_THE TWO SISTERS._
LUKE x. 38-42.
At first sight it appears as if our Evangelist had departed from the
orderly arrangement of which he speaks in his prelude, in thus linking
this domestic scene of Judæa with His northern Galilean journey, and to
the casual glance this home-flower does certainly seem an exotic in
_this_ garden of the Lord. The strangeness, the out-of-placeness,
however, vanishes entirely upon a nearer, closer view. If, as is
probable, the parable of the Good Samaritan was spoken during that
northward journey, its scene lies away in Judæa, in the dangerous road
that sweeps down from Jerusalem to Jericho. Now, this road to Jericho
lay through the village of Bethany, and in the Evangelist's mind the two
places are intimately connected, as we see (chap. xix. vv. 1, 29); so
that the idyll of Bethany would follow the parable of the Good Samaritan
with a certain naturalness, the one recalling the other by the simple
association of ideas. Then, too, it harmonizes so thoroughly with its
context, as it comes between a parable on works and a chapter on prayer.
In the one, man is the doer, heart and hand going out in the beautiful
ministries of love; in the other, man is the receiver, waiting upon God,
opening hand and heart for the inflow of Divine grace. In one it is Love
in action that we see; in the other it is Love at rest, at rest from
activities of her own, in quest of further good. This is exactly the
picture our Evangelist draws of the two sisters, and which might have
served as a parable had it not been so plainly taken from real life.
Perhaps, too, another consideration influenced the Evangelist, and one
that is suggested by the studied vagueness of the narrative. He gives no
clue as to where the little incident occurred, for the "certain village"
might be equally appropriate in Samaria or Judæa; while the two names,
Martha and Mary, apart from the corroboration of St. John's Gospel,
would not enable us to localize the scene. It is evident that St. Luke
wished to throw around them a sort of _incognito_, probably because they
were still living when he wrote, and too great publicity might subject
them to inconvenience, or even to something more. And so St. Luke
considerately masks the picture, shutting off the background of
locality, while St. John, who writes at a later date, when Jerusalem has
fallen, and who is under no such obligation of reserve, fixes the scene
precisely; for there can be no doubt that the Mary and Martha of his
Gospel, of Bethany, are the Martha and Mary of St. Luke; their very
characters, as well as names, are identical.
It was in one of His journeys to the south, though we have no means of
telling which, that He came to Bethany, a small village on the eastern
slope of Olivet, and about three-quarters of an hour from Jerusalem.
There are several indications in the Gospels that this was a favourite
resort of Jesus during His Judæan ministry (Matt. xxi. 1; John viii. 1);
and it is somewhat singular that the only nights that we read He spent
in Jerusalem were the night in the garden and the two nights He slept
in its grave. He preferred the quiet haven of Bethany; and though we
cannot with absolute certainty recognize the village home where Jesus
had such frequent welcome, yet throwing the side-light of John xi. 5
upon the haze, it seems in part to lift; for the deep affection Jesus
had for the three implies a close and ripened intimacy.
St. John, in his allusions to the family, makes Mary prominent, giving
precedence to her name, as he calls Bethany "the village of Mary and her
sister Martha" (John xi. 1). St. Luke, however, makes Martha the central
figure of his picture, while Mary is set back in the shade, or rather in
the sunshine of that Presence which was and is the Light of the world.
It was, "Martha received Him into her house." She was the recognized
head of the family, "the lady" in fact, as well as by the implication of
her name, which was the native equivalent of "lady." It was she who gave
the invitation to the Master, and on her devolved all the care of the
entertainment, the preparation of the feast, and the reception of the
guests; for though the change of pronoun in ver. 38 from "they" to "Him"
would lead us to suppose that the disciples had gone another way, and
were not with Him now, still the "much serving" would show that it was a
special occasion, and that others had been invited to meet Jesus.
It is a significant coincidence that St. John, speaking (xii. 2) of
another supper at Bethany, in the house of Simon, states that Martha
"served," using the same word that Jesus addressed to her in the
narrative of St. Luke. Evidently Martha was a "server." This was her
forte, so much so that her services were in requisition outside her own
house. Hers was a culinary skill, and she delighted with her sleight of
hand to effect all sorts of transformations, as, conjuring with her
fire, she called forth the pleasures and harmonies of taste. In this
case, however, she overdid it; she went beyond her strength. Perhaps her
guests outnumbered her invitations, or something unforeseen had upset
her plans, so that some of the viands were belated. At any rate, she was
cumbered, distracted, "put about" as our modern colloquialism would have
it. Perhaps we might say she was "put out" as well, for we can certainly
detect a trace of irritability both in her manner and in her speech. She
breaks in suddenly among the guests (the aorist participle gives the
rustle of a quick movement), and in the hearing of them all she says to
Jesus, "Lord, dost Thou not care that my sister did leave me to serve
alone? bid her therefore that she help me." Her tone is sharp,
querulous, and her words send a deep chill across the table, as when a
sea-fret drifts coldly inland. If Mary was in the wrong thus to sit at
the feet of Jesus, Martha certainly was not in the right. There was no
occasion to give this public reprimand, this round-hand rebuke. She
might have come and secretly called her, as she did afterwards, on the
day of their sorrow, and probably Mary would have risen as quickly now
as then. But Martha is overweighted, ruffled; her feelings get the
better of her judgment, and she speaks, out of the impatience of her
heart, words she never would have spoken had she but known that
Inspiration would keep their echoes reverberating down all the years of
time. And besides, her words were somewhat lacking in respect to the
Master. True, she addresses Him as "Lord;" but having done this, she
goes off into an interrogative with an implied censure in it, and closes
with an imperative, which, to say the least, was not becoming, while
all through an undue emphasis is laid upon the first personal pronoun,
the "me" of her aggrieved self.
