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"Martha, your work must be punished and counted as naught ... I will have no work but the work of Mary; that is the faith that you have in the Word."
(Martin Luther)

Medieval legends about Mary of Bethany often confused her with Mary Magdalene; some credited her with a ministry in France. From Luther to the present, many commentators have praised Mary as the more spiritual of the two sisters. Because she sat at Jesus'feet and listened, she was often praised as the model of the demure, submissive Christian woman. Yet in the mores of her patriarchal age, she was hardly demure - anything but!

My sister Mary?
Some people are still wagging their tongues;
they say she has disgraced our village
and shamed our family.
I was shocked, too,
and I'm still a little puzzled,
but I love her,
and I am very proud of her.

Mary was always my little sister:
quiet, while I was more active;
people saw me as the leader.
Now Mary is the bold one,
and I feel like I am the little sister,
tagging along after her.
It's as if she has broken down the walls
that keep us women in a second place,
and I don't know where it's going to lead.

I was always more outspoken;
some even called me bossy.
If a family in town was sick,
or a woman had a new baby,
I was the one who got the women together,
planned who would get the meals,
told everyone what to do.
Mary always did her share with the others,
but she left the talking to me.

Everything changed when Jesus came through town.
We had all heard him before:
Mary, our brother Lazarus, and I.
He spoke to us so directly, so clearly,
that in him we felt the love of God.
I urged him to come to my house for dinner.
His whole band was with him,
so there would be a lot of work;
but I knew Mary would help me,
as she always does.
She's a good cook and a hard worker.
There was so much to do all at once:
vegetables in the pot,
meat to turn on the fire,
bread to bake -
and where was Mary?
Had she gone to get something?
Then I saw her in the room with the men,
sitting at Jesus' feet,
listening!
I couldn't believe it!
Just when I needed her most!
And with the men!
It shocked everyone!
Women don't study with a rabbi.
Women don't sit with men in the synagogue -
we sit in the balcony or behind a screen.
Men don't allow women to study!
But there she was,
breaking all the rules that said "men only,"
not even noticing the dark frowns
of the elders of the synagogue,
eyes and ears only for Jesus.

It was too much!
I was frantic,
with dinner for Jesus and his 12 disciples
and our brother and a dozen others -
and my best helper sat down.
My little sister was shocking the town
and disgracing the family,
and my brother didn't say a word to stop her.
I guess I lost my temper,
and I wasn't the perfect hostess.
I blurted out to Jesus,
"Lord, don't you care that my sister has left me
to do all the work by myself?
Tell her then to help me."

Jesus wasn't upset by my outburst,
and he wasn't shocked by Mary's behavior.
He spoke to me calmly, soothingly,
"Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted
by many things;
there is need of only one thing.
Mary has chosen the better part,
which will not be taken away from her."
He accepted Mary,
sitting there with the men,
as if women have a right to learn,
as if women are equal to men.
It was as if Mary had smashed a hole through the wall -
the wall that kept us confined to kitchen and children
and balcony.

Later I remembered that Joanna and Mary Magdalene
and Susanna and others travelled with Jesus,
as students travel with a rabbi.
Jesus treated them as equals,
and he taught them as he taught the men.
Could he even have meant that women
can become rabbis too?

Then came that terrible time when our brother died.
Lazarus was sick.
Mary and I were both worried, deeply worried;
we'd never seen him so ill before.
We thought, "If only Jesus were here.
He has healed so many,
and we know he loves Lazarus."
We had heard he was beyond the Jordan,
and our cousin offered to find him.

The next day, Lazarus died.
Mary and I were heartbroken.
We knew in our heads that Jesus
could not have come in time;
it's a two-day journey each way.
Still, we felt in our hearts some resentment
that Jesus had not been here
when we most needed him.

Four days later, Mary and I were in the house,
receiving condolences,
when someone shouted, "Jesus is coming."
I dashed out, and -
me and my big mouth -
I met him with words that were half accusation,
half faith.
"Lord, if you had been here,
my brother would not have died.
But even now I know that God will give you
whatever you ask of him."
Jesus ignored my slap in the face,
and he answered quietly, confidently,
"Your brother will rise again."

