The image of Martha and Mary has become a classic in Christian tradition, symbolizing two kinds of Christian service—the active and the contemplative—and at the same time establishing their priorities, for the Savior speaks quite unambiguously about what matters most in service. His words are usually understood as pointing to what Mary was doing as she listened to Jesus' words without being distracted for even a minute. Yet “one thing” and “many things” also allow a somewhat different interpretation. It is no accident that Jesus speaks of the “many things” as something that causes a person anxiety and distress—at least, that is what follows if the Greek text is read literally.

Martha busies herself with many things; she is constantly thinking about something that troubles her and deprives her of peace. She has no time to listen, not because she is occupied with household tasks, but because of this constant anxiety that robs her of inner peace. Her many tasks worry her precisely because she is wholly immersed in them: inwardly she rushes from one task to another, anxious that she will not have enough strength for everything she thinks she must do. It is her anxiety, not the number of tasks, that exhausts her so completely that she no longer has the strength to listen to the Savior.

There is only one way out, and Jesus points to it: leave the many for the one, for the central thing that sustains a person—a relationship with Him, with Jesus. When this relationship becomes the center and focus of a person's inner life, all outward affairs are also arranged around that center. The person is no longer scattered or fragmented into a multitude of self-projections connected with everyday tasks, but remains inwardly whole and gathered around the one thing that truly fills both the person and all his work with life.

Today's reading includes two episodes joined by the evangelist into one account. It begins with the disciples' question about prayer, in response to which Jesus offers them, and through them all of us, the "Our Father" (vv. 1-4). Luke, as one can see, focuses chiefly on the importance of asking, and of asking persistently, as a necessary condition for receiving what is asked (vv. 5-13). It would seem that God is not a human being who needs, like a forgetful or unfriendly steward, to be reminded again and again of what is requested. On the other hand, persistence in this case turns out above all to be evidence that a person remembers his request and that it is truly important to him. Indeed, is it worth granting a request that the one who asks forgets the very next day? One can ask this way only for trifles; important requests are those that a person who truly cares about them is ready to repeat again and again, confirming the seriousness of his intentions.

The same seriousness is at issue in the second part of today's passage. The point is not only that the very idea of casting out demons by the power of their ruler was absurd (vv. 17-18, 21-22). The point is also that for those arguing, everything Jesus did was a kind of game, something remotely resembling their own disputes, which were undoubtedly fascinating but, in essence, demanded no commitment. This explains the demand for a sign that would prove Jesus right (vv. 14-16).

The proof had to be theologically correct; it had to correspond to the "right" ideas of the "right" rabbinic school in order to be accepted. And until such proof was presented, anything would do as an explanation of what was happening, including absurd claims about the "prince of demons." But Jesus Himself was not going to play these games, because for Him everything He did was absolutely serious. And He tries to explain to His listeners the full seriousness of what is happening (vv. 24-26). The games are over; what is at stake is a person's spiritual life and spiritual death.

But professional disputants, as one can see, have no concern for that. What matters to them is whether Jesus will manage to outargue them or not. And in their disputes they lose the Kingdom without noticing it. For the Kingdom is not a game; it is serious. And forever.

The parable of the Good Samaritan is perhaps one of the most widely quoted and often mentioned Gospel texts. This is not surprising: it is usually perceived as a call to mercy and good works, becoming the Gospel foundation for what in church practice has come to be called social ministry. Meanwhile, on closer reading everything turns out not to be so simple. Indeed, Jesus tells the parable of the Good Samaritan in answer to a question asked of Him: and who is my neighbor? If we follow the logic of the text of the parable, then the answer to the question asked of Jesus sounds quite specific: my neighbor is the one who helped me, who did good to me.

The demand "go and do likewise" sounds somewhat strange against this background: for in this case the issue is not how a person acts, but how others act toward him. The answer to the question asked is connected precisely with this. A transition from the text of the parable to a justification of works of mercy and, more broadly, social ministry is possible only through a semantic inversion: the reader must identify himself not with the traveler who suffered at the hands of robbers, but with the Samaritan who helped him.

Although the question itself was connected precisely with the suffering traveler: which of all of them turned out to be his neighbor? But then the Savior's answer is obviously connected not only with what the Samaritan did, but with the situation as a whole. And the parable becomes not simply a parable about kindness and helping one's neighbor; it turns out to be a parable about relationships between people. And about the primacy of these relationships. About a situation when help comes not from those who think alike or share the same faith, but from those from whom it would least be expected. From enemies, for Jews and Samaritans in those days were bitter enemies. And then it turns out that what in relationships had seemed decisive proves on examination to be meaningless tinsel.

That in a critical situation all social, national, and religious frameworks and ties suddenly prove to be conventions that oblige no one to anything. What becomes significant is something that lies deeper in the human person than all of this, at the depth where a person's true spiritual "I" is found. Only there, at this depth, are help, compassion, and mercy possible. On the surface there is nothing of the sort. There is only social ministry. It will, of course, keep a poor person from starving to death, but it will not give him love. Nor the life of the Kingdom.