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One of the themes that jumped out at me from the readings this weekend is a spiritual quality we all enjoy receiving but may have a harder time offering: hospitality.
Hospitality was a hallmark of biblical life. It wasn’t just good manners or offering someone a cold drink on a hot day. It was much deeper than that. For ancient peoples, it was a matter of honor to welcome the stranger as though they were family—because that stranger just might be sent by God… or even be God.
True hospitality starts at the door, but it’s meant to go further—to make space in the heart. That kind of welcome requires us to be open to interruptions and disruptions of our plans—two things I am absolutely lousy at embracing! But this uncomfortable, messy virtue is vital, because it opens our eyes to the moments—more frequent than we realize—when God is standing right in front of us in the form of a stranger or someone in need.
In our first reading, Abraham and Sarah greet three travelers as they pass by their home, offering them bread, meat, and rest. But in doing so, they unknowingly welcome the very presence of God. And what follows? A miracle. A promise. A blessing beyond belief. An elderly couple—long past the age of childbearing—would have a son. Hospitality opened the door to hope.
Then in the Gospel, we find Jesus visiting his closest friends—Mary, Martha, and Lazarus. He’s on his final journey to Jerusalem and seeks shelter in their home. Martha, God bless her, is doing what most of us do when entertaining a guest: cleaning, cooking, making sure everything is just right. Mary, however, is sitting at his feet, listening. And Martha, overwhelmed and likely sweating over the fire, finally says what many of us would have been thinking: “Lord, don’t you care? Tell her to help me!”
And Jesus responds, not with frustration, but with deep affection: “Martha, Martha, you are anxious and worried about many things. There is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part and it will not be taken from her.”
This isn’t Jesus throwing Martha under the bus. He’s not saying her work doesn’t matter. After all, without Martha, there would be no dinner! But what he is saying is this: Let your service flow from your time with me. Sit first. Listen first. Be still first. Then go and serve.
The point of this story and the goal of true hospitality is that prayer and action are not opposites—they are companions. If we only pray and never act, we risk becoming disconnected from the real needs of others. But if we only act without praying—without first listening to the Lord—our service can become frantic, anxious, and little more than activism. We lose our center. We burn out. We become resentful and indulge in self-pity.
I remember learning this lesson in a personal way early in my priesthood. I was asked to assist Bishop Hermann while he was running the archdiocese for a number of months before Archbishop Carlson arrived in St. Louis. Those days were full as we rushed from meetings to ceremonies to social events.
At some point, I started complaining to Bishop Hermann that there just wasn’t enough time in the day—for prayer, for study, for exercise, for all the other parts of my assignment. I felt like it was unfair that all of this had been added to my assignment.
Bishop Hermann let me vent for a while. Then he said, “We all get the same 24 hours each day. The people who pray, serve, study, and still find time to take care of themselves—they don’t get extra time. They just put first things first. And when you do that, the things that truly need to get done will get done. And the things that don’t? If you’ve grounded your day in prayer, you’ll come to realize—they probably weren’t that important after all.”
That wisdom stuck with me—not just because of his words, but because of his example. Bishop Hermann carried out his ministry every day in a spirit of peace and joy—no matter what curveballs were thrown his way. But a non-negotiable each day, no matter how full his schedule, was time in silent prayer before the Lord.
We can think of it like our phones. You might have all the apps and features in the world, but if the battery is dead, you're not going anywhere. Martha reminds us of the importance of showing up and getting things done. But Mary reminds us that our spiritual battery needs daily recharging—at the feet of Jesus.
And friends, that’s exactly what the Mass is. It’s not about doing God a favor by showing up and checking the box. It’s about what God does for us—offering Himself as food, welcoming us to His table, inviting us to rest in His presence. Every time we gather, we are both Mary and Martha—receiving and serving, praying and preparing to act.
So maybe this week, we can all take a moment to reflect: How am I using the 24 hours I get each day? What are my priorities? Am I starting my day at the feet of Jesus, or am I jumping right into the to-do list? Am I making time for quiet, for prayer, for listening? Or am I rushing through life, distracted, anxious, resentful—like Martha?
Is there a spirit of hospitality in the way I serve others? Am I willing to accept the unplanned and disruptive moments and people who show up and blow up my day?
Jesus needed both Mary and Martha. One offered nourishment and practical care; the other offered attention and affection. And Jesus—on the way to the cross—needed both. And so does the Church. So does the world. So do our families, our parishes, our communities.
So today, Jesus isn’t choosing one sister over the other. He’s inviting both of them—and all of us—to come closer. To put first things first.
And the “one thing necessary”? To begin with Him!
