Last week, Meg, Risa, and I
went on vacation with Meg’s family, as we do almost every summer, to Hatteras
Island on the Outer Banks of North Carolina.
It’s a long journey there and back, but while we’re there, life is
pretty simple. We’ve rented the same two
houses by the beach for ten years or more, and we all settle quickly into a familiar
rhythm: get up, do what you do first thing in the morning--run, do yoga, whatever—have
some breakfast, and then carry the umbrellas and folding chairs and body boards
and surfboards and whatever is required for a day of fun at the beach, over the
dunes. We set up our spot, spend a
couple of hours playing in the water or on the sand, beachcombing, or just
hanging out talking or reading, until it is time to go in for lunch. Rinse off in the outdoor shower, eat lunch,
take a nap. Go back out to the beach for
a couple more hours, and then haul everything back in for the night. Take another shower and gather at the big
house for dinner and games and conversation until bed. Repeat.
As I say, it’s wonderfully simple,
and while there is always sunburn to contend with, and insect bites, jellyfish
stings, or swimmer’s ear, and the odd strained muscles, scrapes, and bruises
from playing long and hard, it is for all of us, a happy time in a happy
place. So that’s why I’m always a little
surprised, and a little chagrined, when I find that I’ve been there for two or
three days and I’m still worrying. I
worry a little bit about the weather, about how windy it will be tomorrow, and
whether it will rain, or if a fork of lightning will suddenly appear in that
cloud on the southern horizon. But
mostly I worry about the logistics of getting everybody what they need: about
whose turn it is to make dinner, and who will do the dishes, and whether it’s
time to go get Grandpa Peter and push him out to the beach in his special
wheelchair with the balloon tires. And I
worry about what’s fair, about whether I’m doing my share or doing more than my
share.
Of course, there are fewer
people to worry about, when I’m at the Outer Banks, than when I’m at my post
here in Petaluma. And the relief that
comes from pulling back from my usual obligations and responsibilities is
welcome and needed. So I think I
understand why people who can afford it go on luxury vacations where there’s someone
paid even to haul the umbrellas to and from the beach, and to cook the meals,
and clean up afterward, so one can focus entirely on rest and relaxation. But, personally, I think I would miss the
kind of companionship that comes from pitching in together to get things done,
if it were entirely absent. This is
especially true now that the younger generation is mature enough to make a
significant contribution to the team. My
nephews Nick and Chris helping me push Grandpa’s chair to the top of the dune
was as meaningful to me as helping them get out on the Stand-up
Paddleboard. Not only that, but I
imagine that even on a luxury vacation I would still find something to worry
about, like whether I’d paid too much, or was tipping enough, or whether the
staff secretly resentment me.
Luke, more than the Gospel
writers, recognizes that there was a logistical aspect to the ministry of Jesus
of Nazareth. It didn’t just spontaneously
and miraculously unfold, but it required planning, organization, and management. There was a message to share, and healings to
perform, and unclean spirits to vanquish, but there were also beds to make, and
dinner to cook and dishes to wash. So I think it would be a misreading of today’s
story of Mary and Martha to say that following Jesus should be a kind of luxury
vacation, where we don’t concern ourselves with anyone else’s needs. And I don’t think that Jesus is saying here
that there is one kind of discipleship, one oriented toward study and
contemplation, which is better than another kind that is more about active
service and social solidarity. But Jesus
is saying to Martha that scattering
her attention on a multitude of tasks, and constantly worrying about how they
are all going to get done, and resenting her sister for not helping out, isn’t
bringing her any closer to what really matters.
There is an element of the
whole complex business of our lives that is not just one part among many. It is not just one more of the things that we
have to try to “fit in” along with all the others on our to-do list. Jesus, you will notice, is reticent about even
naming it, as if to do so would play into our eagerness to grasp on to one more
thing to worry about and to try to accomplish.
He just cagily calls it the “better part” of life. But he says it’s the only thing that we
really need. He also says that it is a
choice, the choice that Mary has made.
Martha also has made a choice,
the choice to welcome Jesus into her home, but she seems to feel that having
taken that step, she also took on a whole set of attendant duties, obligations and
demands, that are no longer really optional.
And I imagine many of us can recognize something like this in our own
experience. At one point or another we
made a choice that defined our lives--the choice of a spouse, of a profession,
the choice to have children, the choice of a place to live, of a particular
standard of living—and the consequences of those choices are so profound in
terms of the responsibilities they entail that we have a hard time remembering
that they were ever choices at all. It
seems like a funny paradox that more decisively we embrace the possibilities of
our particular destiny--in other words, the more choices we make, the less
“free” we are, if by “freedom” we mean having all options open.
And this might be a clue to
understanding the second thing that Jesus says about Mary’s choice of the
“better part,” which is that it will not be taken away from her. Because the only thing we fear more than
losing the freedom to do whatever we want, is that we might make a whole-hearted
commitment, and then lose what we’ve chosen.
Just because we’ve chosen a particular spouse, or career, or home to
live in, doesn’t mean that now we get to keep it forever. The choice to have children feels at times
like such a gut-wrenching risk because there is no guarantee that they will
outlive us, or even want to associate with us when their grown. And that is where the anxiety comes in, the kind
of anxiety that drives Martha to keep trying to juggle all the balls and not to
drop any of them, even at the cost of her peace of mind; because to do so would
be to fail. She’s afraid to disappoint
Jesus, maybe because she's afraid to lose the privilege of serving him.
But if Martha had chosen to
welcome Jesus, not only into her home, but also into her heart, and had stopped,
and sat, and listened to what he said, she might have heard something that put
all of her anxieties into perspective.
She might have seen that the freedom that makes all the difference for
our lives does not depend on finishing the chores, or taking a vacation, or
retiring from our jobs. It’s not a
freedom we get for ourselves, and so there are no required steps for hanging on
to it.
It’s the freedom that enables
us to rejoice when we are suffering, and to hope when we are grieving, to turn
homeward when we are lost, and to stand up when we’re oppressed. I’m talking about the freedom of God, who
chose to dwell fully in the human person of Jesus Christ. I’m talking about the freedom of Christ, who chose
to offer his life and death to the mission of reconciling all things to
God. I’m talking about the freedom of
the Holy Spirit in the saints, who broke through every barrier of ignorance,
hostility, indifference, and incomprehension, to proclaim the riches of
Christ’s glory to the whole creation.
All this, so that you and I might have the freedom to choose
Christ.
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