I think I’ve spoken before about the early boss I had who expected things done in a certain way. 

And by “a certain way,” I mean pretty much everything. 

As a new teacher in my mid-20s, I learned a lot from her and am the better for her example and her expectations, but not everyone would say the same. 

For example, on Saturday mornings, when school was not in session, it is apparently true that my boss’s husband and adult children would come downstairs for breakfast and find their individualized to-do lists for the day waiting for them at their customary seat. 

Each list would be written out and supplied with its own pen for crossing off items over the course of the day. 

But this wasn’t just a list of assigned tasks, mind you.  My boss would also specify the correct order in which they were to be completed, which she had also calculated. 

Doing them in the right order was important, not only for the sake of form, but because she expected you back by a certain time for other duties – perhaps involving someone else who was assigned that same window of time. 

Apparently, this worked for everyone, although to me, it sounds miserable. 

But in all fairness, I suppose that one person’s nightmarish, Orwellian family hellscape is someone else’s well-oiled, four cylinder engine of love, so there you go. 

It may surprise you to learn that my boss was a very devoted church-goer. 

That said, it probably won’t surprise you to learn that she considered herself a “Martha” of the first order. 

And indeed, somehow, I always seem to think of her whenever I read this particular story. 

Now, in fairness to Martha, there is no indication that her control over her household is as rigid or fully-articulated as my old boss’ was. 

But it doesn’t feel like a major stretch to imagine Martha with her arms folded, clutching Mary’s crumpled up to-do list, which she’d found on the floor.

Watching darkly from the back of the room, she’s only half-listening while Jesus preaches about doing unto others or loving our enemies or suffering the little children to come unto him, or whatever it is this time. 

After all, she’s lived with her sister for way too long not to see it plain as day when Mary’s avoiding eye contact on purpose or keeping a crowd between them so there’s no chance for hissed orders or quick pinches, like their mother used to do. 

This dance is the kind of thing at which Mary excels and always has. 

In fact, the way I see it, and again, in all fairness to Martha, she wouldn’t be bringing up Mary’s behavior to Jesus if her sister was somehow behaving wildly out of character. 

It’s just that now, in front of Jesus, their guest of honor, it seems so flagrant that Martha can only assume he would have thought so, too, and been embarrassed for them. 

I admit, I’ve added some detail to the story here. 

But even if I hadn’t, it wouldn’t take much to imagine both that Martha is being sort of unfair, and also that she may have a point. 

Jesus teaches so clearly that faith should be practical, active, and selfless. 

Its most poignant expressions are generous and sacrificial, from giving up one’s seat on the bus to giving up one’s seat in the last lifeboat. 

In our faith, if some kiss-cam happens to find you, it better catch you busy helping someone, right?

Clearly, yes to all of that. 

And so, in that light, the story seems to take a surprising direction. 

Because what is Martha’s judgy gaze, if not her own personal kiss-cam, catching whoever’s there in whatever their act in the moment may be?

She’s weaponized faith’s call to action, draining it of much of its joy, making her version of what needs doing into some sort of unholy writ. 

By contrast, when Jesus calls us to sacrifice, it’s not because sacrifice is supposed to be some sort of end in itself, but because we’ve learned to love so deeply that giving up other things becomes a small price to pay.

For some, this may even be at the cost of their mortal life. 

Last week, when we read the parable of the Good Samaritan, it was that kind of risky selflessness, his voluntary sacrifice of time, care, and potentially even his own personal safety, that were so commendable. 

I mention only to observe that, by comparison, Martha’s likely version of care seems unlikely to rise to that standard. 

But importantly, the point is not to vilify Martha, or by extension, any of her loyal children, as many of us are—me included, actually. 

Rather, the larger point that I hear in Luke’s story is this (and I’ll refer again to the Good Samaritan to make this one point):

The God who confronts us in the form of an injured stranger by the side of a lonely road is the same God who confronts us in the form of a healthy sibling, sitting by the side of Jesus in the middle of our own living room. 

Both moments, among countless others, challenge us to acts of love and generosity, and even of healing without particular expectation of return. 

We may not like the sound of a God who is so willing to test us, although most Christians throughout history would have had no trouble believing it and would have struggled to believe anything else. 

But whether we see such moments as divine testing, or just as life, Jesus clearly wants us to acknowledge the significance of the choices they put before us. 

He wants us to recognize that the work of loving is everywhere, and often very challenging.

Ironically, the closer it is, the harder it might actually be, stripped as such love is of its fondest illusions.

Yet before it, the mirror of our own mixed motives, weird agendas, and overblown reactions is lifted before us wherever we care to look. 

We truly do not need to travel far. 

It seems like Martha could not quite see it. 

My hope is that, sitting at Jesus’ feet, maybe Mary started to.

I’d love to think that someday soon, in some remote monastery, we’ll find another copy of Luke’s gospel with another verse or two about how Jesus says those words to Martha, then turns his head, and there’s Mary, humming to herself as she heads to the kitchen with a tray full of dishes. 

I’d love to think that when Jesus talks about “choosing the better part,” he means not only choosing Him, but choosing each other, and not in some score-keeping, to do list sort of way, but willingly and with delight. 

May we go wherever God’s love takes us, and learn to do whatever it requires of us.

Amen.