An Attitude of Gratitdue

 

An Attitude of Gratitude

An Attitude of Gratitude - Audio/Visual 

While Jesus and his followers were traveling, Jesus went into a town. A woman named Martha let Jesus stay at her house. Martha had a sister named Mary, who was sitting at Jesus' feet and listening to him teach. But Martha was busy with all the work to be done. She went in and said, "Lord, don't you care that my sister has left me alone to do all the work? Tell her to help me." But the Lord answered her, "Martha, Martha, you are worried and upset about many things. Only one thing is important. Mary has chosen the better thing, and it will never be taken away from her." (Luke 10:38-42)

I love milk, and one of the saddest days of my life was when I learned that whole milk was possibly unhealthy. So, with great reluctance I’ve adapted to the watered-down version. But in my years of milk appreciation, I’ve also learned that a high price is paid for leaving milk out of the refrigerator. That happened a while ago when I spit the spoiled stuff all over the kitchen floor. I’ve learned that sweet milk turns sour from being left too warm for too long. And it occurred to me that sweet dispositions can turn sour for the same reason. Let aggravation stew without a period of cooling down, and the result? A bad, bitter, clabberish attitude. Kind of like buttermilk – I’m not a big fan of drinks with lumps in them.

The tenth chapter of Luke describes the step-by-step process of the sweet becoming sour. It's the story of Martha. A dear soul with a talent for hospitality and organization. More frugal than frivolous and more practical than pensive, her household is a tight ship and she’s a stern captain. Ask her to choose between a book and a broom, she'll take the broom. Mary, on the other hand, will take the book. Mary is Martha's sister. Same parents, but vastly different priorities. Martha has things to do while Mary has thoughts to think. The dishes can wait. Let Martha go to the market; Mary will go to the library.

Two sisters. Two different personalities. And as long as they understand each other, life’s fine. But when one resents the other, it’s like flint against stone. And the picture I get from Luke is that Martha’s probably the one standing by the table, wearing the apron and commanding the kitchen. Stirring with one hand and cracking eggs with the other, she doesn’t spill a drop. She knows what she's doing, and there must be a big crowd coming because there’s a whole lot of food to prepare. And then she hears them laughing in the next room and it sounds like they're having fun. Martha isn't having fun.

"Stupid sister,” you can almost hear her mumble. "Stupid Mary. Here I am alone in the kitchen while she's out there. And if I’d known that Jesus was going to bring his entire posse with him, I probably wouldn’t have invited him over for dinner in the first place. Those guys eat like horses. Yeah, that sweet little darling sister of mine . . . always ready to listen and never ready to work. I wouldn't mind sitting down myself. But all I do is cook and sew, cook and sew. Well, enough is enough!" And as she storms out of the kitchen, you get the sense that someone’s gonna get cooked. "Lord, don't you care that my sister has left me alone to do all the work? Tell her to help me." (v. 40) Suddenly the room goes deathly quiet, except for the tap-tap-tapping of Martha's foot on the stone floor, and the slap-slap-slapping of a wooden spoon in her palm. She looms above the others with flour on her cheeks and fire in her eyes.

At this point, the disciples are probably staring wide-eyed at this fury that hell hath not known. And poor Mary, flushed red with embarrassment, sighs and sinks lower to the floor. Only Jesus speaks, because only Jesus understands the problem. The problem is not the large crowd. The problem is not Mary's choice to listen. The problem is not Martha's choice to host. The problem is Martha’s heart – a heart soured with anxiety. "Martha, Martha, you are worried and upset about many things." (v.41)

The truth is that Martha wanted to do right, but her heart was in the wrong place. Her heart, Jesus said, was worried. As a result, she turned from a happy servant into a beast of burden. She was worried: worried about cooking; worried about pleasing; worried about too much. I like what Erma Bombeck had to say about worrying: I've always worried a lot and frankly, I'm good at it. I worry about introducing people and going blank when I get to my mother. I worry about a shortage of ball bearings; a snake coming up through the kitchen drain. I worry about the world ending at midnight and getting stuck with three hours on a twenty-four-hour cold capsule. I worry what the dog thinks when he sees me coming out of the shower; that one of my children will marry an Eskimo who will set me adrift on an iceberg when I can no longer feed myself. I worry about salesladies following me into the fitting room, oil slicks, and Carol Channing going bald. I worry about scientists discovering someday that lettuce has been fattening all along.

