Our "new" traditional service

Hopefully by now you've read about the change we've made to our two service model. If not, here is the summary of the change:

9:30 AM Sermon - This message will often explore how faith intersects with daily life,

bringing biblical wisdom to the real-world issues we navigate throughout the week. It

will sometimes engage with social and justice issues and what it means to follow Jesus

in our personal and community life. Some weeks, it may touch on topics that feel

connected to current events, while other weeks will focus on broader themes of faith

and discipleship.

11:00 AM Sermon - This message will center more broadly on our Presbyterian faith,

and the timeless message of faith, hope and love. It will provide a space of retreat,

focusing on God's presence, peace, and the eternal truths of our faith and not on

topics related to current events or social issues. This sermon will often follow the

lectionary unless we are in a sermon series that connects both services to the church

year, as we are during Lent.

This Sunday, we began the new model and it was beautiful. But unfortunately, the live stream didn't work, so we can't show it all to those who are curious, but couldn't make it, so below is the text of my sermon and here is a copy of the new traditional bulletin.

Sermon on Luke 10:38-42

March 16, 2025

David Collins

Today’s text begs an age old question that has been asked countless times during sermons and Sunday school lessons: Are you a Mary or a Martha?

Are you the one getting things done—checking off the to-do list, making sure everything is in order, keeping people fed and programs running? Or are you the one sitting in deep conversation, taking time to reflect, prioritizing relationships and learning?

Many of us have been told this is an either/or choice, as if you’re either a Martha—the doer, the worker, the one who makes things happen or a Mary—the one who is still, prayerful, reflective, listening at Jesus' feet.

But what if that's the wrong question? 

For centuries, people have framed faith and works as if they were in conflict:

Is salvation by faith alone or by faith and works?

Is Christianity about believing or about doing?

Is following Jesus about prayer and worship, or about service and action?

And right here, in the story of Mary and Martha, we often assume that Jesus is telling us to pick a side—to choose contemplation over action, to be Mary and not Martha.

But what if Jesus isn't pitting them against each other at all?

We’ve been trained to see this as an either/or, but Jesus often deals in both/and. He’s not condemning Martha for her work. He’s not telling her that serving is bad. In fact, throughout the Gospels, Jesus repeatedly praises those who serve—those who feed the hungry, clothe the naked, and care for the least of these. Martha’s problem isn’t that she’s working; it’s that she’s distracted. The issue isn’t her service, it’s her anxiety. She’s worried about many things. She’s overwhelmed. And in that worry, she’s missing the presence of Christ sitting right in her living room.

Jesus’ words to Martha aren’t a rebuke for working too hard—they’re an invitation. An invitation to let go of distraction. To release the anxiety that comes from feeling like everything depends on us. To take a deep breath and remember that sometimes, the most important thing is simply to be present with God.

What if this story isn’t about choosing between being a Mary or a Martha? What if it’s about learning to be both? Learning to serve with joy instead of resentment. Learning to be present even in the midst of our responsibilities. Learning that worship and work are not enemies, but partners.

Maybe the better question isn’t, "Are you a Mary or a Martha?" but "How is God calling you to both work and rest, both serve and sit, both do and be?

To be more like Tony Bennet? You know what I’m talking about right? Do Be Do Be Do?

Luke 10:38-42

38 Now as they went on their way, he entered a certain village, where a woman named Martha welcomed him into her home. 39 She had a sister named Mary, who sat at the Lord’s feet and listened to what he was saying. 40 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.’ 41 But the Lord answered her, ‘Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things; 42 there is need of only one thing.[a] Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her.’

At first glance, this passage seems to tell a simple story: Martha is the busy worker, Mary is the devoted listener, and Jesus affirms Mary’s choice.

And for centuries, this has been interpreted as a rebuke of Martha—as if Jesus is saying: Stop working so hard! Just sit and listen!

But is that really what Jesus is saying?

Martha welcomes Jesus into her home—a sacred act of hospitality, something deeply embedded in Jewish tradition. She isn’t just tidying up for company; she is doing what she believes is an act of ministry. She’s making sure Jesus and his disciples are fed, that the space is prepared, that everything runs smoothly. If we were in her shoes, we might see ourselves running around the church on a Sunday morning, making sure the coffee is brewed, the pews are straightened, the service is ready to go. Martha is making things happen.

Mary, meanwhile, is sitting at Jesus’ feet—a posture of learning and discipleship. This is radical. In a time when women were not often welcomed into theological instruction, she takes the posture of a student, listening and learning as if she belonged there. And Jesus welcomes her.

