Jesus Always Liked You Best

Martha, Martha, you are anxious about many things . . ." Okay, I admit it up front. I am a recovering Martha. I like to think I'm on the road to Mary who has chosen the better part, but I lapse. There are inexplicable days when my usual 4 p.m. meditation time nears that I deliberately choose Marthaism instead, escaping into the kitchen to recycle the leftovers, feeding my anxiety by rationalizing that, while I may not be choosing the better part, I am certainly choosing the necessary part. I like being busy and indispensable. But it doesn't work. Even while opening the can of mushroom soup, I long for Mary's quiet time at the feet of my Lord, soaking up wisdom and peace. It's the old dilemma of which guilt is stronger followed by a suspicion that any guilt is self-indulgent in this case. Just turn the leftovers into prayer, as Brother Lawrence would say.

My appreciation of the Mary and Martha story mirrors somewhat my own spiritual development. I once despised that story, buying into a homily-supported defense of Martha who took care of everyone but herself. At a time when the church adopted Martha's ceaseless activity as its model of the good Christian woman, what else could a preacher do but defend her? In an era when every parish had a women's service group called the Marthas who served funeral dinners, and nothing for the Marys starving for spiritual food, how could it teach that Mary had chosen the better way?

That era is not so long gone but it coincided with my young mothering days and their attendant demands from children and household. I thought Jesus exceedingly insensitive to Martha's need for help, and I likened it to males watching football on Thanksgiving, expecting an all-the-trimmings-on-the-table feast at the last whistle while frequently calling to the kitchen, "You gals ought to get in here and watch this." Every time I heard or read that passage in Luke (10:38–42), I got angry. "Easy for him to say," I muttered inwardly, "but I'll bet he ate her supper without guilt."

Accompanying this anger was a reluctance to admit that we women enjoy martyrdom and collaborate in our own oppression by competing with one another for male approval. Wasn't that what Martha was doing? "Jesus, I am much put upon. Can't you see that? She's just sitting there and I'm doing all this work. Tell her to help me." Poor Martha. Already peeved, she had to call Jesus' attention to her role as martyr, a familiar and unflattering habit we martyrs share. What's the point of suffering if nobody notices? In my frustration with feeling criticized by Jesus for trying to meet all my family's demands, I identified with Martha's unappreciated status. At this stage in my life I could have renamed the passage "the story of Mary and Martyr."

I imagined Martha's feelings when Jesus scolded her instead of Mary. Worse, he praised Mary for doing nothing but sitting in his presence. How outraged the already-martyred Martha must have been! It's times like these that make siblings grumble, "Mom always liked you best." Favoritism is the only explanation we can fathom when we're doing all the work while our siblings are being praised. Jesus' approval of Mary's lack of consideration for Martha's needs was surely perceived by Martha as his disapproval of her. How that must have hurt. Was she able to separate his disapproval of her busyness from his disapproval of her as a person? We don't know.

Let's face it, sisters. We compete for men's approval. We enjoy their criticism of other women and feel betrayed when they admire women unlike us. To return to our Thanksgiving analogy, let's imagine that one of the cooks abandoned her post in the kitchen to watch the football game with the men and then later the men say with admiration, "Boy, that Susie sure knows her football. And she knows how to have a good time on Thanksgiving Day, too." Who wouldn't feel unappreciated and put down?

Steeped as I was in all these feelings, I didn't like this story, but as I aged in grace, and as the role of women did likewise, I came to understand that Jesus was more caring than insensitive. Jesus put his finger on the problem that feminist writer Betty Friedan called "the illness without a name": anxiety that stems from unfulfilled promises of joy arising out of ceaseless activity, and soul hunger for things deep, spiritual, and ponderable. He was giving Martha permission to confront the stereotypes and restrictions of her day, and giving us the same permission.

I learned what I didn't hear from the pulpit--that in Jesus' time women were denied formal instruction in the Torah and attendance at rabbinic schools. And that Jesus defied his church's purity laws by sitting with Mary and teaching her. I learned how deeply he loved both Martha and Mary. He cared about their welfare to the extent that he risked being labeled unclean so that they could find the better way. He was telling women throughout history that we can and should study the great truths, in spite of cultural prohibitions. He came to give this treasure to all, not just men. I began to like that scripture passage.

