Jesus comes to visit and, as is the custom, Martha sets about getting food ready, making sure everyone has drinks and is comfortable, and generally hostessing. Her sister, Mary, on the other hand, far outside of customary behavior, makes herself at home with Jesus and all the menfolk he brought with him. Martha, ticked off because Mary is getting out of doing chores and leaving her high and dry, tells Jesus to do something about it. (By the way, I figure they must be really good friends, otherwise Martha probably wouldn't be quite that bold. Then again....) He refuses, saying, "Martha, Martha, you are anxious and worried about many things. There is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part and it will not be taken from her." (NAB-RE) And that's that. That's where the story ends. About a year and a half ago, I heard a homily on this gospel, and it really got me thinking about how difficult it is for me to be still, to sit and listen - without thinking about what time it is, what's for dinner, whether I or anyone else needs anything - so that began to be my prayer. At 3:00 or so every day, I would say, "Lord, I will sit at your feet." And I've begun to be able to. Sometimes in absolute silence. Other times, I know that I'm at the foot of the Cross. And there are times when I sit at his feet and we laugh at the stories he's telling. Or I cry. But at his feet, where Mary sat, has become a refuge for me; time to which I look forward with hope, with joy. In my time at his feet, though, there is no Martha to come along and complain.
I kinda like it that way.
As a semi-reformed Martha, I like to be removed from that lifestyle. I don't know quite how else to put it. I used to be one who did, did, did, wishing I could manage to sit, but not really wanting to. I always thought it was because I couldn't sit still, or because I was too busy/important/needed - or too grumpy! - to be still. I used to think if I didn't do something, anything, it just wouldn't get done, and I'd only have to do it later, so I might as well get crackin' now. Truth be told, I was afraid to be Mary, although I didn't know it; nor could I have understood why.
Tuesday morning, the story of these two ladies, remarkable enough for Luke to include them in his writing, was the optional gospel for the Memorial of St Scholastica. Already feeling a bit pushed around and out of sorts, I was at first irritated because I was trying to follow along, and the optional reading wasn't on the app. Then I was irritated because I (being, of course, the only person in the universe at that moment) was convinced that the celebrant had chosen to read it as a message directed at me. I quickly realized it was not he who had a message for me, but He who did, further irritating me. Here's the thing, Mary may have been on to something good, but the fact is, Martha was complaining about it, and loudly. In the middle of the homily I found myself thinking, Hold on a minute! Do you get what that Martha behavior does to a Mary?
I stayed after Mass for a while to argue it out with Jesus. I went home rather discombobulated and out of sorts, still frustrated that all the Mary-ing in the world doesn't change the fact that the Marthas will complain loudly and persistently, no matter what. And the kicker is: People listen to them. People listen to Martha. [Jesus didn't. He could let it fall to the side. Can you?] It doesn't matter who Martha is, people listen, and then they tend to join in. It's our nature. We had a really long discussion about this whole story and how it was relating to my life that day, that moment, and how bugged I was about all of it. Bugged that in all the time I was Martha-ing - doing - I was really just trying not to be noticed. Bugged that I had to hear yet again that being a Mary was the better thing, the higher road, something to strive for. Bugged that when I finally felt like I could Mary, like I could allow the stories and lessons, the words and the messages to reach me, Martha's words could cut me so deeply. Bugged that Luke's story doesn't include how Mary might have felt in that moment. We know how Martha felt! We even know how Jesus felt, to a certain extent.
In the middle of a rant about how unfair the Marthas are to the Marys, I was filled with laughter. Along with it came a sense of calm, peace, and clarity. 'Don't you remember when Lazarus died? What happened then?' In John 11, Martha and Mary's brother has died, and when Jesus finally gets there, four days later, Martha goes to meet him, and gives him a hard time about not being there when they needed him. John's writing softens the emotions, but in that moment of laughter, I realized that Martha would always be Martha. She would always have something to say about how something should be done - even if she didn't really mean what she was saying. I also realized that my experience with Marthas has greatly affected the level of trust I have in others. Suddenly these five verses in Luke are so much more, as well as my affinity for the story. My notebook now has Mary and Martha points alongside Elijah and some sparrows and the hair on my head. One day it may all make sense, but in the meantime, I'm grateful for the moments that clarity comes.
The Kitchen PrayerLord of all the pots and pans and things, since I've not time to be
A saint by doing lovely things or watching late with Thee
Or dreaming in the dawn light or storming Heaven's gates
Make me a saint by getting meals and washing up the plates.
Although I must have Martha's hands, I have a Mary mind
And when I black the boots and shoes Thy sandals, Lord, I find.
I think of how they trod the earth, what time I scrub the floor
Accept this meditation Lord, I haven't time for more.
Warm all the kitchen with Thy love, and light it with Thy peace
Forgive me all my worrying and make my grumbling cease.
Thou who didst love to give men food, in room or by the sea
Accept this service that I do, I do it unto Thee.
~Klara Munkres
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