Luke 10:38-42
38 Now as they went on their way, he entered a certain village where a woman named Martha welcomed him.[a] 39 She had a sister named Mary, who sat at Jesus’s[b] feet and listened to what he was saying. 40 But Martha was distracted by her many tasks, so she came to him and asked, “Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself? Tell her, then, to help me.” 41 But the Lord answered her, “Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things, 42 but few things are needed—indeed only one.[c] Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her.”
Some of the most stressful conversations we have are not with strangers. They’re with the people we love the most. A sibling. A spouse. That family member who knows exactly how to push your buttons. These are the people with whom we share a house, a history—and often, a little simmering resentment.
In Luke 10, Jesus walks into such a moment. He arrives at the home of Martha and Mary. On the surface, it’s a story about hospitality. But if we look closer, it’s a scene charged with emotional tension, family patterns, gender dynamics, and spiritual choices. This is more than a tale of housework versus prayer. It’s an invitation to choose the better place—not just physically, but emotionally and spiritually.
Let’s set the scene. Martha opens her home to Jesus and his disciples. It’s likely her house, suggesting she’s the older sister and the household head. In a culture where hospitality is sacred and women’s roles are clearly defined, Martha springs into action. The meal won’t cook itself. Loaves and fish do not appear out of nowhere. She mobilizes all her formidable skills to make sure everything is just right.
Mary, meanwhile, chooses a different posture. She sits at Jesus’ feet, listening to him teach. This is not only a radical choice—sitting in the place of a disciple, usually reserved for men—but also a deeply spiritual one. She chooses presence over productivity, contemplation over control.
And this drives Martha up the wall.
She stews. She stirs. She slams the cupboard just a little too loudly. Finally, unable to contain it, she bursts into the room and says, “Lord, don’t you care that my sister has left me to do the work by myself? Tell her to help me!”
How much undercurrent, blame, and passive-aggressive martyrdom can you fit into one sentence? "Don’t you care?" is more attack than inquiry. It puts Jesus on the defensive. When someone says, “If you loved me, you’d do X,” it creates an emotional trap. Even if you have a good reason not to, your refusal now feels like rejection.
Martha had options. She could have quietly asked Mary to lend a hand. Or even gone big and asked Jesus to send a couple of male disciples to chop vegetables. But instead, she triangulates—pulling Jesus into the middle of a family conflict. In family systems theory, this is a classic move: draw in a third party to reduce relational tension between two people. But it rarely helps. The third person usually ends up carrying everyone’s emotional baggage.
Jesus, however, does not take the bait. He doesn’t side with one sister against the other. He doesn’t reorganize the disciples into a dishwashing brigade. Instead, he addresses the deeper issue—not the tasks, but the anxiety behind them.
“Martha, Martha,” he says. The repetition of her name is tender. Throughout Scripture, when God repeats a name—“Abraham, Abraham,” “Moses, Moses,” “Saul, Saul”—it signals love, urgency, and a call to deeper awareness. Jesus is not scolding Martha. He’s reaching out to her.
“You are worried and upset about many things,” he continues. The Greek here is vivid. The word for “worried” means pulled apart internally. The word for “upset” refers to visible turmoil, external chaos. Jesus names both Martha’s inner anxiety and the way it’s spilling out into the room.
And then he says: “Only one thing is needed. Mary has chosen the better place, and it will not be taken from her.”
Tradition often interprets this as an endorsement of contemplation over action. But it’s more nuanced than that. Jesus isn’t saying that working hard is wrong or that hospitality is unimportant. He is gently pointing out that anxiety distorts our relationships, our spiritual lives, and our ability to be present.
Let’s be clear: both Mary and Martha have valuable roles. One is serving; one is learning. Both are essential parts of discipleship. But the key difference is not what they’re doing—it’s the spirit in which they’re doing it. Mary has chosen to sit, to be present, to listen. She is in the better place because she is in a less anxious place.
We see this dynamic again in John’s Gospel. When their brother Lazarus dies, it’s Martha who marches out to confront Jesus: “If you had been here, my brother would not have died.” Later, at Lazarus’ resurrection dinner, it’s Mary who anoints Jesus with perfume—an extravagant, emotional act that upsets the status quo. Mary consistently chooses presence and intuition. Martha thinks she is the one holding everything together and bears the emotional load. Then that self-imposed weight becomes too much.
That’s the invitation for us. To choose the better place—not the easier place, not the passive place, but the calmer, grounded, centered place. The place where we are not ruled by our worries, our need to control, or our fear of being unseen.
When we’re anxious, we often act like Martha. We move into over-functioning. We control, we micromanage, we lash out. We triangulate. And we lose our connection—to others, to God, even to ourselves.
Jesus doesn’t reject Martha. He doesn’t tell her to stop serving. He calls her by name and names her struggle. That’s grace. That’s the beginning of healing.
So how do we choose the better place?
First, we manage our own anxiety.
In tense situations, we often try to fix the other person or control the outcome. But the most powerful thing we can do is stay grounded ourselves. Slow your breathing. Pay attention to what’s happening in your body. Ask yourself, “What is so challenging for me right now? What do I really want?” The first rule of leadership or crisis management is to manage yourself. When you regulate your internal state, you have a chance to shift the emotional temperature of the room.
Second, we address anxiety before we address content.
Whether in family conflicts, church meetings, or workplace drama, the temptation is to argue over the facts. But anxious systems don’t respond well to logic. The conversation will be driven by the most reactive person in the room unless someone introduces calm. A wise pastor once told me, “Don’t let the most anxious person in the room set the agenda.” Be the person who restores calm, so creative solutions can emerge.
Third, we practice presence.
Mary sat at Jesus’ feet not because she was lazy or irresponsible, but because she was fully present to what mattered most. In our multitasking, distracted world, that’s a revolutionary act. To put down the phone. To stop mentally editing your to-do list. To listen—to another person, to yourself, ultimately for the still, small voice. “Be still and know that I am God.” That’s a spiritual discipline.
Finally, we let go of control.
So much of our anxiety is rooted in the fear that if we don’t handle everything, it will all fall apart. But that’s not the good news of the gospel. The truth is that we are not God. We are not the Savior. We are invited to rest in the presence of the One who is.
So maybe the better place is not just a location in the house, but a posture of the heart.
The better place is the place where you breathe instead of brace. The place where you listen instead of lash out. The place where you connect instead of control.
And here’s the promise: “It will not be taken from you.”
When you choose presence over panic, peace over pressure, Jesus says that space is yours to keep. The better place is not about escaping your responsibilities—it’s about inhabiting them with less fear and more grace.
So the next time the kitchen gets hot—literally or metaphorically—the next time you feel alone, overwhelmed, and unseen, remember this moment. Remember, you don’t have to fix everything. You don’t even have to win the argument. You just have to choose the better place. Claim the place of calm. The place of connection. The place where you listen instead of lash out. Where you breathe instead of break. Where you stay grounded in love, not driven by fear.
Choose the better place. And let it hold you. What better promise could there be for us?"
