A few summers ago, in Wind River mountains of Wyoming, I found myself scrubbing dishes with Barbara Brown Taylor, the writer and Episcopal priest. We happened to be assigned to the same crew for chores at Ring Lake, a sort of clergy dude ranch where they invite speakers to come and share life and experience.
I was there with my mom. In the days we hiked, rode horses, fished. In the evenings, Barbara Brown Taylor presented a series of talks on spirituality and darkness. Now Ring lake is a small place, tiny staff, and everyone was assigned chores in the week. Since my last name started with the letter A and Brown Taylor begins with a B, we found ourselves on the same dish crew. The first night we were assigned, she tied the apron round her waist, and passed me a towel to dry as she rolled up her sleeves and leaned over the sudsy sink. “This will go faster if you let me scrub. I have lots of practice,” she said to me.
These small moments in the kitchen came back to me this week, as I considered the story of Mary and Martha. Jesus was a storyteller, illustrating his teaching with talk of sheep, or seeds, landowners, merciful parents, merchants and pearls. Sometimes Jesus told stories. Sometimes he lived them, and his reflections in the moment are remembered like parables. The kitchen is a day to day part of life.
I want to suggest to you today, that there is more going on in this story than the simple “Mary has chosen the better part.” Underneath what seems like a binary choice between work and prayer, between busyness and contemplation, there is a a deeper, more beautiful complexity: an invitation to life with God.
Gender and Justice
Before we get there, a word about gender and justice. I know a lot of women who hate this story. They question its integrity. After all, if all of us sat at Jesus’ feet all day, how would the dishes get done? Who would put food on the table, Jesus?
Something we know to be true about discrimination is that those who are oppressed often become agents of oppression toward others in their same social caste. Some of the worst perpetrators of misogyny, some of the worst opponents of feminism are women. Listen to what Martha says, “why are you letting Mary hang out with you? Why isn’t she working? Her place is in the kitchen.” Listen to what Martha doesn’t say, “guys, I need a hand, get in here. Jesus, here’s a dish towel.” No, Martha doesn’t say those words.
Beyond the Binary
We often want faith to be simple, clean, clear. There are preachers and podcasters out there who would tell you that the Bible is clear about women’s roles, and men’s. I will tell you, that is very rarely the case. Binaries rarely serve us well. The truth is that the life of faith is complex, there are nuances, frustrations, and sibling disputes. And God is right there in the middle of it all.
This isn’t a story about a simple binary, about right and wrong, about action vs. contemplation. This is a very human story that doesn’t resolve simply. We need both. We need time spent in listening and prayer, and we need to roll up our sleeves. The key word in this text, I think, is “distracted.” It isn’t simply that Martha has all this work to do, it’s how the work has a hold on her. She is distracted.
Distraction is currency in our day. Our late capitalist society is built to sell us distractions.
On wanting to do something
In recent days, I’ve found myself wrestling with the balance between contemplation and action, because I have been wishing there was more I could DO.
Anglican Archbishop Hosam Naoum has described the situation in Gaza as “the hunger games,” the way food is being distributed by the Israeli government so poorly so that massive crowds fight over mere morsels. I wish there was more I could do. As I listened this week to the press conference announcing that Cristosal, a human rights organization I have supported for almost twenty years, has made the decision to leave El Salvador because the staff was not safe from being arbitrarily thrown in jail for defending human rights, I wanted to DO something. As I watch more of my immigrant neighbors being detained in inhumane conditions, I want to DO something.
And right now, right now, there is so little I can do. I can donate. I can raise awareness, but I can’t fix the problems. I know many of us are frustrated. Multiple immigration ministries at this church are simply mothballed, waiting for a day when federal policy changes. Our food-pantry line, at the moment, is shorter because so many of our usual asylum-seeking guests are terrified of ICE.
Can’t we do something? I want to be able to FIX the situation. I want to be able to make a change, now. I feel like the people Amos describes running around with their hair on fire looking for the words of God. But it is difficult to encounter God in the frenzy. I have to slow down. I have to shut off the news. I have to make space to get perspective, to listen, to pray.