Apparently, Martha, like Erma, worried too much, too. So much so that she started bossing God around. A lack of gratitude will do that to you. It makes you forget who’s in charge. What makes this case interesting though is that Martha’s worried about doing something good: she’s having Jesus over for dinner. She’s literally serving God. Her aim was to please Jesus. But she made a common, but dangerous, mistake – as she began to work for him, her work became more important than her Lord. What began as a way to serve Jesus, slowly and subtly became a way to serve herself. I’m guessing that the process went something like this.

As Martha began to prepare the meal, she anticipated the compliments she’d get on the food. And as she set the table, she imagined the approval of her guests. She could just picture it. Jesus would enter the house and thank her for all of her hard work. He would tell the disciples to give her a round of applause. John would cite her as an example of hospitality and dedicate an entire chapter in the Bible to her. Then women would come from miles around to ask her how she learned to be such a kind and humble servant. And the rest of her days would be spent directing a school of servanthood – with Jesus as the director, and Martha as the professor. But things didn't turn out quite like she'd planned.

She didn't get the attention she sought. There was no applause. No compliments. No adulation. No school. No one even noticed. And that irritated her. But Martha is long on anxiety and short on memory. She’s forgotten that the invitation was her idea in the first place. She’d forgotten that Mary had every right to be with Jesus. And most of all, she’d forgotten that the meal was to honor Jesus, not Martha. It's easy to forget who’s the servant and who’s to be served. Satan knows that. This tool of distortion is one of Satan's slyest. You see, he didn't take Martha out of the kitchen; he took away her purpose in the kitchen. The adversary won't turn you against the church; he will turn you toward yourself in the church. He won’t take you away from your ministry; he'll disillusion you in your ministry.

And when the focus is on yourself, you do what Martha did — you worry. You become anxious about many things. You worry that your co-workers won't appreciate you; your leaders will overwork you; and your superintendent won't understand you. With time, your agenda becomes more important than God's because you’re more concerned with presenting self than pleasing him. And then you start doubting God's judgment: "Lord, don't you care that my sister has left me alone to do all the work? Tell her to help me." (v. 40) I think Martha probably regretted saying that. I bet that after she cooled down a bit she would have loved to have had those words back. She probably wished she'd heeded Solomon's counsel: "A rebel shouts in anger; a wise man holds his temper in and cools it." (Prov. 29:11)

There’s a principle here. To keep an attitude from souring, treat it like you would a carton of milk: cool it off. Martha’s life was cluttered. She needed a break. "Martha, Martha, you are worried and upset about many things," the Master explained to her. "Only one thing is important. Mary has chosen [it]." (Vv. 41-42) What had Mary chosen? She’d chosen to sit at the feet of Christ. So, perhaps, God is more pleased with the quiet attention of a sincere servant, than the noisy service of a sour one. And by the way, this story could have easily been reversed.

Mary could have been the one to get angry and upset. The sister on the floor could have resented the sister at the sink. Mary could have grabbed Jesus by the arm, dragged him into the kitchen and said, "Jesus. Would you please tell Martha to quit being so productive and to get a bit more reflective. Why do I have to do all the thinking and praying around here, anyway?"

