[My sister is coming
this week for a family reunion, so…]
Now Jesus went to this place where a
woman named Martha welcomed him into her home. She bustled about, muttering to
herself, “The preacher’s here, the preacher’s here.” She spent a lot of time
cooking, selecting the right centerpiece, getting the nice dishes out, setting
the table. She was good at it, too and they had a wonderful feast. She had a
sister named Mary who all the time Martha was so busy just sat on the ottoman
in the living room—with the men, for Christ’s sake!--and listened to
what Jesus was saying. So Martha came to him and said, “Lord, you know I don’t
ask for much for myself, and I let Mary live here for free, but don’t you care
that after all this I’ve done, my sister has left me to do the dishes by myself?
Tell her to get her lazy ass out into the kitchen to help.” But Jesus answered
her, “Martha, Martha, Martha, you’ve got your mind on the centerpiece and the
food and which dishes to use and now how to get the dishes clean. Mary has
chosen to listen instead of wash dishes. Your dishes will get dirty again, but
the words Mary has heard will always be with her.” (Luke 10:38-42, VSR)
I can’t
remember exactly when I started doing the dishes, but I think I was about six
years old. It was my sister, Mary V., four and a half years older than I, who
decided I was old enough to dry and small enough to be “persuaded” to do so. It
wasn’t just the dishes. It was the kitchen floor, too.
Mary V. lived to read, and
scrubbing the kitchen floor on her hands and knees (the only acceptable way in
those days) cut into her reading time. So did doing the dishes. With me to
help, floor and dish time were translated into reading time.
She would
draw an imaginary line down the center of the kitchen floor and assign me to half.
Within minutes she was done with her half and perched on a chair reading Heidi. I would be barely started. She
would explain it was because she was more experienced. It was years before I
realized she’d taken the half with the stove and icebox and sink and Hoosier
cabinet. They covered 70% of the floor space on her “half,” while my half was
as wide and uninhabited as North Dakota.
It was the
same with the dishes. She’d lull me into complacency by singing “Down in the Valley” with me as we
started out, but she was washing furiously and piling plates and cups into my
drying pan. Then I’d “hear the wind blow”
in my voice alone. Mary V. was perched on a chair, reading Black Beauty. Mother would inquire from the living room if Mary V.
were available to watch the baby. “No, were still doing the dishes. Down in the valley…”
Most
people, when they hear the story of Mary and Martha (Notice that the lazy,
irresponsible, unhelpful Mary always gets first billing) identify with Martha.
Sure, Jesus said, one time, that Mary “chose the better part,” but he
didn’t call on Mary when he wanted something to eat! Yeah, he went without food
once for forty days, but he didn’t do it for thirty-three years. Sure, he fed
all those folks in the wilderness on just a few loaves and a couple of fish,
but somebody had to bake those loaves and catch those fish. All
together now: Sooner or Later, Somebody’s
Got to Do Some Work! And that’s usually us! Somebody’s got to
bake and catch and mend the roof and serve on the committee and change the
diapers and raise the budget and get the floor scrubbed. Where does Jesus get
off praising Mary for not helping out?
The women
at Solsberry, where I preached during my college years, certainly understood
the importance of being Martha. When I had finished the day’s preaching at
Solsberry, Koleen, and Mineral, I’d be twenty to thirty-five miles from the
nearest restaurant. [They rotated worship times so that each Sunday a different
church was last.] So there was a sign-up sheet on the church bulletin board
indicating which Martha would feed the preacher that day. I’d check the signup
sheet as I came in to see which woman would be skipping church that day.
Edith,
Thelma, Mary Ruth, Evelyn–it made no difference what her name was the rest of
the time. That day she was Martha. Feeding the preacher was a production that
required her full time and attention. Here is a partial list of what the
meal would include: ham, roast beef, fried chicken, mashed potatoes, sweet
potatoes, two kinds of gravy, green beans with bacon, peas, baked beans,
macaroni and cheese, pickled beets, potato salad, kohl slaw, sliced tomatoes,
jello salad, deviled eggs, cooked carrots, homemade rolls, corn bread, rhubarb
pie, cherry pie, apple pie, gooseberry pie, raspberry pie, chocolate cake. I
was twenty; I ate it all.
There’s a
joke about the Irish seven-course meal–-a potato and six beers. A Methodist
seven-course meal is a chicken leg and six pieces of pie. But on the day of the
preacher-feeding frenzy, we never stopped at seven courses. It was bad enough
when I was alone, but if I brought Judy Thornburgh or Phyllis Krider or one of
the other college girls along with me to sing or play the piano, the Martha
quotient was doubled.
One of the
saddest days of my life was when I got married, as part of the first wedding at
St. Mark’s on the Bypass, officiated by the famous Dick Hamilton, brother of
famous US Congressman, Lee, and father of Bloomington’s current mayor, John, who
was one month old at the time. As soon as the Marthas found out I had married a
Home Ec major, no one would sign up to feed the preacher. They
weren’t about to be judged by a university-trained wife. Helen was as
disappointed as I. She was looking forward to being Mary and going to church
and then having the advantage of eating at Martha’s table. She was a Home Ec
major who had never cooked a meal.
I said that
most folks identify with Martha when they hear this story. Not me. I identify
with Mary. I’ve seen her in action, when she had a “V” tacked onto her name.
I’m sure
the Solsberry Marthas couldn’t tell it from the way I ate, but from the
beginning I told them, and meant it, “I’d much rather eat a sandwich than have
you miss church to do all that cooking.” Never once did that line succeed.
But I had
read that story about Mary and Martha, and I had lived it. I heard the part we
often ignore. “Martha, Martha,” Jesus said, “you are worried and distracted
about many things. There is only one thing needed. That’s the part Mary has
chosen.”
Jesus
wasn’t condemning Martha for her choice. He was sympathizing with her.
He was worried about her. She was distracted by all that serving, so much that
she couldn’t hear the most important thing. I wasn’t condemning the Marthas in
my churches. I sympathized with them. I worried about them. I didn’t want them
distracted from the important thing.
I think now
of my sister, still four and a half years older than I, and still smarter than
I. She had it right, didn’t she? She combined Mary and Martha. She got the work
done without being distracted by it. She conned her poor little innocent
brother to do it, but she got the work out of the way without being beguiled
into thinking it was the important thing and then she sat at the feet of those
who wrote the words and she learned.
The next
time we’re at Mary V.’s house, though, and it’s time to do the dishes, I’m going
to say, “I must follow the Master, and he says not to help with your sister
with the dishes.” I’m going to choose the better part. (Or at least the smaller
half.)
