I have always felt indignant when I read or listen to the biblical account of Jesus reproaching his dear friend Martha when she asked him to tell her sister Mary to help her with the chores rather than sit at his feet and listen to what he was saying (Luke 10:38-42). The reproach was stinging, even if very probably said gently and lovingly: “Martha, Martha,” the Lord answered, “you are worried and upset about many things,  but few things are needed—or indeed only one. Mary has chosen what is better, and it will not be taken away from her.” My indignance stems from my natural pragmatism. There’s work to be done and little time to do it. Sitting and listening is all well and good, but when everyone’s hungry who will get the blame for not having food ready and waiting? Martha!

I am a Martha. I’ve always been a ‘doer’. I make lists, derive a great sense of achievement when I tick things off them, and despite my best intentions (with bank statements backing them up), struggle to sit down and read a book unless it’s ‘for’ something: study, work, improving my linguistic abilities, finding specific information… Yet over the past decade I have begun to see and appreciate the extent to which doing that risks depriving me of experiencing the deeper, spiritual dimensions of life. Recently, however, in a strange sort of way, I have been conscious of various ‘nudges’ that I hesitate to attribute to God but am reluctant not to. A morning course on Mindfulness run by a member of our church congregation introduced me to the theory behind and practice of paying attention, without judgement, to the present moment and living in it. In his Easter sermon Will Lamb drew attention to the fact that the word ‘love’, when we say ‘God is love’, is a verb and not a noun. We are called to ‘abide’ in God as God’s being is not intellectually graspable (although that doesn’t stop theologians from trying to do just that) and the knowledge of God is relational and reciprocal rather than intellectually defined. Another Sunday morning preacher quoted David Wagoner’s poem ‘Stand Still’, which opens with the lines:

Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you

Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,
And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,
Must ask permission to know it and be known.

I am reminded, once again, of the strong Christian tradition of contemplation, best exemplified in the contemplative monastic orders, although nowadays the practice has filtered out beyond the cloister walls. It’s a tradition which turns to techniques such as appreciation, wonder and pondering, rather than attempting to know through seizing, capturing and establishing knowledge, and in so doing, distancing ourselves from it. To some extent, it’s the difference between savoir and connaître in French and other Latin languages.

The reward for Mary was that she knew her Lord in a more profound way. At a dinner in honour of Jesus following the raising of Lazarus Martha served the guests while Mary poured a jar of expensive perfume on Jesus’s feet. The fragrance filled the house. I would like to smell it.