Mary and Martha.  There are no two sisters in the Bible more prominent than they.  Nor, more different.    

    A study in contrasts.  Mary and Martha.  Mary, care free, a loving spirit, and tender heart.  Martha, dedicated, committed, envious.  Mary, often portrayed as the more beautiful of the two, as though hard work belongs to the plain, the grim.   Martha, the martyr— washing feet, sweeping, hauling water, cooking, hoping someone would take notice and appreciate her.  But no one is looking her way—they are all gripped by what Jesus has to say—everyone in the room, including her sister Mary.  Distant Martha.  Devoted Mary.  Angry Martha.  Adoring Mary. 

    Get the picture?   We all know the sermon, already, don’t we?  Be like Mary, don’t be like Martha.   And yet…there are so many Martha’s aren’t there?

    I believe I’m related to Martha somehow, that she must have no doubt been my very own ancestor.  My mother, I’m sure, was a direct descendant of Martha.

    We lived at the dead end of a about a half mile road some 15 miles from the nearest town and a couple of miles from our nearest neighbor.   We were not on the way to anywhere.  So whenever someone standing at our kitchen window would see a vehicle turn onto the short road toward our house, they would shout through the house.  “Car’s coming!”

    Now this would put into place a frantic rush of housekeeping.  In the minute or two it took the car to drive up the road, park in our yard, and walk up to the house, it was amazing what my mother and we kids could accomplish!   Toys, books, shoes, clothes, and debris of every sort would be thrown into the air and land behind closed doors—bedrooms, closets, even the shower stall.  A broom would make its way over the kitchen floor and the table would be cleared of any dishes that hadn’t made it to the sink.  The dirty dishes in the sink would then be covered with a kitchen towel.  Dust might be wiped from obvious places, and if needed, a final spritz of pine scent air freshener in the living room—though there wasn’t a real pine tree for miles.

    More often than not, the car would be a lost traveler who had not seen the “DEAD END” sign at the intersection, who would back up, turn around and head back the way they come.  When that happened, we all let out a sigh, and my mother, a bit perturbed over the whole matter would then make us begin to clean the house in earnest.

    But other times, the car was indeed filled with guests coming call on the Carrithers’.    That was the worst--when unannounced company dropped in, especially if it was someone we truly wanted to see, wanted to visit.  Because as our good friends or family would spill into the house, my poor mother could do nothing but worry about what lay in every nook and cranny and behind every closed door in our house.   As company would come in and sit in the living room, my mother, a smile fixed permanently on her face, would begin what I call pass through visiting.   “Can I get you something to drink?” she would ask, and then head to the kitchen, pulling one of her kids with her.  Ordering the child to fill the glasses, she would frantically begin to do the dishes in her sink, calling over her shoulder “and how was your trip down, is that construction still tying up traffic there near Limon?”   After a bit, she would return for a moment or two, wiping her hands on her apron, engaging in a minute or two of direct face to face contact.  Then, off she would dart to one of the closed-door rooms.  From the other side of the door, she would call out for one of my sisters to come, continuing her conversation from down the hall.  “How are your kids, are they still in La Junta?”   In hushed tones she was insisting that the unfortunate sister who answered her call get that room in order and start a load of wash. 

    Emerging again, she might take the glasses for refills so that she could wipe down counters, or pass through yet again on her way to clean the bathroom.  “So how is Uncle Rube?” she would call out.

    All the time, our company would sit on our sofa and say, time after time, “Polly, sit down.  Surely that can wait.  We won’t be staying long.”    But my poor mother never could relax, knowing the cluttered mess that lurked behind every door, the dust that settled on nearly everything in a Western Kansas farm house.  Her behavior would continue through their entire visit, including dinner.   Before we knew it, our guests were fed, and heading to their car when my mother would come out onto the front steps of our house, and smile sweetly.  “It was awful nice to see you—come again whenever you’re out this way.”

    And I always thought to myself, “how could she mean it?”   I’m convinced if Jesus had ever stopped by our house, my mother would have been scrubbing the tub and loudly calling from the bathroom, “So, Lord, what brings you through this part of the country?  Consumed with the chores of hosting her guest, I doubt she could have told you what color robe he had on.