Both of them are engaged in something good.

The issue isn’t that Martha is working while Mary is listening. The issue is that Martha is distracted.

The Greek word perispao means to be pulled in many directions, to be anxious, troubled. It’s that feeling when your to-do list is running your life, when you’re so busy making sure everything is perfect that you start to miss the reason you’re doing it in the first place.

Jesus doesn’t tell Martha that her work is wrong—he tells her that her worry is. He calls her by name, not once but twice—“Martha, Martha”—like a gentle invitation back to what matters. He doesn’t say, Stop serving! He says, Come back to center. Remember why you are doing this in the first place.

Because the real danger isn’t in working—it’s in working without being present. It’s in letting busyness keep us from seeing the face of Jesus right in front of us.

This tension between work and presence, between doing and being, isn’t just Martha’s struggle—it’s one that has shaped the church for centuries. In fact, it’s at the heart of one of the biggest theological debates in Christian history: faith versus works.

During the 16th-century Reformation, the tension between faith and works wasn’t just an academic debate—it was the debate. And at the center of it all was Martin Luther.

Luther was passionate—bold, stubborn, sometimes a little dramatic. And one of his biggest convictions was sola fide—faith alone. He believed, fiercely, that salvation was a gift from God, received through faith, not something we could earn by doing enough good deeds or checking off religious boxes. This wasn’t just a theological stance—it was a direct pushback against the way he saw the Catholic Church of his time emphasizing works, indulgences, and rituals as if they were ways to buy righteousness.

And in his passion for sola fide, Luther had a bit of a problem with the letter of James. He famously called it an “epistle of straw,” saying it lacked the weight and centrality of other New Testament writings. He struggled with the way James declared, “faith without works is dead,” because, to Luther, that sounded dangerously close to saying that works played a role in salvation.

Now, to be clear, he didn’t try to remove James from the Bible—but he did do something interesting. In his German translation of the New Testament, he pushed James (along with Hebrews, Jude, and Revelation) to the very back, almost like a theological footnote. (They have copies of it on display in Edinburgh) It wasn’t that Luther dismissed it entirely, but he saw it as less central to the gospel message than Paul’s letters, which emphasized grace through faith.

Luther’s insistence on sola fide—faith alone—was a necessary correction in his time. He was standing against the idea that salvation could somehow be earned through religious actions, indulgences, or the right kind of moral effort. And thank God for that! We know that God’s grace is freely given—it’s not a paycheck for good behavior. It’s not a prize for those who try the hardest. It’s a gift.

But sometimes, in fresh excitement about that sovereign grace of God, Reformed Christians take things a step too far. They get so zealous about the idea that we can’t earn our salvation that they start looking a little suspiciously at good works, calling them “works righteousness.”

Now, to be fair—there is such a thing as works righteousness. There is a real danger in thinking that if we just do enough, serve enough, or behave well enough, we can somehow put God in our debt. Jesus repeatedly warns against religious leaders who turn faith into a performance, who pile up rules and regulations as if righteousness were a contest. Paul makes it clear in Ephesians 2:8-9 that “it is by grace you have been saved, through faith… not by works, so that no one can boast.”

But some people take that truth and twist it into an excuse to never do anything good at all. As if the worst thing in the world would be to put too much effort into loving our neighbor.

And that’s just silly.

If you feed the hungry, does it matter if someone calls it works righteousness? The hungry are still fed.


If you stand up for the oppressed, does it matter if someone rolls their eyes? The oppressed still receive an advocate.


If you choose kindness, does it matter if someone assumes you’re trying too hard? Kindness still matters.

The fear of looking righteous should never stop us from being righteous.

This is where some Reformed folks fall into a strange kind of irony. They get so worried about works righteousness that they end up doing… well… nothing at all. They become so committed to not trying to impress God that they forget they’re still called to follow him.

James won’t let us off the hook that easily. Faith without works is dead. Not fake, not insincere, not optional—dead.

Jesus never says, “Don’t do good works.” He says, “Don’t do them for show.” But he fully expects us to do them.

So let’s not be so afraid of works righteousness that we miss out on righteous works. Let’s not let the fear of “doing it wrong” keep us from doing anything at all. Our job isn’t to sit around proving how much we understand grace. Our job is to follow Jesus—by grace, through faith, and with our hands and feet.

Faith and works isn’t an either/or—it’s a both/and.

This whole debate—Luther’s struggle with James, modern-day accusations of “virtue signaling,” the tension between Mary’s stillness and Martha’s service—at its core, it’s about the relationship between grace and action. And the truth is, they aren’t at war with each other. They’re meant to go hand in hand.

