The Main Thing

But the Lord answered her, “Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things, but few things are needed–indeed only one” [Luke 10:41-42a].

Growing up at Olney Presbyterian Church in Gastonia, I often watched the deacons prepare for our monthly covered dish suppers. Half a dozen men would arrive early to wrestle heavy collapsible tables down from the stuffy attic, set up chairs, and make sure everything was ready before the meal. Afterward, they stayed late to clean up, fold chairs, and haul it all back upstairs.

An uncle was one of those deacons. He wasn’t a complainer by nature, but now and then I’d hear him mutter under his breath: “Why is it always the same five or six people doing all the work?”

I think of him whenever I read Luke 10:38–42, the Gospel lesson appointed for this Sunday (the Sixth Sunday after Pentecost, RCL, Year C). Jesus visits the home of Martha and Mary in Bethany. Martha welcomes him in and gets busy preparing a meal—exactly the kind of hands-on hospitality that Jesus had just praised in the parable of the Good Samaritan. Meanwhile, her sister Mary sits at Jesus’ feet, listening to his teaching.

It’s a familiar story, but worth a second look. We’re tempted to cast Martha as the problem: too practical, too distracted, not spiritual enough. We tend to praise the contemplative Mary. But that’s not quite fair. Both sisters are doing good and necessary things. The question Luke raises is subtler: where does our attention rest when we serve?

Martha’s problem isn’t that she’s busy—Luke’s Gospel repeatedly honors service. Her problem is something quieter, more relatable. What begins for Martha as genuine hospitality turns into anxiety and resentment. She stops focusing on Jesus and starts watching her sister. She even questions whether Jesus Himself cares: “Don’t you see what she’s doing? Don’t you care?” (Luke 10:40).

It’s then, not before, that Jesus gently redirects her. Mary, he says, has chosen “the better part”—not because sitting is better than serving, but because Mary’s attention is fixed on one thing: the main thing. That’s why it’s worth returning to the Lucan text carefully, resisting the easy contrast between the sisters.

The Misreading We Often Make

We’ve heard this story so many times that we think we know what it’s about. For years, many preachers and Bible studies have cast it as a showdown between two archetypes: Mary the contemplative and Martha the overworked activist. Mary chose spiritual things; Martha got lost in the kitchen. The implication is clear—be more like Mary.

To me, such a reading flattens the story and distorts its heart. Jesus never tells Martha to stop serving. In fact, just a few verses earlier in the Gospel, Jesus praised the Good Samaritan for seeing a need and responding with active, embodied compassion. Service is not the problem. Martha’s hospitality is not the problem. Her efforts are not dismissed—they are simply disordered.

There’s no villain in this story. Only two sisters, each responding to the presence of Jesus in her own way. What we are invited to consider is not whose actions were right, but where each woman’s attention was directed.

When we look carefully at Luke’s language, we discover that Martha’s struggle runs deeper than simple busyness.

The Real Problem: Misdirected Attention

The Greek word Luke uses to describe Martha’s state of mind is periespato. It’s only used here in the entire New Testament. It doesn’t mean “busy” in the sense of energetic activity. It means to be dragged, pulled away, spun about. It carries a sense of being yanked off center.

Martha is unraveling. Her service has become scattered. Her attention has shifted—no longer anchored to her guest, no longer offered freely. Instead, it turns sideways, zeroing in on her sister and the perceived unfairness of the moment.

Martha, who welcomed Jesus into her home, now interrupts him, accuses her sister, and questions His concern. The very hospitality she was trying to offer becomes compromised—not because of her work, but because of her distracted spirit. Her generosity curdles into resentment.

We’ve seen this dynamic before. Think of the older brother in the parable of the prodigal son—standing outside the celebration, arms folded, calculating who deserves what. Or the Pharisee in the temple who can’t pray without measuring himself against the sinner in the back row.

In each case, the danger isn’t the work or the prayer or the position. Instead, it’s the sideways glance—the creeping sense of self-righteousness that turns good things into tools of comparison.

The Pattern We Recognize

Martha’s distraction is not an ancient problem—it’s ours. We begin with good intentions. We show up to help, we organize the meal, we stack the chairs, we serve with love. But somewhere along the way, a thought creeps in:

Why am I the only one doing this?

Why isn’t she helping?

Why don’t they see how much I’m giving?

Martha crosses a line that’s easy for any of us to cross. She begins to judge—first Mary, then Jesus Himself. “She has left me to do all the work. Don’t you care?”

We shift from service to surveillance. From communion to calculation. From grace to grievance.

This is one of the great spiritual hazards of active faith. When we serve without returning to the center—without renewing our gaze on Christ—we start measuring others instead of offering ourselves.

Churches are particularly vulnerable to this. In almost every congregation, there are a handful of people doing most of the work. Sometimes they grumble. Sometimes they keep smiling. Sometimes they burn out. But almost always, the real weariness sets in not because of the amount of work, but because of the feeling of being alone in it.

This is not a call to do less. It’s a call to remember why we serve—and whom we’re serving.

The Better Part

Jesus’s response to Martha is tender. “Martha, Martha,” he says—repeating her name as one might to calm a flustered friend. “You are worried and distracted by many things. But one thing is needful. Mary has chosen the better part, and it will not be taken from her.”

He doesn’t scold. He doesn’t diminish her efforts. He redirects her gaze.

The “better part” isn’t about sitting still or ignoring responsibilities. It’s about focus. It’s about letting the main thing remain the main thing.

Jesus is not suggesting that there’s only one right way to be in His presence. But He is saying this: “before you serve, before you speak, before you judge—come back to me. Anchor yourself in my presence. Otherwise, your good intentions may drift, and your labor may become hollow.”

Mary isn’t better than Martha. She’s just centered in that moment. She’s chosen the still point in the turning world. And Jesus honors it—not because it’s passive, but because it’s rooted.

Closing Reflections

So much in our lives pulls us sideways. We’re drawn by expectations, by distractions, by other people’s behavior. Even our service can become tangled if we lose sight of the One we’re trying to honor.

The question isn’t whether you’re a Martha or a Mary. The question is whether your attention—your desire, your energy—is anchored in Jesus or scattered by everything else.

Where in your life do you feel that familiar tug—the shift from serving to watching others?

Where is He calling you back to center?

What would it look like to let the main thing remain the main thing?