Sons of Mary rejoice
A friend recently sent me the poem The Sons of Martha by Rudyard Kipling. What a lovely thing, to be sent a poem by a friend! I did not know the poem, nor did I ever suspect that Kipling was some sort of Bolshevik or held the doctrine of grace in such derision, but apparently he was and did, based on the following poem -- which, nonetheless, I found back-fired and served me quite well in contemplation of Christ's gifts. Here is the poem:
The Sons of Martha
THE Sons of Mary seldom bother, for they have inherited that good part;
But the Sons of Martha favour their Mother of the careful soul and the troubled heart.
And because she lost her temper once, and because she was rude to the Lord her Guest,
Her Sons must wait upon Mary's Sons, world without end, reprieve, or rest.
It is their care in all the ages to take the buffet and cushion the shock.
It is their care that the gear engages; it is their care that the switches lock.
It is their care that the wheels run truly; it is their care to embark and entrain,
Tally, transport, and deliver duly the Sons of Mary by land and main.
They say to mountains, " Be ye removèd" They say to the lesser floods " Be dry."
Under their rods are the rocks reprovèd - they are not afraid of that which is high.
Then do the hill tops shake to the summit - then is the bed of the deep laid bare,
That the Sons of Mary may overcome it, pleasantly sleeping and unaware.
They finger death at their gloves' end where they piece and repiece the living wires.
He rears against the gates they tend: they feed him hungry behind their fires.
Early at dawn, ere men see clear, they stumble into his terrible stall,
And hale him forth like a haltered steer, and goad and turn him till evenfall.
To these from birth is Belief forbidden; from these till death is Relief afar.
They are concerned with matters hidden - under the earthline their altars are
The secret fountains to follow up, waters withdrawn to restore to the mouth,
And gather the floods as in a cup, and pour them again at a city's drouth.
They do not preach that their God will rouse them a little before the nuts work loose.
They do not teach that His Pity allows them to leave their job when they damn-well choose.
As in the thronged and the lighted ways, so in the dark and the desert they stand,
Wary and watchful all their days that their brethren's days may be long in the land.
Raise ye the stone or cleave the wood to make a path more fair or flat;
Lo, it is black already with blood some Son of Martha spilled for that!
Not as a ladder from earth to Heaven, not as a witness to any creed,
But simple service simply given to his own kind in their common need.
Maybe I am being unfair to Kipling and I know next to nothing of his life (he was sick as a boy, lived in India, was a fan of mongoose), but I think he is offended by the language of grace and Martha being praised for doing nothing. He seems to lay the blame for the idea of privilege and oppression of the workers by the upper classes somehow at Our Lord's feet and is disgusted by the belittling of what he says as noble and honest work. The poem rings in my ears as at least slightly sacrilegious in the use of Mary and Martha.
But Kipling has a point. For, in fact, God does order all of the world and the affairs of men to serve the Church. For example, when Augustus decreed there should be a census of the world he did not know he was an instrument in getting Mary to the right place to fulfill prophecy but he was. Grace is, at its essence, unfair, lest it is not grace. The workers in the vineyard are paid according to their work but according to Christ's generosity and those who insist on the value of their work and demand to be judged by it are given a denarius, what is their own, and expelled from the vineyard.
I certainly don't mean to say that this is a model for how to run a nation or a business. It isn't. The Kingdom of heaven defies the economies, reason, and equality of men. So Mary is praised for doing nothing, for receiving, not for letting Martha do the work, but for letting God do the work.
And thus we see, once again, the incredible value of poetry. Kipling has beautifully wrought his piece and served us well and I sincerely doubt that he, even if he was a Bolshevik and anti-Christian, and I don't know that he was, would be the least offended. His poem has done its work. It has invaded my head. It has changed me. It has caused me to think about the world, the cosmos even, and my place in it.