The active contemplative: another take on Martha

Yesterday in programmed worship, the sermon was from John 12 on the anointing of Jesus’ feet. One thing I like about the sermons at our church is that they frequently combine the preparation of the preacher, the active participation of the congregation, and times of dynamic silence where we are encouraged to listen to the Spirit. All of this happened yesterday. As the preacher, Cherice did a good job of leading us through the passage and helping us connect it to our own experience.

In one exercise, we were asked to imagine ourselves into the scene and identify with one of the characters. Am I at all like Mary with her extravagant, but appropriate, worship? Am I like the self-serving Judas? Or am I more like practical but critical Martha, frowning from the kitchen?

At the suggestion of the “practical but critical Martha,” my mind did one of those something’s-wrong-with-this-picture double-takes, like with those drawings in kids’ magazines where you have to find all the things that aren’t quite right—the upside-down clock, an ear where a nose should be, etc. The frowning Martha wasn’t quite right.

This suggested image harkens back to an earlier story, of course, where Martha does indeed frown and complain about her sister’s inconsideration in not helping with meal preparation (Luke 10:30-42). Jesus’ response both challenges and comforts: “Martha, Martha,” the Lord answered [here I can see him lightly touching her face], “you are worried and upset about many things, but only one thing is needed. Mary has chosen what is better, and it will not be taken away from her.”

I love it that Jesus says her name twice. In so many of his conversations with women, Jesus addresses them simply as, “Woman.” This repetition of Martha’s name is full of affection and affirmation, even as he takes her attitude to task.

The story in Luke ends with Jesus’ rebuke to Martha, but Martha’s story continues. Here we have to read between the lines (or, better stated, between the stories). My educated imagination sees Martha as teachable. I think she took to heart what Jesus told her, helped along by how he said it. I see her mulling over the “one thing needed” that her sister had got right. I see her changing, perhaps not all at once, but ever more deeply, learning to find her own way of listening to Jesus and letting her service become worship.

One clue that this might be happening comes in a story that falls between the Luke 10 and the John 12 stories. In John 11, Jesus again comes to the home of Martha, Mary and Lazarus. This, of course, is the story of the resurrection of Lazarus from the dead, but much of the detail involves Jesus’ interactions with the two sisters. It’s interesting that John states, early in the chapter, that “Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus,” specifically naming Martha.

Martha, still the more practical, cerebral sister, is the one who comes out to meet Jesus, and their conversation reveals her growing faith and understanding of who Jesus is (although a few surprises await her). I see here a different Martha, one who has changed from the woman Jesus rebuked earlier.

Mary is still the more emotional, intuitive sister, the one who leads from the heart. Her beautiful costly sacrifice as she anoints Jesus' feet (John 12) continues to inspire and encourage those of us who would also be followers and lovers of Jesus.

But I can’t see Martha in this scene as the critical, resentful woman she once was. The only thing the text says about her in this story is simply that “Martha served.” Martha is still Martha, more prone to action than reflection, called to a life of practical service. But as she watches Mary pour out the perfume on Jesus’ feet and wipe those feet with her hair—strange behavior indeed—and as the fragrance begins to fill the room, perhaps something deep within Martha whispers, “Yes.” Perhaps she slowly begins to smile. Perhaps she, too, worships. Perhaps.

Anyway, a thank you to Cherice for opening the Scriptures to us in such a way that we enter the story. Or, better yet, that the story enters us. I take as my challenge this week the joining of my active and contemplative responses as I seek to follow Jesus…

--with both heart and head…
--in silence and in service…
--extravagantly and in simplicity…

Yes, Lord.

Just Moms

This week I finally received my copies of Barclay Press’ new book, Just Moms: Conveying Justice in an Unjust World, edited by Melanie Springer Mock and Rebekah D. Scheiter. Let me shamelessly quote the blurb on the back: “In this poignant, honest, and sometimes witty collection of stories, 27 women share their adventures and misadventures modeling social-justice principles for their children and communities. Just Moms is about moms bending their own rules and redefining success as they work to raise kids who value peace, equality, truth, simplicity, and love.”

Having previously read only my own story, I’ve been thoroughly enjoying reading through the other chapters, feeling more and more the privilege of being included among this group of creative, thoughtful women who all struggle with the complexities of bringing up children with strong kingdom values. One thing I like about the book is that no one attempts to tell us how to do it. No formulas here, but stories that flesh out struggles, failures and grace-filled moments of success. I also appreciate the good writing. And the variety of issues addressed.

