The Sweet Sound of a Second Fiddle
Regard one another as more important.
—PHILIPPIANS 2:3 NASB
It was a big day in the Lucado house when we purchased a piano. Denalyn loves to play music, and we wanted our daughters to share her passion.
Jenna was five years old. Andrea was three. Sara was a newborn. They were too young to accomplish much on the keyboard but not too young to put on a recital for Daddy. So they did. Almost nightly. Perhaps it was a ploy to postpone bedtime. If so, it worked. What father can resist this invitation: “Daddy, can I play you a song?”
“Me too, Daddy. Can I play you something on the piano?”
“Of course,” I’d say. Consequently the scene repeated itself often. Little girl on piano bench. Clad in footie pajamas. Hair still wet from the bath. Pounding the keys more than playing them. Upon completion she would bounce down from the bench and curtsy. I would applaud. Denalyn would applaud. Sister number two would take her turn; the scene would be repeated. It was a delight . . . most nights . . . except for the fights. (Sorry, Jenna and Andrea, but there were a few.)
Jenna would, in Andrea’s opinion, play too long. Andrea would climb up next to Jenna and start edging her off the bench. Or Andrea would mess up the song, and Jenna would insist on showing her how to play correctly. Andrea didn’t want help. A squabble would ensue.
“But, Daddy, she’s not playing it right.”
“But, Daddy, it’s my turn.”
“But, Daddy . . .”
What they didn’t understand and what I would try to explain was this: Daddy wasn’t grading the song. Daddy didn’t need to be impressed. Daddy didn’t need a performance, a presentation, or a contest. Daddy just enjoyed being with his girls. Competition and comparison turned my little darlings into tyrants. “Can’t we just be together?” I’d say.
Jesus once said the same to two sisters. In their house competition and comparison threatened to ruin a good evening.
As Jesus and the disciples continued on their way to Jerusalem, they came to a certain village where a woman named Martha welcomed him into her home. Her sister, Mary, sat at the Lord’s feet, listening to what he taught. But Martha was distracted by the big dinner she was preparing. She came to Jesus and said, “Lord, doesn’t it seem unfair to you that my sister just sits here while I do all the work? Tell her to come and help me.”
But the Lord said to her, “My dear Martha, you are worried and upset over all these details! There is only one thing worth being concerned about. Mary has discovered it, and it will not be taken away from her.” (Luke 10:38–42 NLT)
Gospel writer Luke embedded in his first sentence a few hints about the personality of Martha. “Martha welcomed [Jesus] into her home” (v. 38 NLT).
Martha was the one-person welcoming committee. Not Martha and Mary. Not Martha and Mary and Lazarus. Just Martha.
In my imagination she stands on the porch and welcomes Jesus into “her home.” Not their home. Hers. Lazarus lives there. Mary lives there. But this is Martha’s domain.
And this is Martha’s moment. Wide-open arms. “Come in, come in!” This is a big day. And Martha has in mind a “big dinner” (v. 40 NLT).
She escorts Jesus into the living room and offers him a chair. She gestures to his friends to make themselves at home. Jesus takes a seat, and Martha is about to do the same when she hears a noise from the kitchen.
Ding, ding. The soup is ready. The carrot-ginger soup that her namesake prepared on The Martha Stewart Show. Martha of Bethany remembers Martha of Stewart’s warning not to let the soup get too hot or sit too long.
“Excuse me, Jesus,” she says. “I need to mind the soup.”
She hurries into the kitchen, grabs her apron off the hook, and ties it behind her back. She slides the pot off the burner, dips a wooden spoon into the soup, and samples it. She nearly gags. It is as bland as egg whites. That’s when she realizes she’d forgotten the ginger! Martha of Stewart had looked at the camera and reminded, “Don’t forget the ginger.” But what had Martha of Bethany forgotten? The ginger. She throws open the wooden shutters and looks into the adjacent room. The disciples are chatting, laughing, talking.
“Dinner might be late!” she announces.
Jesus looks up and smiles. “No problem.”
Martha feverishly sets about making more soup. Skipping the soup course, of course, is out of the question. She is preparing a “big dinner.” She has the evening all mapped out in her mind. She will give Jesus soup. The disciples will watch. Yea verily the celestial audience will pause as Jesus will all but fall over with delight. “This soup is delicious,” he will say. “Divine! Heavenly! The broth of angels!”
Martha will blush and pretend to dismiss the compliment. “Oh, Jesus, it’s nothing. I just threw it together.” By now a crowd will have gathered on the front lawn. Perhaps a news truck or two. They will pass the word up and down the street. “Jesus is in Martha’s house, and he loves Martha’s soup.”
Of course, none of that celebration will happen if Martha doesn’t make the soup. So she relights the stove.
