha, worried and distracted; it was just another problem, one more thing to get upset about. One more thing. God was in this place, and she, she did not know.

This story of Jacob, this story of Mary and Martha is deadly important, because it gets right at the root of our problem. We spend most of our waking life utterly and completely unaware of the presence of God. We reserve awareness of God's presence for times in church, maybe, or when confronted by some spectacular natural wonder, but God is with you, whenever, wherever, you are. No matter what you are doing or when you are doing it, you need to stop and think, "God is in this place, and I, I did not know."

The office. The classroom. The GO-train. The breakfast table. The kitchen. The grocery store. Mowing the lawn. Taking out the garbage. Walking the dog. Bathing the kids. Reading the paper. Stirring the tea. Setting the table. Separating the laundry. Sitting in traffic. Paying the bills. Riding the bus. Falling asleep. Laughing. Crying. Dreaming. Arguing. Worrying. Distracted. "God was in this place, and I, I did not know."

Jacob was running for his life. The realisation hit. It stopped him in his tracks. It changed his life of exile and isolation into a life where God's presence was everywhere he was. "God was in this place, and I, I did not know." Mary was caught up in just another day, but a surprise guest walks through the door, and centuries of convention and aeons of cultural demands means she should be distanced from this stranger, this man, and together with her sister be whipping together a meal, but the realisation hits, it stops her in her tracks, and she sits at his feet - she sits at his feet - and it changes her life from mediocrity, from worry and distraction, from a thousand and one tasks, to the awareness of the Presence of God, right here, right here. "God was in this place, and I, I did not know." But she takes a moment to notice. And she sits at Jesus' feet.

And Martha, worried and distracted by her many tasks, almost misses the boat. And we, worried and distracted by our many tasks, almost miss the boat. In a life suffused with the presence of God, we only notice God here. But he's everywhere. He's everywhere. "God is in our place, our place, and we, we do not know."

Stop. Just for a moment - stop.

In the midst of your many tasks - stop.

In the face of your distractions - stop.

As worry twists you into a knot - stop.

Wherever, whenever you are - stop.

And remember: "God was in this place, and I, I did not know." And as you realise it, your workplace, your classroom, your kitchen, your home, will be a holy place, a place where Jesus is, where the presence of God surrounds you with love and care. And you can resume your work, changed; transformed by the wonder, and the comfort, and the healing, and the glory, and the touch of the presence of the Lord. God is in this place. In your place. In all our places. ~ Amen.