Recently my spiritual director mentioned that when she feels overwhelmed, she stops and repeats to herself two simple words: “Martha, Martha.”
We all know the story of Mary and Martha, sisters of Lazarus and treasured friends of Jesus. One day he comes to visit. Martha bustles about setting the table, putting out flowers, basting the lamb. Mary, by contrast, sits rapt at his feet, asking questions, listening, drinking him in.
We’ve all experienced such situations. Fuming while we do all the work and everyone else has fun. Must be nice! we think bitterly.
Finally, Martha can no longer bear it. Wiping her hands on her apron, she bursts into the living room and brays at Jesus, “Tell her to help me!”
“Martha, Martha,” Jesus says gently. “You are anxious and worried about many things. There is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part and it shall not be taken from her” (Luke 10:38–42).
Jesus never says, “Do more.” He says, “Go deeper.”
He issues invitations: “Come and see.” “Come to me, all you who are weary.”
He asks, “Could you not sit with me for an hour?”
He says, “Martha, Martha.”
Not just once, but twice he says Martha’s name. It’s as if he’s saying, “I love you, I see you, I understand your dilemma, I see what is blocking you. Look at me, dear child. Listen to me. Learn from me, for I am gentle and meek of heart.”
That Mary has chosen the better part doesn’t mean that when we’re quiet and still, we’re with God and when we’re shopping at Trader Joe’s or getting our hair cut or balancing our checkbook, we’re not.
Rather, as St. Thérèse said, “Our Vocation is Love.” All our decisions and actions, from the largest to the smallest, can spring from the Eucharist. The point is to be so united with Christ, so deep in our souls, that even if we can’t “feel” him; or because our mind is otherwise occupied, can’t consciously think of him, still — he is there. And we know he is there.
I personally love a to-do list. Every morning at the conclusion of my prayer, or really as part of my prayer, I get out my trusty notebook and set out a rough idea of how my day is to be ordered.
Nothing untoward here. These are all “good,” fruitful activities that have to do with serving others: writing, reading, learning, exploring. Being a good steward of my living space, body, and soul so that I can be in shape to serve others. Mass, prayer, the gym, answering emails, admin, house-cleaning. …
Still, lately I’ve realized that I don’t actually consult God as I’m making this list and envisioning how my day should be ordered. I’m presenting the order of my day as a “fait accompli” and essentially asking him to bless it.
To allow myself to get very quiet and then to ask, “What is your will for my day, Lord?” is a different process. Left to my own devices, I approach the day like a boxer entering the ring, gloves raised: “Let me at you! I will vanquish!”
Sitting still and surrendering in love gives rise to a different feeling in my heart and even in my body. With God, I don’t seize the day so much as receive it, embrace it, let it enter in.
It may be that my list will stay essentially the same — God probably isn’t going to say, “I want you to go to a bar today and get drunk.”
But knowing that I’ve knocked, asked, sought means that when the door is opened, as it inevitably will be, I’ll recognize it as God’s action. I’ll be aware that he’s walking at my side.
I want to give a good account of myself at the end of the day, but will the sky fall if I don’t vacuum my car or water the orchids till Wednesday? Is it more important to check every item off my list or to be loosely open to interruptions so that when a friend calls out of the blue I can answer with a “Hey, what’s up?” Instead of a long-suffering sigh that, even if the person can’t hear it, constricts the conversation rather than allows it to expand.
I don’t want to be a halfway saint, said Thérèse. I want to be willing to suffer.
I tend to read that, hold my breath, and think, “OK then! Boiled in oil, eyes torn out by the Inquisition, leprosy. …”
I wonder if what we really can’t bear to suffer is love, is joy, is the meaning of “It is not sacrifice I desire, but mercy. “
Always there is something in our self-denial — everything in it — for us.
I don’t want to be on my deathbed thinking, “Look at me, lying here useless. I could be working!”
I want to be on my deathbed clutching a crucifix and along with Thérèse crying, “I love him!”
Checking things off my list is about me. Loving is about him.
