Wednesday, July 20, 2022
Sam DeFlitch
Martha & Mary…Last Sunday’s Sermon
Everyone wants a revolution, but no one wants to do the dishes.
It’s a truism often ascribed to Dorothy Day of the Catholic Worker Movement. It’s a constant reminder to go where our labor is needed most—and often, that’s not flashy. Often, that’s washing dishes. Making a weekly donation, if we have the means. Stacking chairs, if we are able.
I love this quote very much. So it’s no surprise that I really struggle with today’s Gospel. I have found that, in my experience, the labor of the household tasks—the mental load, the planning and prep work and behind-the-scenes work that makes everything run smoothly, especially when guests are in the home—that falls, often unnoticed, to the Marthas.
Yet regardless of who that work falls to, someone has to plan the meals for the week, inventory the fridge, go grocery shopping, clean the towels, remember the doctors’ appointments, make the phone calls, scrub the cast iron. Someone is the caretaker. Someone brings their grandmother to treatment. And I strongly believe that this labor—often unnoticed, under or unpaid—is holy. I believe that all labor is sacred and deserving of respect. Because someone must do the dishes.
Yet here we have Jesus saying that Mary has chosen the better thing. Not the meal prep. Not the cleaning. Not putting out a little platter of chips and dip. But sitting with and listening to Jesus. And resting. So when I found out I would be preaching on this Gospel, I really had to sit with this conflict. What did Jesus mean when he said that Mary has chosen the better part? After all, in Genesis we hear Sarah and Abraham receive a blessing for their work, for their labor of hospitality:
“Abraham hastened into the tent to Sarah, and said, "Make ready quickly three measures of choice flour, knead it, and make cakes." Abraham ran to the herd, and took a calf, tender and good, and gave it to the servant, who hastened to prepare it. Then he took curds and milk and the calf that he had prepared, and set it before them; and he stood by them under the tree while they ate.”
So for me, the process of writing this sermon was the process of reconciling these two seemingly divergent messages: labor is holy vs. rest is holy. Big task. So I returned to something I’d already written. A couple of months ago, I wrote a reflection on the importance of rest—real, meaningful, intentional rest.
Tricia Hersey, founder of The Nap Ministry and theologian, artist, and activist, tells us that “We are depressed, sick, anxious and disconnected, yet we continue to freely give our bodies and minds over to the grind of capitalism,” Hersey writes. “We have tied our entire worth as human beings into how much we can produce financially. We are killing ourselves by openly being bamboozled by a society that tells us napping is lazy and unproductive. I want you to RESIST. I want you to free yourself. I want you to nap. I want you to dream. There is healing waiting for you.”
Individual rest is not optional. It is a necessity—and so is collective, community rest. After all, Hersey notes that “Grind culture has not only exhausted your physical body, it’s also limited your spiritual body.” Just as our individual bodies pine for rest, so, too, does our collective Body of Christ long for physical and spiritual rest. Corinthians reminds us that “If one part (of the body) suffers, every part suffers with it.” Indeed, the unrelenting grind we labor under impacts all of us — all members of the same Body.
I believe this is what Jesus meant when he said that Mary has chosen the better thing. Rest. Rest in space created by His presence.
I’m reminded of an image I return to often. It’s the Jubilee Cross, created by Ben Wildflower as a collaboration with Jubilee Baptist Church. The Cross depicts a risen Christ at the center, flanked by parents and workers, bread and wine, the Pentecost spirit flame dove, fists raised in solidarity, and broken shackles. Around the cross are these words:
I will give rest to all who labor and are weighed down. Take my yoke and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly and I will give you rest.
Wildflower notes that he chose the text because he likes the good news for workers. That all of us can relate to being weary and heavy-laden, and that he hopes the meeting place we gather every week—online, in the sanctuary, in the garden—is a place where we can lay those burdens down—even for an hour.
Our labor is sacred. All of it. Jesus knows this. Yet so, too, is our rest. Christ does not desire that we give our bodies over to the unending grind of a system that values profit over people. Christ desires our holy rest.
So, practically though, what does that look like? Because the world asks more and more of us. We work extra hours or jobs to meet the rising cost of living. We—even in a season of supposed rest—have more and more on our plates, more soccer practice, more weddings, more sickness, more worries, more stress, more mental labor, more work. Where can we find these opportunities for rest?Well, we’re here right now.
Just as Mary was here, right now, with Jesus. And like Mary made the intentional decision to rest from her labor in the presence of Christ, so too, can we. It’s not much. It’s an hour, tops. But my gosh, what a radical act! When we make the decision to be fully present here in the sanctuary, in the garden, online! What would it look like to turn off our phones? To stop making that mental list of all the errands we have to run today, before Monday comes? To just be here: Here now with God. We can choose that rest—even for just an hour.
Workers of the world, Jesus loves you. Marthas of the world, Jesus loves you. Caretakers and dishwashers and Salesforce administrators and teachers and tax accountants and bell pepper harvesters and parents and all you who labor: Jesus sees you. He loves you. He does not dream of unrelenting labor for us. And he wants us to have a place to rest.
I want to leave us with the Dorianne Laux poem “Dust”:
Someone spoke to me last night,
told me the truth. Just a few words,
but I recognized it.
I knew I should make myself get up,
write it down, but it was late,
and I was exhausted from working
all day in the garden, moving rocks.
Now, I remember only the flavor
not like food, sweet or sharp.
More like a fine powder, like dust.
And I wasn't elated or frightened,
but simply rapt, aware.
That's how it is sometimes
God comes to your window,
all bright light and black wings,
and you're just too tired to open it.
Christ knows that we are exhausted. May we bring our labors to Him. May we, like Mary, choose the hour of rest in the Light of the Lord, knowing it will not be taken from us.