It seems that what matters more than the type of service is the heart behind it – a grateful heart. A bad attitude spoils the gift we leave on the altar for God. It reminds me of a story about a guy who prayed with a bad attitude. "Why," he asked God, "has my brother been blessed with wealth and me with nothing at all? All my life I’ve never missed a single day without offering morning and evening prayers to you. My church attendance has been spotless – it’s perfect! I’ve always loved my neighbor and given them my money and my help. Yet now, as I have more life behind than ahead of me, I can hardly afford to pay the rent. My brother, on the other hand, drinks and gambles and plays all the time, yet he has more money than he can count. I’m not asking you to punish him, but tell me, please God, why has he been given so much and I’ve got so little?" "Because" God replied, "you're such a self-righteous pain in the neck."

Gratitude is a choice. God has gifted you with talents. He has done the same to your neighbor. If you concern yourself with your neighbor's talents, you’ll neglect your own. But if you concern yourself with your own, you could inspire both. So, have an attitude of gratitude and leave your worries in the kitchen.

Grace,

Randy

Gratitude - the Antidote to Entitlement

 

Gratitude – the Antidote to Entitlement

Gratitude - the Antidote to Entitlement - Audio/Visual

Now on his way to Jerusalem, Jesus traveled along the border between Samaria and Galilee. As he was going into a village, ten men who had leprosy met him. They stood at a distance and called out in a loud voice, “Jesus, Master, have pity on us!” When he saw them, he said, “Go, show yourselves to the priests.” And as they went, they were cleansed.

One of them, when he saw he was healed, came back, praising God in a loud voice. He threw himself at Jesus’ feet and thanked him — and he was a Samaritan. Jesus asked, “Were not all ten cleansed? Where are the other nine? Has no one returned to give praise to God except this foreigner?” Then he said to him, “Rise and go; your faith has made you well.” (Luke 17:11-19)

It’s a tribute to modern medicine that most of us don’t know much about leprosy as much of what we do know about the disease comes from what we’ve read in the Bible unless you want to Google it sometime. But if we had lived during Biblical times, we probably would have known a whole lot more because it was the most feared disease of its day. It was deadly, incurable and hopeless. The ancients feared it so much that anyone suspected of having the disease was banished from society. In fact, in the rabbinic writings of the time there are remedies for all kinds of diseases, but there’s nothing listed for leprosy. The rabbis said that curing leprosy was like “raising the dead.” Pretty grim stuff.

So, there’s Jesus, traveling near the border of Samaria and Galilee, and it’s there where he meets a group of lepers. We don’t know precisely where this encounter took place because you can’t even find the small town on a map. But it was somewhere south of Nazareth and north of Sychar. And it’s no surprise that Jesus would encounter these unfortunate men between Galilee and Samaria because Galilee was Jesus’ home base and where he was raised. He had family and boyhood friends there and, later, made his headquarters at Capernaum on the shores of the Sea of Galilee. Most of his miracles were performed, and much of his teaching was shared in Galilee. It was the land of his greatest popularity. But Samaria? Well, that was another matter altogether. Here’s why.

Observant Jews avoided Samaria at almost all costs. The story now goes back several thousand years to the Assyrian captivity which began in 722 B.C. Some of the Jewish people had intermarried with the Assyrians and had become, in the eyes of their countrymen, half-breeds and traitors. In other words, they were unclean. Over the centuries, then, the Samaritans had become a mixed race with a mixed religion. The Jewish people hated the Samaritans, and the Samaritans’ feelings were mutual.

And it’s here, on the frontier between Galilee and Samaria, in the DMZ between the Jews and the Samaritans, that Jesus meets ten lepers. And frankly, where else could they go? The Jews didn’t want them and neither did the Samaritans. So, here’s a colony of lepers joined by their common misfortune where their only uniting characteristic was the foul disease that had cast them out of society. And as Jesus enters the village, these men stand a long way off and cry out to him for mercy.

There they stand; the most ragged choir in all of no man’s land – ten lepers crying out to Jesus for mercy. “Have mercy. Have Mercy,” came the cry from lips that had seen too little mercy and too much condemnation. So, what’s Jesus’ response? Will he heal them right then and there on the spot? That was certainly within his power, and no doubt was what the lepers had probably hoped he would do. But, instead, Jesus said something that, well, seems a little unexpected. When he saw them, he said to them, “Go and show yourselves to the priests.”