Then she checks the meatloaf. It has to be basted twice, once with tomato sauce and once with honey. It is time for basting number two. She sets the meatloaf on the counter. As she opens the pantry to fetch the honey, she spots the pitcher of mint tea on the counter. Horror of horrors! “I forgot to serve the mint tea!” What kind of hostess is she? She grabs a tray, fills glasses with ice, and hurries through the swinging doors.
Jesus by now is surely surly with thirst. She expects him to glare at her, glance at his watch, and arch his eyebrows. But he isn’t upset. He is sitting on the edge of his chair telling a story. His eyes are dancing. His hands are motioning. The disciples are smiling at his description of a Jewish boy who was feeding pigs.
And right smack in front of him, sitting cross-legged on the floor, is Mary, her baby sister.
“Pigs?” Mary asks.
“Yes, pigs!” Jesus affirms.
Martha steps over with her apology and tray of tea. “I am so sorry. I forgot the tea. You must think I am a terrible hostess. But, you see, I forgot the ginger and had to remake the soup. And the meatloaf . . . oh, the meatloaf!”
She sets the tray on the table and hurries back into the kitchen. She slaps sauce on the meatloaf. “Just in time,” she says as she places it back in the oven.
She takes the cutting board and begins slicing veggies. Through the open wooden shutters she sees Mary and Jesus. Her sister is laughing. Jesus is gearing up to tell another story. That’s when it dawns on Martha. Why isn’t Mary helping me? Mary could have cut the carrots or washed the celery. She could certainly do something.
Martha turns up the heat on the soup. And she feels the heat rise in her heart. Did her sister not know there was work to be done? The silverware is still in the drawer. The glasses are still in the pantry.
Martha releases an audible sigh. She carries an armful of plates into the dining room and sets them loudly on the table. No response. She feels her jaw tighten as she returns to the kitchen to stir the soup.
Within moments she marches back into the living room with the wooden spoon still in hand and slaps it in her palm, demanding, “Lord, doesn’t it seem unfair to you that my sister just sits here while I do all the work? Tell her to come and help me” (v. 40 NLT).
All conversation stops.
A dozen sets of eyes turn.
Mary looks down.
Jesus looks up.
Martha, cheeks flushed with anger, scowls. Her words hang in the air like the scrape of a fingernail on chalkboard.
What had happened to hospitable Martha, welcoming Martha? Luke gives us the answer. “Martha was distracted by the big dinner she was preparing” (v. 40 NLT). She had big plans to make a big impression with her big event. Instead she made a big mess. She became “worried and upset over all these details!” (v. 41 NLT).
Of all the ironies. Martha was in the presence of the Prince of Peace, yet she was the picture of stress.
What happened? What is the lesson behind Martha’s meltdown? That it’s a sin to cook? That hospitality is the Devil’s tool? No. The Bible makes a big deal out of parties and banquets. That it was wrong for her to expect Mary to help? Of course not.
Martha’s downfall was not her work or request; it was her motivation. I can’t help but think that she wasn’t serving Jesus; she was performing for him. She wasn’t making a meal for him; she was making a big deal about her service. She was suckered in with the subtlest of lies: self-promotion.
Self-promotion is all about self: “Look what I’ve done. Look what I’ve made.”
Self-promotion has little room for others: “She just sits.”
Self-promotion even bosses Jesus: “Tell them to get to work!”
Not a pretty sight.
Not a pleasant person.
Tell me, of the two sisters in the story, which would you rather spend time with—Martha or Mary?
The question is relevant. Might there be a Martha among us? Might there be a bit of Martha within us? Does our service for Jesus ever turn us into scowling grumps?
Hannah Whitall Smith, author of The Christian’s Secret of a Holy Life, was raised in a churchgoing home. Years before coming to Christ she recorded her impression of Christians in her journal.
Some look almost as if they think it is a sin to smile or speak a pleasant word. It appears to me that religion is supposed to make one happy, not miserable and disagreeable. . . .
Instead of a cheerful voice there is a long, drawling, melancholy whisper . . . instead of love and concern for those who have not yet found the path of life. There is a cool standoffishness, a feeling of “I’m better than you”—that effectually closes off the slightest opening. . . . Instead of a winning gentleness and loving-kindness to those around them, there is a kind of hidden snappishness and a continual comparing of oneself with them, followed by a disagreeable dictatorianism. And so, instead of the noble, beautiful, humble, liberal-minded, and happy religion I have so often pictured to myself, I see it as cross, gloomy, proud, bigoted, and narrow-minded.1
Perhaps Hannah had met a few Marthas. It’s a slippery slope, this thing of self-promotion. What begins as a desire to serve Christ metastasizes into an act of impressing people. When that happens, gifted Marthas become miserable mumblers. It’s easy to see why. If your happiness depends on the applause and approval of others, you’ll yo-yo up and down, based on the fickle opinion of people. If noticed, you’ll strut. If unnoticed, you’ll grumble.
