For Sunday, July 21, 2013 – Luke 10:38-42 and Colossians 1:15-28
Can’t you hear the affection in his voice: “Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things.” Jesus calls it like he sees it—and I think what he sees is not only Martha, but all of us. How prone we are to worry and distraction! We give them temporary shelter and before we know it they’ve taken up long-term residence, them and all their anxious children. We simply want to show a bit of compassion and caring, and before you know it the worries have installed new carpet and bought king-size beds.
Compassion and caring call us beyond ourselves, to a bigger experience of the world, whereas worry and distraction squeeze us into smaller and smaller circles. Compassion sends our roots down into the fertile loam of God’s presence in the world, regardless of how inconvenient the actions we are called to take might be; compassion flows through us, taking us beyond our perceived limitations. Worry, on the other hand, gains a stranglehold bit by bit, tangling around our ankles, tripping us up, a pesky weed strutting about at the surface of things, choking off the feeding of God’s life within. Pondering the depths, where “the fullness of God is pleased to dwell,” is always the enemy of worry. In the depths we see worry for what it is—a selfish desire for control.
For most of us, pondering the fullness of God brings a suffering of sorts. We simply cannot do it and continue to be who we’ve grown familiar with being. For Paul, suffering meant imprisonment and torture, as well as struggling to convey the riches of transformation in Christ. Martha’s suffering was the tension of leaving the work of hospitality unfinished even if no one else did it. Each of us suffers differently as we try to manage work and relationships and homes and callings to co-create with God evidence of a redeemed world. What if everyone did nothing except sit at Jesus’ feet and ponder the depths? What kind of sorry mess would our world be in then?
And that, my friends, is the voice of worry. Finding the still point within calms worry and makes room for creative compassion. What might it mean for our world if each of us chose the still point? Chose, not worry and distraction, but compassion and caring, allowing us to rejoice in our suffering and rest in “the better part” which cannot be taken away. What might the ripples from that sort of quiet revolution be?