Now, at first blush you might think that Jesus was simply blowing them off. You might even think that he didn’t intend to heal them at all. And if you were to come to that conclusion, you could probably infer that Jesus meant to impress upon them the utter hopelessness of their condition. But those inferences would be wrong. As a matter of fact, Jesus fully intended to heal them, but he also intended to do it in keeping with the Law’s demands since if Jesus hadn’t sent the lepers to the priest, no one would have ever believed that the miracle had taken place at all. But that’s not the whole story here.

The last part of verse 14 says that “as they went they were cleansed.” In other words, they were healed as they went to see the priest. Not before. Not after. That means that when they left to see the priest, they still had leprosy. So, how do you suppose they felt when Jesus said, “Go show yourselves to the priest?” Go show what to the priest? That they were still lepers? Really? They didn’t have anything to show the priest that the priest wanted to see. In fact, the last thing the rabbi wanted to see was ten smelly, disheveled, deformed and wretched lepers. In fact, I wonder if one or more of them mumbled, “Why bother?” But off they went, this shuffling band of sufferers marching off to see the priest, perhaps doubting their sought-after healing the entire way.

So, they take one step – they’re still lepers. They take two steps – nothing happens. They take a third step – the leprosy still clings to their skin. But on that fourth step, or maybe the fifth, or maybe the hundredth, something wonderful, something unbelievable, something they never dreamed possible happened. With that next step, they were healed. Instantly. Miraculously. All ten. All at once. They were healed as they went. Not before. Not after. But in the act of going they were healed. Why? Because it was the act of going that was an act of their faith. And it didn’t matter how they felt about it. God honored their going in spite of what may have been some serious doubts along the way.

Like the lepers, our faith moves mountains when our faith moves us. When Jesus said, “Go show yourselves to the priest,” he was really saying, “Act as if you’re already healed.” What a great piece of advice. So many times we pray and pray and pray and nothing seems to happen. But when our faith, shaky though it may be, finally moves us to action God honors it and answers begin to come. Unfortunately, too many of us are trapped by the curse of passive religion. It’s the view that says trusting God means letting him do it all. So, for instance, we pray, “Lord, I need money,” but we refuse to work, or even go out and look for a job. Passive religion uses God as an excuse to do nothing. But trusting God does not equal doing nothing. Remember, the ten lepers were healed as they went. It’s a marvelous miracle, but it’s not the end of the story. Another miracle is about to happen.

Ten were healed and only one came back to say, “Thank You.” Luke says that the one who returned fell on his face before the Lord because he’d been healed of leprosy. For who knows how many years he’s been a leper living in his remote, little corner of the world, separated from his family, forgotten by friends and cut off from his own people. But suddenly the disease vanishes and with it the twisted limp, the crooked fingers and the atrophied muscles. Then Dr. Luke adds, “He was a Samaritan.” The shock and amazement in that statement is such that we ought to read it this way: “Think of that! A Samaritan of all people.” Remember, Jesus was a Jew and the Jews thought Samaritans were half-breed traitors. And to make matters even worse, this guy was both a Samaritan and a leper. To a Jew, you couldn’t find a more repulsive combination. He was from the wrong race, with the wrong religion and he had the worst-possible disease. In religious speak, this Samaritan knew almost nothing, and what he knew was mostly wrong. But he knew Jesus had healed him, and he knew enough to be grateful.

Now, Luke doesn’t say so directly but I think he may have been implying that the other nine were Jews. And if that’s true, then what this story really means is that those who should have been the most grateful weren’t, and the one man who shouldn’t have come back did. And this story pictures life as it really is. It’s a picture of the abundant grace of God. This is a wholesale cure – a whole hospital’s healed with only a word. Ten at a time. It’s a huge miracle. It’s also a picture of the prevalence of ingratitude. Nine out ten people will probably forget almost every blessing they’ve ever received. But it’s also a picture of unexpected grace. Grateful hearts, it seems, pop up where you least expect them.