Turning to the other sister, we find a striking contrast, for Mary, as
our Evangelist puts it, "also sat at the Lord's feet, and heard His
word." This does not imply any forwardness on her part, or any desire to
make herself conspicuous; the whole drift of her nature was in the
opposite direction. Sitting "at His feet" now that they were reclining
at the table, meant sitting behind Him, alone amid the company, and
screened from their too-curious gaze by Him who drew all eyes to
Himself. Nor does she break through her womanly reserve to take part in
the conversation; she simply "heard His word;" or "she kept listening,"
as the imperfect tense denotes. She put herself in the listening
attitude, content to be in the shadow, outside the charmed circle, if
she only might hear Him speak, whose words fell like a rain of music
upon her soul. Her sister chided her for this, and the large family of
modern Marthas--for feminine sentiment is almost entirely on Martha's
side--blame her severely, for what they call the selfishness of her
conduct, seeking her own enjoyment, even though others must pay the
price of it. But was Mary so utterly selfish? and did she sacrifice duty
to gratify her inclination? Not at all, and certainly not to the extent
our Marthas would have us believe. Mary had assisted in the preparations
and the reception, as the "also" of ver. 39 shows; while Martha's own
words, "My sister did leave me to serve alone," themselves imply that
Mary had shared the labours of the entertainment before taking her place
at the feet of Jesus. The probability is that she had completed her
task; and now that He who spake as never man spake before was
conversing with the guests, she could not forego the privilege of
listening to the voice she might not hear again.
It is to Jesus, however, that we must go with our rivalry of claims. He
is our Court of Equity. His estimate of character was never at fault. He
looked at the essences of things, the soul of things, and not to the
outward wrappings of circumstance, and He read that palimpsest of
motive, the underlying thought, more easily than others could read the
outward act. And certainly Jesus had no apology for selfishness; His
whole life was one war against it, and against sin, which is but
selfishness ripened. But how does Jesus adjust this sisterly difference?
Does He dismiss the listener, and send her back to an unfinished task?
Does He pass on to her Martha's warm reproof? Not at all; but He gently
reproves the elder sister. "Martha, Martha," He said, as if her mind had
wandered, and the iteration was necessary to call her to herself, "thou
art anxious and troubled about many things: but one thing is needful:
for Mary hath chosen the good part, which shall not be taken away from
her."
It is easy to see from this where Jesus thought the blame should rest.
It was Martha who had taken too much upon herself. Her generous heart
had gone beyond her strength, and far beyond the need. Wishing to do
honour to her Guest, studying to please Him, she had been over-lavish in
her entertainment, until she had become worried--anxious, troubled, as
Jesus said, the former word referring to the inner disquiet, the unrest
of soul, and the latter to the outward perturbation, the tremor of the
nerves, and the cloudiness that looked from her eyes. The fact was that
Martha had misread the tastes of her Guest. She thought to please Him
by the abundance of her provision, the largeness of her hospitality; but
for these lower pleasures of sense and of taste Jesus cared little. He
had meat to eat that others knew not of, and to do the will of Him that
sent Him was to Jesus more than any ambrosia or nectar of the gods. The
more simple the repast, the more it pleased Him, whose thoughts were
high in the heavenly places, even while His feet and the mortal body He
wore touched lightly the earth. And so while Martha's motive was pure,
her judgment was mistaken, and her eager heart tempted her to works of
supererogation, to an excess of care which was anxiety, the fret and
fever of the soul. Had she been content with a modest service, such as
would have pleased her Guest, she too might have found time to sit at
His feet, and to have found there an Elim of rest and a Mount of
Beatitudes.
But while Jesus has a kind rebuke for Martha, He has only words of
commendation for her sister, whom she has been so openly and sharply
upbraiding. "Mary," He said, speaking the name Martha had not uttered,
"hath chosen the good part, which shall not be taken away from her." He
answers Martha in her own language, her native tongue; for in speaking
of Mary's choice as the "good part," it is a culinary phrase, the
_parlance_ of the kitchen or the table, meaning the choice bit. The
phrase is in apposition with the one thing which is needful, which
itself is the antithesis to the "many things" of Martha's care. What the
"one thing" is of which Jesus speaks we cannot say with certainty, and
almost numberless have been the interpretations given to it. But without
going into them, can we not find the truest interpretation in the Lord's
own words? We think we may, for in the Sermon on the Mount we have an
exact parallel to the narrative. He finds people burdened, anxious about
the things of this life, wearying themselves with the interminable
questions, "What shall we eat? or What shall we drink?" as if life had
no quest higher and vaster than these. And Jesus rebukes this spirit of
anxiety, exorcising it by an appeal to the lilies and the grass of the
field; and summing up His condemnation of anxiety, He adds the
injunction, "Seek ye His kingdom, and these things shall be added unto
you" (xii. 31). Here, again, we have the "many things" of human care and
strife contrasted with the "one thing" which is of supremest moment.