    Now, here’s the thing.  I think my mother would have really rather sat down and visited with her guests.  She just couldn’t do it.  I think if she were alive to ask today, she would tell me that she would have given anything to be able to just relax, and enjoy her friends or family, but that she couldn’t help herself.

    Take a look at Velazquez’ famous painting--(slide of painting)—you can see what I’m talking about in Martha’s face.  There she is, hard at work.  Through the window, you see Mary and another disciple devoted to Jesus and what he has to say.  Martha doesn’t WANT to be there in the kitchen.  Just look at her!  She seems as though she is about to break into tears.   You can see it.  Down deep, in her heart, she longs to be in that other room with Jesus, but something prevents her.  Something in her very fabric, keeps her working.  Busy.  And….distant.

    What is it?  Why doesn’t she just go in and sit at Jesus feet when she clearly wants to? 

    I struggled to figure all this out.  Dr. Godbey helped me—Jim has the tools when it comes to behavior theory and how to make change.   He helped me identify the key question:  What does Martha have invested in her old behavior that makes it so difficult to embrace the new and the unknown?   Let me try another way—what is the “payoff” that Martha gets for being the one in the kitchen tending to the chores—or, more specifically, what does Martha “lose” if she joins Mary in the living room at the Master’s feet?

    I think Martha loses her identity, or at least what she values as her identity—what makes Martha Martha.  You see, she might DESIRE to enter the room and join her sister at Jesus’ feet, but more than she might value that time at Jesus’ feet, she values her identity as the one who gets things done.  The one who is faithful to her chores.  The one who can be counted on to meet every obligation.  And she does not yet value her relationship with Jesus more than she values her own identity that is tied up in what she does.

    My mother….she may have DESIRED to visit and spend time with her friends and relatives, but more than she might have valued that relationship, instead valued her identity as the one who had a clean house.  The one who had a hearty meal on the table.  She did not value her relationship with our company more than she valued her own identity tied up in what she did.

    Jesus looked at Martha, and told her plainly—“Martha,” he said, “you are worried about too many things.  One one matters.  One one makes a different.  Mary has chosen that one thing.  That good portion, and it will not be taken away from her. “

    The good portion, that will NEVER be taken away from her!  Oh—if Martha only understood.  Only could embrace the relationship Jesus was offering her—that would be hers not only for that moment, but for all of time!  Jesus saw Martha’s reluctance, and her recognized it for what it was.  After all, he’d seen it plenty.  In the Scribes and Pharisees who could not embrace a new teaching of love and mercy, but instead held tight to their practices, to their law and the chore of living it.  You see—that was their identity, who they were.  Goodness knows, they weren’t ready to embrace what Jesus had to offer them...even if it meant a good portion that would sustain them for all of eternity.

    But there were those who embraced it.  Mary was one.  But there were others.  Some were leprous, others were blind.  Some were tax collectors who had swindled good people out of their money.  Some were Samaritan.  Some were prostitutes.  All were sinners.   And all...every last one, found their new identity in a new relationship with the One who came to show them the way.  All of them found the good portion.

    As Christians, as Dodge City First Methodist Christians, we may run the risk of seeking our identity in our practices, what we do.  We might even at times get so bound up in our chores that we are distracted from seeing the “good portion” set before us.  A relationship with Jesus—that cannot be taken from us.

    I was struck by Sarah’s string which she rolled out with the children this morning.  168 inches, with one little red tab, one inch signifying the time we spend with God.  Is that enough to build the kind of satisfying relationship with Jesus that we long for?   Add another tab to that string if you like, signifying an hour for worship and another hour for Sunday School.  Perhaps even a third tab for those of us also involved in a bible Study or prayer group or such activity.  Is that enough to build a satisfying relationship with God—the good portion of what Christ has to offer us?

    I don't know about you, but I’ve been Martha’s descendent long enough.   I’m ready for the good portion.  How about you?  I’m ready to claim my identity in my relationship with Jesus.   No longer satisfied with simply a DESIRE to be near Jesus,  I am willing to release whatever is keeping me from sitting down, close to the feet of my Lord.  And the good news is this:  there’s plenty of room for more.