Jesus then asks the Samaritan three questions. “Weren’t ten healed?” Yes. “Where are the others?” Gone. “Is there no one here but you, a Samaritan?” No one. And if you listen carefully, you can even sense, perhaps, a tinge of sadness in Jesus’ voice. He wanted to know about the others. Where are they? Weren’t they healed? Why didn’t they come back and say, “Thank You," or at least return to celebrate their healing? Good question. So, why didn’t they come back? Well, maybe they were in a hurry to see the priest. Or maybe they thought Jesus would be gone when they got back. Perhaps they assumed Jesus knew how grateful they were and they didn’t need to tell him what he already knew. I mean, he’s God after all. Or maybe they were just too busy. So where are they now? Gone off with their blessings. Gone to see the priest. Gone to see their families. Gone with no word of thanks. Gone.

But when you really look at these ten lepers, they’re all alike aren’t they? All had leprosy. All were outcasts from society. All were determined to do something about it. All had heard about Jesus and believed he could help them. All appealed to him. All obeyed his word. All were healed. So, on the surface they appear to be identical. Yet what a difference. One returned, and nine went on their way. One was grateful; nine were not. One found forgiveness; nine didn’t. One man got two miracles; nine men got one. All ten were healed, but the Samaritan was healed and forgiven. And perhaps that’s what Jesus meant when he said, “Your faith has made you well” – well, spiritually. So, where are the nine? The answer is they got what they wanted and then promptly left the building. Jesus performed a mighty miracle for them and they said, “Thanks, Lord. We can take it from here.” Sadly, that kind of attitude can be found in each of us. The reason? Because we have so little appreciation for what God has done for us. Maybe it’s a sense of entitlement – the attitude that we’re owed something because of who we are.

But isn’t gratitude the highest duty of the believer and the supreme virtue – the fountain from which all other blessings flow? Yes. But its corollary, ingratitude, is the leprosy of the soul. It eats away from the inside. It destroys our happiness, cripples our joy, withers our compassion, paralyzes our praise and renders us completely numb to all the blessings of God. Every good thing in the Christian life flows from gratitude, or thankfulness. And when we realize the goodness of God – not in the abstract or in the theoretical, but personally – then, and only then, are we free to go, free to pray, free to tell, free to do, free to be. We don’t need to be coerced. We don’t need to be pressured. When we can finally look and see what God has done; when we can count our many blessings and name them one by one; when we can understand that every good and perfect gift comes down from the Father above (James 1:17); when we can see that life itself comes gift-wrapped from on high; when we know, really know, that all of life is God’s grace … then we begin to praise; we begin to give; we begin to sing; we begin to tell; we begin to serve; we begin to live. We begin to truly worship rather than simply going through the motions.

When we finally understand that we were born lepers, and then we see what Jesus has done for us, and when it finally breaks through that only by the grace of God do we have anything valuable at all, only then does life really begin to change. At that point, wonderful things begin to happen to us. What was duty is now privilege. What was law is now grace. What was demanded is now volunteered. What was forced is now free. What was drudgery is now joy. What was taken for granted is now offered up in praise to God. When it finally breaks through to us, then we come running, gladly, just like the leper.

Ten men were healed that day, but only one came back to give thanks. Which one are you? Far too many of us take our blessings for granted and groan about duties. But it doesn’t have to be that way. Praise is a choice. A thankful heart is a choice you make. No one is forced into bitterness. You choose the way you live. The one who returned to give thanks chose not to forget what Jesus had done for him. The secret then of a thankful heart is a conscious choice to not forget what God has done for you. That’s gratitude – the antidote to entitlement.

Grace,

Randy