Mary, Martha, and ... Milton?

     The 29th of July is celebrated in the Catholic Church as the Feast of St Martha. You will recall, of course, that Martha was the hyperactive housekeeper who was anxious to make Jesus comfortable, and her sister Mary was the reflective introvert who was content to sit at his feet and listen to him.

     Mary and Martha have long served as prototypes for the two basic kinds of religious life: Mary is the model for the cloistered contemplative nun, while Martha is the model for the active sister who remains in the world to teach, nurse, or evangelize. Both are necessary to the world; indeed, they are essential, and represent the two crucial apostolates in the church—prayer and action. One cannot succeed without the other; but, as Jesus himself said, "Mary has chosen the better part." Prayer is the key to a real relationship with God; it is the world's silent mover and shaker. For this reason, I'm saddened that there are people, and, yes, even some Catholics, who deride the contemplative religious life. Some even deem it "unchristian." I can only surmise that they are either grossly misinformed about the life, or simply refuse to understand it. After all, it has been a part of the Christian church since its very beginning and even before.

     The reason I thought of Milton (the poet, that is) is that I was reading an essay this morning from Ann Fadiman's wonderful book Ex Libris. The essay, entitled "Scorn Not the Sonnet," is written in two parts; the second part deals with the author's father and the rapid decline of his eyesight due to acute retinal necrosis. Fadiman's father was an editor and critic; that he was suddenly no longer able to read text could have been a real setback for him, had his daughter not reminded him that Milton wrote Paradise Lost after he went blind. Ann and her father then remembered Milton's great sonnet, "On His Blindness."

When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide,
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide;
"Doth God exact day labour, light denied?"
I fondly ask; but Patience to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need
Either man's work, or his own gifts; who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait."

     When I was in the monastery, our chaplain at the time, who was a great lover of literature and extremely well-read, quoted the last five and a half lines of this sonnet in one of his homilies, in reference to the contemplative vocation. He said that there are times when it's difficult to pray, times when our fervor grows disconcertingly dim, when meditation and contemplation are fraught with distraction and dryness. Though we are aware of this when it happens, we can do little but carry on as best we can and wait for God's help, remembering that even our feeble, seemingly unfruitful efforts are precious to him and may do good somewhere to someone, without our knowing.

     Contemplatives are Marys, still and silent in the Lord's presence, waiting for him to speak and pondering his word. Contemplation is the highest form of prayer; its mysterious power helps sustain and nourish the Body of Christ, his Church. "They also serve who only stand and wait."