First, the kingdom; this in the mind of Jesus was the _summum bonum_,
the highest good of man, compared with which the "many things" for which
men strive and toil are but the dust of the balances. And this was the
choice of Mary. She sought the kingdom of God, sitting at the feet of
Him who proclaimed it, and who was, though she knew it not as yet,
Himself the King. Martha too sought the kingdom, but her distracted mind
showed that that was not her only, perhaps not her chief quest. Earthly
things weighed too heavily upon her mind and heart, and through their
dust the heavenly things became somewhat obscured. Mary's heart was set
heavenward. She was the listener, eager to know the will of God, that
she might do it. Martha was so busied with her own activities that she
could not give her thoughts to Christ; Mary ceased from her works, that
so she might enter into His rest, setting the world behind her, that her
undivided gaze might be upon Him who was truly her Lord. And so Jesus
loved Martha, yet pitied and chided her, while He loved and commended
Mary.
Nor was the "good part" ever taken from her, for again and again we find
her returning to the feet of Jesus. In the day of their great sorrow, as
soon as she heard that the Master had come and called her, she arose
quickly, and coming to Jesus, though it was the bare, dusty ground, she
fell at His feet, seeking strength and help where she before had sought
light and truth. And once more: when the shadow of the cross came
vividly near, when Simon gave the feast which Martha served, Mary sought
those feet again, to pour upon them the precious and fragrant nard, the
sweet odours of which filled all the house, as they have since filled
all the world. Yes, Mary did not sit at the feet of Jesus in vain; she
had learned to know Christ as few of the disciples did; for when Jesus
said, "She has done it for My burying," He intends us to infer that Mary
feels, stealing over her retiring but loving soul, the cold and awful
shadow of the cross. Her broken alabaster and its poured-out spikenard
are her unspoken ode to the Redeemer, her pre-dated homage to the
Crucified.
And so we find in Mary the truest type of service. Hers was not always
the passive attitude, receiving and never giving, absorbing and not
diffusing. There was the service before the session; her hands had
prepared and wrought for Christ before she placed herself at His feet,
and the sacrifice followed, as she brought her costly gift, to the
astonishment of all the rest, her sweet and healing balm for the wounds
which were soon to follow.
The life that is all receptive, that has no active ministries of love,
no waiting upon Christ in the person of His followers, is an unnatural,
an unhealthy life, a piece of morbid selfishness which neither pleases
God nor blesses man. On the other hand, the life that is always busy,
that is in a constant swirl of outward duties, flying here and there
like the stormy petrel over the unresting waves, will soon weary or wear
itself out, or it will grow into an automaton, a mechanism without a
soul. Receiving, giving, praying, working--these are the alternate
chords on which the music of our lives should be struck. Heavenward,
earthward, should be the alternate looks--heavenward in our waiting upon
God, and earthward in our service for man. That life shines the most and
is seen the farthest which reflects most of the heavenly light; and he
serves Christ the best who now sits humbly and prayerfully at His feet,
and then goes forth to be a "living echo" of His voice, breaking for Him
the alabaster of a self-sacrificing love. As one has beautifully
expressed it, "The effective life and the receptive life are one. No
sweep of arm that does some work for God but harvests also some more of
the truth of God and sweeps it into the treasury of the life."[3]
[3] Phillips Brooks.
But if Mary gives us a type of the truest and best service, Martha shows
us a kind of service which is only too common. She gave to Jesus a right
loving welcome, and was delighted with the privilege of ministering to
His wants; but the coming of Jesus brought her, not peace, but
distraction--not rest, but worry. Her very service ruffled and irritated
her, until mind and heart were like the tempestuous lake ere the spell
of the Divine "Peace" fell upon it. And all the time the Christ was
near, who could bear each burden, and still all the disquiet of the
soul! But Martha was all absorbed in the thought of what she could do
for Him, and she forgot how much more He could do for her, giving to
her chafed spirit quietness and rest, even amid her toil. The Divine
Peace was near her, within her home, but the hurryings of her restless
will and her manifold activities effectually excluded that peace from
her heart.
And how many who call themselves Christians are true Marthas, serving
Christ, but feeling the yoke to chafe, and the burden to weight them!
perhaps preaching to others the Gospel of rest and peace, and themselves
knowing little of its experience and blessedness--like the camels of the
desert, which carry their treasures of corn and sweet spices to others,
and themselves feed on the bitter and prickly herbs. Ah, you are too
much upon your feet! Cease for awhile from your own works, and let God
work in you. Wait in His presence. Let His words take hold of you, and
His love enthuse you; so will you find rest amid your toil, calmness
amid the strife, and you will prove that the fret and the fever of life
will all disappear at the touch of the living Christ.