“Imagining the Gospel Scene” is a series from the Jesuit Media Lab. On occasional Sundays throughout this liturgical year, creators in the JML community will respond to the day’s Gospel passage through the practice of Ignatian contemplation, or what is sometimes called “imaginative prayer.”
In his Spiritual Exercises, St. Ignatius of Loyola invites participants to place ourselves in Gospel scenes using the imagination, relying on our senses to develop a distinctive, personal perspective on a given story — and thereby getting to know Christ better. After praying with the Gospel using their imaginations, our contributors will create a piece of art flowing from their experience — a painting, poem, short story, song, photograph or work in another medium.
In today’s installment, Alli Bobzien reflects on Luke 10:38-42 with a narrative from Martha’s perspective.
Sixteenth Sunday of Ordinary Time: July 20, 2025
Luke 10:38-42
My arms ache from kneading the challah loaves. I dust my hands with flour as I mentally calculate if we will have enough food to serve everyone on the Sabbath. We always make an extra challah loaf for Shabbat dinner, but with extra mouths to feed, will that be enough? Fish should not be a problem, Lazarus brought plenty home. The lentils are soaking, but should I add more to the bowl?
Jesus, our teacher, is in my home. I release a heavy sigh; a combination of being content and overwhelmed at all that needs to happen before sundown. Tomorrow is the Shabbat, our day of rest, and I must finish the meal preparations. There is no work on Shabbat, no lighting of fires, no cooking of food; if we want to eat tomorrow, I need to prepare today.
Laughter ripples in from our main room. I hear my sister Mary’s melodic chuckle; while that noise usually brings me joy, today I cringe. She should not be conversing with the men in the main room. She should be helping me in the kitchen. Preparations are necessary with a full house, and its improper for a woman to be sitting amongst the men as they discuss spiritual matters. Sure, we can enter the temple in Jerusalem, but we remain in the women’s court. The House of Study allows us to hear sermons, but we are not to speak, to question. And I can hear Mary’s voice, a clear bell amongst the soft drums of the men’s voices, ringing out with comments and questions. I lean through the doorway connecting the kitchen to the main room and motion to Mary with a quick “come here” movement. It takes her a minute to tear her eyes off Jesus, but when she does, she simply smiles and motions back for me to join her.
My face heats. She is younger than me by a number of years, the precious, precocious child I helped mother to raise. Her impertinence reflects on me; I should have taught her better. What must Jesus and his followers think of me, allowing Mary to sit at Jesus’ feet rather than serve. My mother raised us to understand that a woman’s role was to serve and further the religious education of the men in our family. While growing up, our father would take Lazarus to the synagogue and House of Study on a nearly daily basis. Mary and I attended weekly Shabbat service at the synagogue and traveled to the temple the usual three times a year, but nothing more was considered necessary for us.
As women, much of our religious education occurred in the kitchen: what to prepare, how to prepare it, why we prepare it, and when to start working on it to have it ready for Shabbat. Our history, our stories, are woven into these meals. As we cook the matzah for Passover, we recite the stories of our ancestors who fled from Egypt. Our challah teaches lessons year-round, our weekly two loaves on Shabbat remind us of the double portion of manna given to our ancestors when they wandered the desert. We shape round loaves of challah at Rosh Hashanah to symbolize continuity, and ladder shapes before the fast of Yom Kipper to remind us to ascend to the great heights of our spirituality. On Purim we form triangles for Haman’s ears, and on Shavuot we create two oblongs beside one another to resemble the tablets of the law. Our history, our traditions, our faith are here in the kitchen too.
I pay for this reverie with a too-quick turn and feel olive oil splash on my hand. I brush it on my already flour dusted dress and reach for an empty bowl in which to place to figs. Crash! The bowl hurdles to the floor, shattering into shards. My face heats further, I feel the tears welling in my eyes. I’m rushing and my careless actions and slippery hands have led to this.
I turn around to glance through the open doorway and see everyone’s eyes on me. I register concern in their eyes, but I feel only shame. “Jesus,” I call. “Could I speak with you for a moment?” Jesus rises off the cushion on the floor and crosses the room to me with measured steps.
My hands shake as I try and pick up the pieces of my broken bowl. Tears stream down my face, hot and salty, as my frustration bubbles ever closer to a boil. Hands join mine and gently place the shards in the basket beside me. “No, no! I didn’t call you in to help me clean!” I screech, my voice catching. Jesus silently continues to pick up my broken pieces.
I blurt out, “Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me by myself to do the serving? Tell her to help me.”
My chest heaves, I watch as he places the final piece in the basket and dusts off his hands. He rises from the floor and extends his hand to help me up. We stand facing each other, but I cannot meet his eyes. I focus on the basket of shattered pottery.
“Martha,” he says my name softly but firmly. A call to look at him.
“Martha,” he repeats, lowering his head to look deeply into my eyes which makes my tears well anew. “You are anxious and worried about many things.” I nod, relieved to have been seen. “There is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part and it will not be taken from her.”
My heart sinks, eyes falling to the floor again. Chosen the better part? What choice did I have? We need food and someone must prepare it. This was my role, my job. This was where I belonged. And apparently, I was meant to stay here — alone. He would not call Mary away, so I must finish the work myself.
I nod and begin to reach for the basket of shards, when Jesus takes my hand instead. The callouses of woodworking meet mine of cooking. We both have hands roughened by long days. He gently tucks my hand around his arm, guiding me back to the group waiting in the main room. My eyes widen and I shake my head at him, motioning to the kitchen, messy with half-prepared food. He just smiles and pats my hand, “There will be time. Come sit with me.”
As we walk in, Lazarus fetches another cushion for me. Mary scoots nearer to Peter to make room directly beside Jesus and I sink down beside her in bewilderment. Mary reaches out to squeeze my hand and whispers, “We will host him together, I promise. But for now, let us listen. For he is here, he is with us.” I nod, still somewhat unsure. Until Jesus sits beside me.
The peace my heart had craved, the stillness, the hope, slowly fills my body. ‘The better part’ repeats in my head. This time spent with him was a part of the whole, but an important part, a better part. My work in the kitchen is needed, necessary and important to who we are and what we remember. But this time spent sitting with Jesus, spent in communion, serves a purpose too. A softer one, yet a bolder choice to claim for my own. Something within my heart shifts as I recognize what Jesus has done for me, the space he has made for my contemplation, my education, my heart.
I look at my hands, calloused and still smeared with flour and olive oil. “The hands and the heart,” I think. And as I look to Jesus, I realize that he has brought my broken pieces together, he has made what once was shattered whole.
Top artwork: “Jesus in the House of Martha and Mary,” Erasmus Quellinus II and Jan Fyt (public domain)