For example, in “Cat on a Hot Ride’s Roof,” Willi Tranmer writes of the challenges of adopting two black children from backgrounds of mental illness and alcoholism. Amy Lutz’s story, “His Pink Shoes,” deals with passing on the values of gender equality and roles. (What do you do when your little boy loves Hello Kitty pink tennis shoes and want to wear them to school?). In “Gun Control,” Doreen Dodgen-Magee wrestles with the tensions of passing on pacifistic ideals while letting her son experiment and come to his own conclusions. (Do you let him buy the airsoft gun?) My story, “One Small Miracle,” tells of teaching children to pray and then working through the times when it doesn’t “work.”

Reading through these stories (and I’m not finished yet), I find myself renewed in courage. I’m not the only one to struggle in these areas. I am not alone. Neither are you. Please buy this book. Give it to your sisters and daughters and friends. Use it as a prod for discussion in small groups or parenting classes. Our children are worth it.

Praying for the world

I sense the arrogance of this title, “Praying for the world.” Who am I to think I can make any difference at all? Yesterday morning I woke up to the sound of a Tsunami warning, and while nothing came of a possible big surge on the Oregon coast, the news of what Japan is facing continues to weigh. Add to that the news that Gaddafi is pushing back the opposition in Libya, and my prayers seem small indeed.

Yet I’ve known for years that God is calling me to do two things: write and pray. No matter what else I’m doing, or not doing, I hope I can write and pray my way forward for the rest of my life. Ironically, these “activities” have more to do with who I am than with what I do.

Part of my calling to prayer has to do with intercessory prayer, and a part of this is praying for the world. I’ve been learning how to go about it for some time, yet I still feel like I don’t know what I’m doing.

Right now, for example. How do we pray for Japan and Libya in a way that will make a difference?

I sometimes begin by affirming the sovereignty of God over the nations and over creation. (This does not mean that I believe that because God is sovereign, everything that happens is God’s will. I reject naming natural disasters as “acts of God.” Our theology needs to take into account God’s decision to make us free agents, which leads to an open universe and the possibility of evil. I do believe that the conclusion of “all things” will be the victory of the kingdom of God, but what happens in the meantime (sometimes very “mean”) is not so certain. God asks us to co-labor with him in this mean-time towards bringing about his kingdom purposes, and one of those ways of co-laboring (collaboration) is prayer. This is mystery to me—that God works through our prayers, that they can make a difference.)

After affirming God’s sovereignty, power and mercy, I ask, “Help me to pray for Japsn (or Libya, or….).” Then I hold this concern in the light (a good Quaker phrase), waiting in silence until I’m ready to respond with words and petitions. And periods of listening silence intersect the words. Even in my way of praying, I am attempting to cooperate with God, to let God set the prayer agenda.

This morning Hal and I prayed together for the cooling of the nuclear reactors, help in rescuing people still trapped under buildings, comfort in grief, a rallying of the international community to help in practical ways in the months ahead, and that the mercy and love of God through Jesus would be manifest in many ways. I asked God to make me faithful to continue holding Japan up in prayer.

Sometimes, in spite of my affirmation that our prayers matter, I wish I had some proof, a sign that my efforts helped prevent meltdown in reactor #6, for example. But this line of work offers little feedback. And so I stumble forward, more faithful on some days than on others. I join the disciples as I continually ask, “Lord, teach me to pray.”

Quote by Dorothy Day

"The older I get, the more I meet people, the more convinced I am that we must only work on ourselves, to grow in grace. The only thing we can do about people is to love them."

From All the Way to Heaven: The Selected Letters of Dorothy Day, 2010.

A general apology

The Apostle Paul, versatile saint,
became all things to all men
so that by all means he might win some.

As for me, I have enough trouble
just being myself. Sometimes it seems
that I have become no one to no person
so that by all means I might
get more sleep.

I owe you all an apology.

I’m sorry, first,
to you, my love,
for not being more consistently
romantic submissive sweet;
for falling asleep during the stories;
for shining at times when I should
fade; for becoming invisible
when you need me stellar.

To you, my children,
when instead of being a sage,
I am merely a clown; for not
being as smart as you thought
I was (I knew you’d find out
one day); for losing some of
the memories; for growing too tired
too soon.

To you, my grandchildren,
for my lack of bright ideas,
my wrong choice of movies;
for old stories that are, of course,
boring, boring; for not being
plump and grey and aproned and
rosy-cheeked; for losing the rules
to Mexican Train and eating the chocolates
behind your backs.