I didn't grasp his full meaning.
I knew some of the rabbis spoke of a resurrection,
but they never explained it very well.
Jesus answered with assurance,
and he made it very personal.
"I am the resurrection and the life.
Those who believe in me,
even though they die,
will live ...
Do you believe this?"

A new understanding flooded my soul,
and for the first time I began to realize
why Mary sat at Jesus' feet,
spellbound, transformed.
I answered,
and God must have given me the words,
"Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the Messiah,
the Son of God."

I ran to call Mary,
and she greeted Jesus as I had,
but in her the words were full-formed faith,
"Lord, if you had been here,
my brother would not have died."
You know the rest.
Even Jesus' enemies know it and cannot deny it.
Jesus went to the tomb,
told the men to move away the stone,
prayed to God, and called,
"Lazarus, come out!"
My brother -
by then he had been in the tomb four days -
walked out, alive.

Mary and I were overwhelmed with love for Jesus
and thanksgiving for our brother's return,
but it was Mary who showed that love
in a new and spectacular way.
About six months later,
Jesus came to Bethany on his way to Jerusalem
for the Passover.
We all had dinner for him in Simon's house;
my house wasn't large enough.
The husbands were all at table;
I was helping the other women serve the meal.
We were so busy
I didn't notice Mary had disappeared.

Mary returned, but not to help with the food.
She slipped in where Jesus was reclining with the men,
poured a whole flask of ointment on his feet,
and began to wipe his feet with her hair.
I gasped!
One puts two or three drops of ointment
on the forehead of an honored guest;
Mary poured a whole pound on Jesus' feet.
The entire house, the entire neighborhood,
was filled with the perfume.
The guests were shocked!
I covered my face with my hands!
Not even a slave
would wipe a man's feet with her hair,
and this was no ordinary man;
he was a rabbi.
A rabbi does not touch any woman in public,
not even his own wife.
Some of our neighbors shrank away from Mary.
They began to mutter.
It was a disgrace!
It was indecent!
She should be put out of the synagogue!
Jesus' reply puzzled us all.
"Leave her alone.
She bought it so that she might keep it
for the day of my burial."

I didn't understand at all until Jesus had risen.
First, though, there was that dreadful time
when we heard Jesus had been arrested,
tried,
crucified.
We were crushed.
Lazarus, Mary, all his friends,
we were crushed.
How could it be?
He who was all goodness,
he who said he was life itself,
how could he be dead?

On Monday his disciples brought the news:
Jesus was alive!
Mary Magdalene had seen him in the morning.
Others had seen him in the afternoon.
He had been with the whole group in the evening.
He had risen!
He was alive!

Then I began to realize what Mary had done.
The disciples had told us of Jesus' strange words,
that in Jerusalem he would be betrayed,
be killed,
and rise again.
The men didn't know what he meant.
Mary alone,
by some intuition, had understood what none of the men had understood;
she had done what none of the men had dared to do.

I wonder, though, at what Jesus said about Mary.
"Truly I tell you,
wherever this good news is proclaimed
in the whole world,
what she has done will be told in remembrance of her."
How far will this go?
Will it spread to other lands?
Did Jesus mean that men will hear of Mary
and accept her thoughts and her actions
as he accepted them?
And did he mean that women,
sometime in the future,
will remember that Mary had the courage
to break through the walls
that kept her in the kitchen,
in the nursery,
in the balcony?
Will Jesus' approval of Mary lead other women -
and men -
to sweep away those barriers
and accept each other as equals
in the service of the Gospel?

Sometimes I chuckle when I remember
what people used to say about Mary:
she was the quiet one, so demure.
She was quiet, all right,
but she set the whole town buzzing
without saying a word.
Yet what of the future?
Will her actions -
and Jesus' approval -
lead other women to speak up,
use their abilities,
and take the lead in expressing their faith?