Faith without works is dead, but works without faith are empty.

Think about breathing. You inhale and exhale. Try doing just one. You can’t. Faith is the breath we take in—the trust in God’s grace, the relationship we receive, the presence we sit in. Works are the breath we let out—the love we give, the justice we seek, the service we offer. Neither one can exist alone.

Jesus didn’t tell Martha to stop working—he told her to stop worrying. He didn’t say serving was wrong—he said serving with distraction, with anxiety, with resentment was.

What he’s offering her is the same thing he offers us: a way to bring faith and works together. A way to serve without being consumed by stress. A way to be present while we’re doing what we’re called to do. A way to move through the world with purpose and peace.

Because we’re not just called to do good things. We’re called to be with God while we do them.

It’s not either/or. It’s both/and.

Our translation has Jesus saying to Martha that Mary chose “the better portion” which makes it sound like Jesus is ranking the choices—like Mary’s option is the right one, and Martha’s is the wrong one

But the Greek doesn’t actually say better.It says good. Not better, not best—just good. That’s a big difference.

If Jesus had said Mary had chosen the better portion, it would suggest a hierarchy, like Jesus is saying, "Sorry, Martha, you picked the wrong thing. Your sister made the superior choice, so try again.”

But that’s not what he’s saying. Instead, he’s affirming that Mary’s choice—to sit with him, to be present, to learn—is good. And by implication, he’s inviting Martha to that same goodness. He’s not rejecting Martha’s work. He’s reminding her that the presence of God is her portion, too.

This language ties directly back to Psalm 16:5, where the psalmist says, "The Lord is my chosen portion and my cup; you hold my lot.”

In other words, the good portion isn’t about choosing stillness over service—it’s about choosing God himself.

This moment in Luke 10 isn’t the end of her story. Later, in John 11, we find her standing outside her brother Lazarus’ tomb, face to face with Jesus. And she’s the one who makes one of the boldest confessions of faith in the entire Gospel:

"Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, who has come into the world.”

She knows who Jesus is. She knows where her portion truly lies.

So when Jesus speaks to Martha here, he’s not taking something away from her. He’s inviting her into something more.

A life where faith and action aren’t in competition, but in harmony.
A life where work isn’t a burden, but an overflow of being with Jesus.
A life where she doesn’t have to carry the weight of the world on her shoulders, because she is already being held.

And that invitation isn’t just for Martha. It’s for all of us.

So what does this mean for us?

Too often, we still fall into the false choice between being a Mary or a Martha.

Some of us stay so busy with work, ministry, and obligations that we never take time to be still with Jesus. We move from task to task, running on spiritual fumes, convincing ourselves that we’ll slow down later—when things settle down, when the to-do list is done (as if that ever happens).

Others hesitate to step out in action, afraid that they don’t know enough, aren’t ready, or might get it wrong. We tell ourselves we’ll serve when we feel more equipped, more spiritual, more confident.

But Jesus doesn’t ask us to choose one over the other.

He calls us to both—to a life where faith fuels action, and action expresses faith. To a life where work isn’t a distraction, but an overflow of being with Jesus. To a life where we don’t have to carry the weight of the world on our shoulders, because we are already being held.

So, what does it look like to live in this rhythm of faith and action, contemplation and service?

Here are two ways we can step into this rhythm in our daily lives:

1. Before you rush into doing, take time for being.

This doesn’t mean you need to spend hours in silence—but it does mean centering your heart in God before jumping into tasks. It means remembering that your work is not what makes you worthy—God’s love is.

Example: Instead of checking your phone first thing in the morning, start your day with a few moments of prayer. Read a short passage of scripture. Sit in silence for just a minute before launching into the noise of the day.

2. Serve, But Don’t Serve Alone

Martha’s struggle wasn’t just that she was busy—it was that she felt alone in her work.

We aren’t meant to serve in isolation; we need each other. Faith is not a solo project.

So don’t just volunteer at church—invite someone to serve with you. Don’t just pray alone—pray with others. Don’t just carry the burdens of life silently—lean on your community.

Find a partner in faith—a friend, a small group, a mentor—to walk with you as you integrate faith and works.

Mary and Martha were never meant to be opposites.

Their lives, their gifts, their faith were not in competition. And neither are ours.

Jesus is inviting us to both—to a life where we sit at his feet and walk in his ways. Where we are present with him andpour ourselves out for others. Where we stop worrying about whether we are enough and start resting in the God who already is.

That’s the invitation. That’s the good portion. And it’s ours to choose.

Amen.