Our generation’s fascination with social media has taken addiction to adulation to a whole new level. We measure success in “likes,” “retweets,” “thumbs-up,” and “friends.” Self-images rise and fall upon the whim of clicks and Facebook entries. Social media is social comparison on steroids! Does it make sense to hinge your joy on the unpredictable reactions and reviews of people you may not even know?
Yet the Martha within is not easily silenced. She showed up in my heart not long ago. A Christian conference was being held in our city. One of the keynote speakers canceled at the eleventh hour. I received a call from the organizers. Could I fill the slot?
May I confess my first thought? Me fill in for someone else? Me, your second choice? Your backup plan? Your plan B? I declined the offer. My reaction was self-centered and nauseating.
Mark it down. When ministry becomes vain ambition, nothing good happens. Martha gets snappy. Max gets puffy. And Jesus does not get served. No wonder Paul was so insistent: “Do nothing out of selfish ambition” (Phil. 2:3 NIV).
I am not God’s MVP.
You are not God’s VIP.
We are not God’s gift to humanity. He loves us and indwells us and has great plans for us. God can use each of us, but he doesn’t need any of us. We are valuable but not indispensable.
Can the ax boast greater power than the person who uses it?
Is the saw greater than the person who saws?
Can a rod strike unless a hand moves it?
Can a wooden cane walk by itself? (Isa. 10:15 NLT)
We are the ax, the saw, the rod, and the cane. We do nothing apart from the hand of God.
Nothing. “So the one who plants is not important, and the one who waters is not important. Only God, who makes things grow, is important” (1 Cor. 3:7 NCV, emphasis mine).
What gift are you giving that he did not first give? What truth are you teaching that he didn’t first teach? You love. But who loved you first? You serve. But who served the most? What are you doing for God that God could not do alone?
How kind of him to use us.
How wise of us to remember Paul’s antidote for joy-sucking self-promotion: “With humility of mind let each of you regard one another as more important than himself” (Phil. 2:3 NASB, 1977).
Jesus surely had a smile on his face when he gave the following instructions:
When someone invites you to dinner, don’t take the place of honor. Somebody more important than you might have been invited by the host. Then he’ll come and call out in front of everybody, “You’re in the wrong place. The place of honor belongs to this man.” Red-faced, you’ll have to make your way to the very last table, the only place left.
When you’re invited to dinner, go and sit at the last place. Then when the host comes he may very well say, “Friend, come up to the front.” That will give the dinner guests something to talk about! (Luke 14:8–10 THE MESSAGE)
Happy are the unentitled! Expecting the applause of others is a fool’s enterprise! Do yourself a favor and assume nothing. If you go unnoticed, you won’t be surprised. If you are noticed, you can celebrate.
Here is a helpful exercise that can turn your focus off yourself and on to others. During the next twenty-four hours make it your aim to celebrate everything good that happens to someone else. Keep a list. Develop your “rejoice with those who rejoice” (Rom. 12:15 NIV) muscle. The instant you see something good done by or for another person, let out a whoop and a holler, silently if not publicly. Throw some confetti. Can you envision the fun you will have?
You won’t begrudge the good weather enjoyed by Floridians; you’ll celebrate their sun-kissed day. Your colleague’s promotion will activate happiness, not resentment. The sight of studious Mary won’t create a grumbling Martha. Just the opposite. You will thank God for the attention she gives to spiritual matters.
By the end of the day, I daresay, you will be whistling your way through life.
Make a big deal out of yourself, and brace yourself for a day of disappointments. Make a big deal out of others, and expect a blue-ribbon day. You will move from joy to joy as you regard other people’s success as more important than your own.
Three angels once took note of a saintly man. He did so much good for so many people that the angels went to God with this request: “That man deserves a special gift. He is so unselfish. He always helps others. Let’s reward him.”
“With what?” God asked.
“With the gift of eloquence,” one angel suggested.
“With the gift of wisdom,” offered the second.
“Or the gift of leadership,” opined the third angel.
“Why don’t you ask him what he would like?” God suggested.
The angels agreed and approached the man.
“We would like to give you a gift.”
The man said nothing.
“Any gift you want,” the angels explained.
“Would you like to have the gift of eloquence so you can preach?”
“We can give you wisdom so you can counsel.”
“Or we will give you the gift of leadership so you can direct the lives of people.”
The man looked at the angels and asked, “I can have any gift?”
“Yes.”
“Any gift?”
“Yes.”
“Then I know what I want.”
“Tell us! It will be yours.”
“I want to do good and not know that I did it.”
From that day forward wherever the man’s shadow passed, good things happened. Plants flourished. People laughed. The sick were healed. Merchants succeeded. And the man, unburdened by the knowledge of his success, smiled.
Blessed is the Christian whose focus is on others.
Miserable is the Christian whose focus is on self.
If your desire to be noticed is making you miserable, you can bet it is doing the same for others. Stop being a Martha. Get back to basics. If you have a song to play on the piano, for heaven’s sake play it. But play it to please him. You’ll be amazed how peaceful the evening will be.