The Invitation to let go of distraction
This, I think, is where I can hear in Jesus’ words to Martha less a rebuke and more an invitation. In times of like ours, it is tempting to distract ourselves, to push away the emotions, to stay busy. That can work for awhile, but eventually we also need to learn to settle down. To listen. To trust that God does not abandon the people who need help most. To take just the next faithful step.
Listening does not take away the sorrow and the complexity. But I know that my desire to do, to fix, a lot of that has to do with my ego’s need to feel useful. And sometimes we have to learn to set down what our ego wants. We have to identify when we are distracting ourselves with busyness. Often just the listening and just the holding is the work.
Sitting with Complexity
I was recently speaking with a Diné activist. (The people we often call Navajo call themselves Diné). We were standing together at a rally. I was wearing my clergy collar. The activist said to me, almost defensively, that she practices her culture’s traditional religion. When I didn’t argue with her, when I said, probably too eagerly, I understood, that Christianity had sided with oppression and colonialism, she shared back that she knew many Diné who found in Christianity “a way to survive.” She could not criticize the faith of her people that had kept some of them alive.
Faith and history, they are more complicated than simple formulas aren’t they? The church has participated in the worst abuses of indigenous people, and the church has been an agent of liberation for some of those same people. It’s not simple. I was grateful, when I was caught trying to prove myself by demonstrating my knowledge, to receive an invitation to embrace complexity, to know the history of colonial land grabs, boarding schools, and yet to still be grateful for the faith of Diné Christians. I was invited to move away from the anxious distracted work to prove myself, and into deeper listening. The work is to be willing to listen, not to dismiss the whole of the truth, even when the full truth is difficult to reconcile.
I believe we are being invited into a similar space by the trans community, toward a willingness not to rush to answers. I can get distracted by wanting to get to get pronouns and terminology exactly right. For my ally-ship, I want an “A,” an “A+” really from my trans siblings. But what we are being invited to do isn’t about passing some sort of quiz. We are asked by our trans siblings to listen, to allow them to be themselves, their full selves, not to rush to answers or actions, not to slot people into readymade categories and binaries, but to sit with complexities that don’t resolve so easily, and to love.
The life of faith is often found in these quiet places, when we stop being distracted by our need to define and to fix, when we make space to listen. Sure, sometimes we are able to take big stands. Sometimes we are able to witness the bending of the moral arc of the universe. Sometimes we are able to build big ministries that witness to the dignity of our neighbor. More often, the work is small, incremental. The truth of much justice work is that the work that needs doing is generational, and we can only take the small steps in front of us today, trusting that the Spirit will lead us all home. We can only do that if we are not distracted, if we are in the moment.
Sometimes the invitation seems very small. I like big work. I like to feel my labor is important, noticeable. But sometimes the real work is just about building the relationships, and not trying to explain away the contradictions.
Getting the Dishes Done
I always groan a bit, at least internally, when I arrive at a retreat to find out there are chores. Internally I think, “but I came to get away from work, why do I have to clean floors, wash dishes?” Then one of America’s top preachers, a bestselling author, gets assigned to your dish crew. She doesn’t skip the duty. She hands you a dish rag and says, “this will go faster if you let me scrub. I have lots of practice.” I hardly remember what she said in the talks about her book, but I will never forget how Barbara Brown Taylor made me laugh as we worked together in the kitchen.
I wish Jesus had done the same for Martha in today’s Gospel. I wish he had joined her in preparing the meal. Maybe Jesus did, and the guys who wrote down the story just couldn’t stomach portraying Jesus in the kitchen. I’d love to see an icon someday with Jesus wearing an apron. The legacy of misogyny in the church still needs dismantling.
But don’t miss the invitation in this story, to let go of distraction, to focus into the moment in front of you. Sometimes the invitation of faith is very small, it isn’t about glory, it isn’t about being busy or important. The invitation of the spiritual life is often just slowing down enough to build relationships with the people around you, people who are different from you. Often the life of faith means letting go of distractions, making space for prayer, for listening, for learning together. And sometimes the invitation is simply to roll up our sleeves, let go of our assumptions, and work together to get the dishes done.
Mike Angell 