To you, my sisters and brothers,
members of the household of faith,
for being a wimpy elder—age without
wisdom; for my waffling and uncertain
stride; for a whimper when you needed
a clarion call; for not calling;
for a seeming shrug when you needed
an action plan; for being neither prophet,
priest nor pastor; for my day-dreams
of defecting to the Catholics; for my
restless doubts and clawing prayers.

To you, my neighbors,
for not learning your names; for not
bringing you chocolate chip cookies;
for not praying for your salvation; for
not knowing, not knowing, not
knowing.

To you, distant neighbors in Afghanistan,
for seeing my problems as larger than
yours; for not seeing that my problems
contribute to yours; for not sending
money clothes medicine—or for sending
them as a guilt offering; for my lack of tears
and my resounding silence.

To you, my Lord,
for being so intimate I forget
to tremble or being so busy about your work
I ignore you; for inattention even when
in your presence; for starving my spirit
while seated at your banquet table;
for not looking at the world
through your eyes;
for being so underwhelmed
so often.

To One and all,
a general apology.
Forgive me.

Ferocious deliberations

I just received an invitation from the Lausanne Committee for Evangelization to a gathering in Orlando, Florida later this year, a “Leadership Consultation on Evangelism and Missions.” I am invited because of my “passion for Evangelism and Mission in our nation and around the world.” (Do they know me?) I am encouraged also to invite “other select leaders,” especially those under 40 years old. (No, they don’t know me.)

But the part of this invitation that stands out, partly because it is in bold print, is the description of what will happen at the consultation: “We will pray with intensity, deliberate with ferocity, make friends, form alliances, and bless each other in our Kingdom pursuits.” Friends, alliances and blessings are good. And I understand the part about praying with intensity. But what does it mean to deliberate with ferocity? I picture a room full of ferocious evangelicals, teeth bared, claws sharpened as the fur begins to fly. Praise the Lord.

Ok, so help me again, Mr. Webster. Here’s what he says: ferocious—“exhibiting or given to extreme fierceness and unrestrained violence and brutality.” See what I mean? Strong language there. At least it’s all for the Kingdom.

Alright, so there’s another secondary definition, one slightly milder: “extremely intense.” I suppose this is what the writer of this piece of publicity means. Extremely intense deliberations. I do wonder, though, why the prayer is merely intense, while the subsequent deliberations are to be ferocious?

And is this something I want to be involved in? As a Quaker is it even legal for me to get ferocious?

Currently I am serving as clerk of elders in our local meeting, and we are facing some difficult decisions as a community. It what has become a long, drawn-out, and complex process, I think we are slowly making our way toward some clarity. (This is really mild language, isn’t it? We’re as funny as “they” are, just at the opposite end of a continuum. The lions versus the lambs.) Some of our deliberations have seemed, if not ferocious, certainly intense. Yet our commitment to affirm one another, even when we differ, and together to seek the mind of Christ has held us through a tough time. I have hopes that some decisions lie in the near future, and that we can move on to being the church.

And it has been intense, at times extremely so. But we still love one another. No fur has flown, and none will. Our Quaker/Christian values help keep us in the path of peace, even while dealing with hard issues.

Actually, I appreciate the Lausanne Movement, recognize its contributions and benefit from fruit the movement has borne in the past (for example, the Lausanne Covenant, a faith statement that is holistic and profound). But I do get angry at exaggerated language, especially in Christian publicity. In fact, I get very angry.

But even so, I fall short of ferocity.

On giving a present to a nine-year-old

Not at all prepared, the Big Day
sneaks up and I have to buy
something, anything. So
I settle for a grab bag type
of gift—an assortment
of surprises. Why is it so
important that she like it?
Is this how she measures
my love? At nine-years-old,
perhaps. So I assemble, first,
a stuffed jack rabbit,
its quirky extended
front feet redeeming it
from the mass of beasts
already littering her room.
And the small glittering
butterfly broach, almost like
real jewelry. Good enough
for her? I hope so. For good
measure I throw in crayons—self-
sharpening—and an artist’s tablet
of blank paper, prods to her
imagination. Back home,
I realize I don’t have wrapping
paper, so the plastic bag
announcing “Staples” in bright red
letters will have to do. As I get out
of the car, I fret, “Will she like this?
Is it enough? Can she sense
how special she is to us?" Then
the relief, the silly relief.
“Grandma! Is this for me?!
I love his feet! How soft!
And this too? How beautiful!
Can I pin it on now?”
Such small things. I continue
to wonder, how does the love
manage to seep through?
Happy Birthday, Alandra.