21 July 2013

"The Sons of Martha"


Since this week's Gospel is the story of Jesus in the home of Martha and Mary in Bethany, I'm posting a poem written by Rudyard Kipling in 1907, titled "The Sons of Martha."  It's a curious (although interesting) poem based on the story from St. Luke's Gospel, and it develops the idea of Martha serving, and Mary sitting and listening, but through their future spiritual sons.

The poem became part of a ceremony developed by Kipling in 1922 for graduating students of engineering in Canada, when the graduates receive their "iron ring," which they wear on the "little finger of the working hand."  Kipling included this poem as a reminder that there are those who work quietly in the background for the safety and comfort of others.

I'm not sure the poem is very useful for a theological understanding of the Gospel story, but it does make the important point all of us would do well to remember when we turn on a light switch, or fill the car with fuel, or use any of the products and services which are part of everyday life -- others have provided these things by doing their jobs. 

The Sons of Martha
Rudyard Kipling 1907

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 removed.” They say to the lesser floods, “Be dry.”
Under their rods are the rocks reproved-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 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 drop their job when they dam’-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 day 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.

And the Sons of Mary smile and are blessed – they know the Angels are on their side.
They know in them is the Grace confessed, and for them are the Mercies multiplied.
They sit at the Feet – they hear the Word – they see how truly the Promise runs.
They have cast their burden upon the Lord, and – the Lord He lays it on Martha’s Sons!