The Living Room of Bethany
The sun was beginning to set behind the hills of Bethany.
Inside a modest home, the smell of baking bread drifted through the air.
Pans clanged, oil simmered, and Martha rushed from one side of the room to the other. Her hands were caked with flour. Her brow beaded with sweat. Jesus—the Teacher, the miracle-worker, her friend—was in her home.
He was seated not in a palace, not in a synagogue, but in her living room.
And while Martha hurried to make the moment perfect, her sister Mary did something scandalous.
She sat at Jesus’ feet.
This wasn’t just about rest. This wasn’t laziness or domestic rebellion. Sitting at the feet of a rabbi was the posture of a disciple—a student. It was where men were expected to be. Mary dared to sit there, wide-eyed and open-hearted, absorbing his every word. She chose to be a disciple.
And Martha? She chose service. She chose duty. She chose doing.
Until she broke.
“Lord, don’t you care?” she snapped, voice cutting through the calm like broken glass. “My sister has left me to do the work by myself. Tell her to help me!”
Jesus turned to her, not with anger—but tenderness.
“Martha, Martha, you are worried and upset about many things, but few things are needed—or indeed only one. Mary has chosen what is better…”
The CEO and the Forgotten Self
Fast forward two thousand years.
Across the ocean, in the heart of a city that never sleeps, sat another Martha.
Her name was Jennifer Caldwell. CEO of one of the fastest-growing tech firms in North America. On paper, she was unstoppable. Interviews. Strategy meetings. Flights. Deals. Awards. A beautiful penthouse and a calendar booked for the next six months.
But behind the gloss of her success, she hadn’t sat with her children for a meal in weeks. Her parents had stopped calling. Her partner had quietly grown distant. She hadn’t meditated, prayed, or paused in years. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d read Scripture or even wept in the presence of God.
One Wednesday afternoon, Jennifer found herself sitting in a hotel lobby during a layover. She picked up her phone to scroll, but a Mid Week Wednesday video appeared in her feed—shared by her long-forgotten church’s page.
She almost swiped past.
But something—something gentle and unnameable—made her pause.
The speaker was calm, warm. Not flashy. Just a person speaking peace. About the noise of life. About Martha and Mary. About how Jesus didn’t condemn the doing, but invited us to choose the better part.
Her breath caught.
Tears streamed down her face before she knew they were coming. She looked around to make sure no one noticed. But something cracked open inside.
That video was the first step. The next was a message to her assistant: “Please clear my Friday afternoon.”
She needed to find the feet of Jesus again.
The Tension We All Feel
The Martha in us says:
- “There’s too much to do.”
- “I don’t have time to pray.”
- “I’ll sit with God after I finish everything else.”
But the Mary in us whispers:
- “Just be.”
- “Come close.”
- “Choose the better part.”
The tension isn’t between right and wrong—but between urgent and important.
And Jesus is not angry with our doing—he just misses our presence.
That’s why Mid Week Wednesday, Still Point 12:10 matters.
It’s not a show. It’s a pause.
In a culture that glorifies hustle, we need sacred disruption. Something that doesn’t ask for money or applause. Just a moment of grace.
For the Jennifer Caldwells of the world, it’s a reminder: You don’t have to earn God’s love.
You don’t have to schedule your soul.
You don’t have to keep running.
Mid Week Wednesday offers space. Stillness. Reflection. A gentle hand saying, “Come sit. Come rest. Come listen.”
Choosing the Better Part
What makes Jesus’ words so powerful in this story is what he doesn’t say. He doesn’t shame Martha. He doesn’t say, “Your work is meaningless.” He doesn’t say, “Service is bad.” But he does say that Mary chose the better part.
Why?
Because being with Jesus, truly present, is more life-giving than anything we can do for him.
It’s easy to applaud productivity. In a world where identity is tied to performance, sitting still feels like laziness. Meditation feels inefficient. Prayer feels like silence. Sabbath feels like wasting time.
But Jesus tells us something shocking: “Only one thing is needed.”
One thing.
Not a list. Not a resume. Not a perfect table. Not a spotless kitchen. Not a mega-church program.
Just one thing.
To be with him.
Mary Magdalene, the True Disciple
Mary of Bethany wasn’t the only woman to sit at Jesus’ feet.
Mary Magdalene was the first to witness the resurrection. She too, was called by name—“Mary”—by the risen Christ, just as he had called Martha tenderly.
And what did she do?
She ran to tell the others. She preached the resurrection before Peter even arrived at the tomb.
Mary Magdalene wasn’t just a witness. She was a disciple. A preacher. A teacher.
So when people say women should be silent in church, they’ve forgotten the women who spoke first.
They’ve ignored the Jesus who called women by name. Who allowed them to learn. To lead. To weep. To worship.
Busyness is not holiness.
We must stop baptizing burnout. Stop celebrating exhaustion. Stop equating full calendars with faithful hearts. Sometimes the most revolutionary act is to be still.
The Gentle Correction
Jesus didn’t rebuke Martha to shame her. He corrected her gently so she could find peace.
“Martha, Martha…”
He said her name twice. Not to scold. But to call her back.
Maybe today, he’s calling yours:
“Jennifer, Jennifer…”
“Sharon, Sharon…”
“Church, Church…”
Come back.
Come sit.
Choose the better part.
The Final Invitation — Come Sit at His Feet
So we return to Bethany.
To Jesus.
To a quiet room.
To two sisters—one bustling, one listening.
And we hear his voice again:
“Martha, Martha… You are worried and upset about many things. But only one thing is needed. Mary has chosen the better part.”
We remember Jennifer, the CEO, whose life was full but soul was empty—until one Mid Week Wednesday helped her slow down.
And we remember ourselves.
Jesus is calling again.
He calls you not to perform—but to pause.
Not to impress—but to abide.
Not to earn—but to receive.
He calls women and men. The weary and the powerful. The overlooked and the overworked. He calls you.
And he says, “Come sit at my feet.”
To the church that has silenced women: let them speak.
To the Martha working too hard: come rest.
To the Marys who dared to listen: you chose rightly.
To you reading this now, wondering if God can still use you: yes, yes, and yes again.
Friends, the world won’t stop spinning. The dishes will still be there. The meetings won’t reschedule themselves. The headlines will shout, and the phones will ping.
But the feet of Jesus are still open.
The better part is still available.
And it will not be taken away from you!
