Mary and Martha
I recently spoke at a church and felt it was right to talk about Mary and Martha from the Bible. Rather than simply retell the story, I decided to get into character… so here is me as Martha…
“I woke up early that day. We’d heard the night before that Jesus might be coming to Bethany. So I was up before dawn, frantically sweeping and tidying the house. Everything had to be perfect for Jesus. Jesus was, no… IS our friend. He’s amazing. He’s just so unique. He is The Master. Our Teacher. The Lord. So… of course I wanted things to be good.
My darling sister Mary, on the other hand, she was… dawdling. She took her ages to eat her breakfast and she sang little lines from half a song as she day-dreamed. She stroked the dog from next door and even tried to make me dance with her broom.
“No! No! No! “I had said. “Positively no dancing. He could be here at any time this afternoon. Jesus! Here. We need to be ready Mary!”
“What does it matter?” Mary had answered. “He’s not here to see how well-scrubbed the table is. Or how nicely we’ve tidied up. He just wants to sit and chat to us.”
I sighed deeply. I wanted to give Mary a piece of my mind. But I held it in. She is my younger sister. 10 years my junior. She doesn’t really know how hard it is to keep a house. I had to be her mother after our own mother had died. Mary has no clue what it is like to be a proper grown up. How difficult it is to keep it all together.
She aggravated me that day, just by being under my feet, and being so…cheerful. So, I sent her to the market, early, before the sun got too hot. I needed more flour for the bread and a few other things. Most of all, I needed space. I carefully wrote her a list.
Ten minutes after she’d gone, when I’d finished making the beds and putting away the clothes, I noticed that the list was still lying on the table. Typical of Mary!
“She’s hopeless!” I’d said out loud. But smiling a little, all the same.
When she got back, finally, after what seemed like far too long, she pushed open the door with a shout. “Jesus is coming up the hill. He’s here!” She was full of joy, and ran to meet him. But I went into a mild panic. The beads of sweat that had formed across my brow as I was cleaning, now fell. In a rush. I wasn’t fit to be seen. I felt filthy, resentful, hot and cross. The food was only just in the pot and wasn’t going to be ready on time. This was not what I had imagined.
I saw the dress laid out on my bed, the one I was going to wear when he arrived.
I saw the clean headscarf. All waiting, neatly folded… pointlessly.
I had no time to put them on now.
Suddenly, there he was.
I went to greet him, a little slower than usual. I knelt down to put water out for his feet but instead he lifted my face from the floor. He threw his arms round me and hugged me.
“Martha!” He said. “Dear Martha.” But I pulled away- a bit early. I was ashamed of how sweaty and dirty I felt. I hadn’t even washed.
Jesus rinsed his tired feet in the bowl.
“It’s so good to see you both.” He said. “How are you?”
Without even facing me, Mary threw the bag of flour and a few coppers on to the table and then led Jesus to sit down. She began to talk to him about things that… well… didn’t matter. She chattered away as he drank some water, smiling and occasionally looking over at me.
“Can I get you some more?” I asked, noticing he’d put his cup down. I glared at Mary (who annoyed me even more by not even noticing I was glaring at her.)
“I’m fine.” Said Jesus.
“Thank you Martha.”
“I will have a drink please my love,” said Mary, absent-mindedly, not taking her eyes off Jesus.
“Oh. You’ll have a drink will you?” I said, sarcastically. I went back over to the small kitchen area of our one room home. I grabbed a cup and filled it roughly with water. It spilt out all over my hand. I handed it to her jerkily, with gritted teeth. I actually wanted to throw it all over her silly head. But I kept my temper. Just.
The smell from the meal cooking in the pot made me realise I’d been too busy to eat any breakfast. My tummy growled. I pressed my apron hard against it and started to turn out the bread and knead the mixture angrily.
Every pummel found energy in my blackened mood.
“Why. Do. I. Have. To. Do. It. All?” I mouthed inwardly.
“Why does she NEVER help me?”
I heard them laugh together. I felt left out. I couldn’t hear exactly what he was saying. They were having fun and I was on my own. I checked the pot again and slammed down the lid. A little too hard. It made a loud noise.
Jesus turned to me, his piercing eyes seeing everything. Seeing through me. I tried to look away in case a dangerous tear escaped.
“Are you ok Martha? Come and sit down.” He whispered.
“I’m just making dinner.” I said, muttering under my breath. “Someone has to.”
“It won’t be long.”
Mary then sat on a cushion at Jesus’ feet. He kept looking over to me as he spoke, trying to include me. I made as much noise as I could. I don’t even know why. I was desperate to hear him. See him. Know him. And feel known by him. But I was too wound up, too angry, too hurt.
My sister was doing nothing to help me. As usual.
Then it all came out.
“Don’t you care that I am doing all the work?” I exploded, spitting the words from my mouth with sweat and venom.
Jesus stopped and looked at me. Mary was shocked. Sad. Embarrassed. I was red faced. Red with anger, red with shame, red with jealousy and red with heat.
“Tell my sister to come and help me!” I sobbed, tears stinging the back of my eyes. “Doesn’t it seem unfair to you that she just sits there listening to You whilst I do all the work?” I said pointedly, the voice of loud blame rising from my chest.
But Jesus came to me. He held out his hands to mine. “Martha, my dear, dear friend. You are so upset over these small details. You care about the lamb stew and the bread. You care that the house looks perfect and that you look nice to welcome me. And I love that. But there is really only one thing to be concerned about here.
Mary has discovered it and it won’t be taken away from her.”
I choked back my tears. I gave a deep breath. Defeated by his smile, I went and sat down. Something eternal was in the making. But it wasn’t in the kitchen. The stew bubbled happily, unwatched and unchecked. The bread baked just as well without me looking at it every few seconds. I sighed deeply. Taking a cushion I joined my sister where I belonged on the floor. You see it matters, not just that we sit but that we sit there. At his feet.
Because as water reflects the face so one’s life reflects the heart.”
The following is an extract of a prayer taken from Ken Gire’s book “Intimate Moments with the Saviour.”
…Forgive me for being so much distracted by my preparations and so little attracted by your presence. for being so diligent in my duties and so negligent in my devotion. For being so quick to my feet and so slow to yours…
Amen