I came to understand that Jesus was not denigrating women's work but calling attention to our need for soul nourishment. He was telling us we are not negligent or selfish when we take time for ourselves to nurture our spiritual sides. In his time on earth it was the men who sat in the temple and enriched their souls, never women. The approved role of women was delineated in the ode to the virtuous woman found in Proverbs and used in the weekly sabbath. The virtuous woman was constantly busy caring for others. She "ate not her meals in idleness" while the men sat in the temple resplendent in the robes she made. The virtuous woman never sat. Jesus set about to change this by inviting Mary to sit at his feet while chastising Martha for her busyness and anxiety, a startling challenge to Jewish doctrine.

As a consequence Christian women today are not bound by the old roles of children, kitchen and church, as the German saying goes, but are invited to feed their souls as well as the bodies of those around them. The more I sit like Mary at Jesus' feet, though, and taste the treasures he has to offer both women and men, the more I regret the increasing ceaseless activity I see in the lives of parents and others today. For many Christians in their work and family years there's simply no time to sit at his feet. They barely find time for one another and they suffer from ongoing anxiety: am I spending enough time with my children, spouse, God? What's the point in this frenzied life? Why am I not fulfilled and happy when I am so busy? I feel like Martha but long to be Mary.

Besides confronting stereotypes Jesus was instructing us to lower expectations of ourselves, to simplify our lives, and to recognize the anxiety that springs from false promises. He knew that hospitality was a high virtue in Jewish law and that Martha's anxiety sprang from pride in achieving that virtue. Has there ever been a woman who didn't get frenzied over houseguests or a dinner party? Probably, but not me . . . not for years and years. Perfectionism, Jesus said in this passage, is not a virtue if it leads us away from him. And that's the freeing message for us today. If we're too frenzied to sit at his feet, then we have too many things in our lives: too many desires, too many appointments, too many insecurities.

There was a time back in my perfectionist days that I lived by the too-many rule, so I understand the quandary of those living it today. Women may not be as enslaved to the housekeeping standards they once were, but they replace the anxiety by buying into our cultural formula for success: more classes, more degrees, more computer proficiency, more fitness, more self-improvement, and more stress. They long, however, for a time when life will be simpler, when they have less rather than more. "Empty yourself and know that I am God" seems an impossible dream for them.

I meet them in my workshops. I hear from them whenever I write a column on slowing our pace or simplifying our lives. They feel as cheated as Martha. They're chronically tired and dispirited as they see no end to their busyness. Instead of praying for the grace of doing less and living more abundantly, they pray for more hours in the day. My heart goes out to them.

I have grown to love the story of Mary and Martha because it blesses what I reluctantly overcame--enslavement to busyness--and frees me to sit at my Lord's feet and do nothing at all but listen to him. We know that Martha heeded the call of Jesus to go deeper within because in John's gospel she reveals her understanding of who Jesus is: "Yes, Lord . . . I do believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, who has come into the world" (John 11:27). It was a remarkable revelation given to a woman back then, and it is a possible gift to all of us today, but only if we hear and heed the call to contemplation.

Still I lapse and embrace Martha over Mary. On such days I identify with Paul's words, "I cannot even understand my own actions. I do not do what I want to do but what I hate" (Rom. 7:15). It isn't that I hate cooking, cleaning, and housekeeping, but that it's so endless and, paradoxically, temporary. Meat loaf doesn't last as long as meditation. Such is the life of tension promised by Jesus. I've come to accept that meditation and cooking are both incomplete escapes from reality. I need a balance of both for wholeness. Knowledge, wisdom, and contemplation are rewarding, but if they don't show fruit in action they become self-indulgent. If my life and the lives of others around me don't improve as a result of my increased time at the feet of God, I'd better get back to making meat loaf my prayer. Likewise busyness and anxiety in even the holiest of ministries are counterproductive and self-indulgent without spiritual grounding.

Contemplation and cooking, I need both. Mary and Martha, I am both. And I don't think Jesus liked either one of them better.