Month: July 2019

Scripture, Service, Spirituality

Stay Awhile

Christine Eberle

“Mary has chosen the better part, and it will not be taken from her.” – Luke 10:42

For many of us, these words of Jesus to Martha do not sit well. “Raise your hand if you feel sorry for Martha,” I often ask. Inevitably, more than three-quarters of the hands in the room go up. The poor woman was just trying to put dinner on the table, for Pete’s sake. (And for James’ sake, and John’s, and Andrew’s . . . . those guys were hungry!)

The “Mary/Martha Incident” is one of my most requested dramatic interpretations, no doubt because it touches into a tension present in church folks everywhere. Call it action vs. contemplation, or doing vs. being. As busy, busy people, deeply involved in families and communities and ministries, we may actually draw our identity from going the extra mile on a regular basis. We don’t want to hear that we’ve missed the mark—that doing better would somehow involve doing less.

Yesterday, the Mary/Martha Gospel was one of the assigned readings for Mass. Today, I want to share one new insight that came as I pondered it with my parish faith-sharing group last week.

The insight came because of the pairing of Luke’s Gospel with the Genesis story of Abraham offering hospitality to three visitors. The Roman Catholic Lectionary is arranged so that the first reading, usually from the Hebrew Scriptures, echoes the theme of the day’s Gospel reading. So, before hearing Jesus chastise Martha for griping about being “burdened with much serving,” we hear Abraham being rewarded for offering lavish hospitality to strangers, who turned out to be God and a couple of angels. (That’s a dramatically over-simplified take on the readings, I know. Hang in there with me.)

One big difference between the two stories, of course, is that Abraham had help. He didn’t make the rolls himself; Sarah did. He didn’t roast the steer himself; his servant did. (I can almost feel Martha rolling her eyes.)

But here’s the new thing that really caught me this week. Running to Sarah, Abraham says, “Quick; three measures of fine flour! Knead it and make rolls.” And then he selects the aforementioned choice steer, and gives it to a servant, who “quickly prepared it.”

I’m sorry; what?

If you’ve ever made bread, you know: if you’re starting with flour, rolls are going to take a while. Like, hours, waiting for the yeast to rise. It also takes hours to make a roast—and that’s when you’re starting with a nice package from the Acme, not a live animal frolicking in your field. The double use of the word “quick” in this story may mean that the characters hastened, but it doesn’t make it a quick visit by any means.

How long did the three visitors sit in the shade of the tree, bathing their feet and sipping a cool drink and chatting with Abraham? What did they talk about? What else might Abraham have had to do that afternoon, that he let go of because being present to these strangers was more important?

“Do not neglect hospitality, for through it some have unknowingly entertained angels.”

Hebrews 13:2

And there’s the rub. For many of us, it is easier to perform quality actions than to pay quality attention. To let the interruption of our day become the substance of our day, without resentment. To take the time–whatever time it takes–to be with those God has placed in our path, entertaining angels knowingly or unknowingly.

I am not always good at this. I empathize with Jesus’ description of Martha in my Spanish Bible: Tu andas preocupada y pierdes en mil cosas. (“You go about worried and lose yourself in a thousand things.”) But I appreciated the reminder, this week, of what I’m called to do.

In the words of Henri Frederic Amiel (1821-1881):

Life is short,
And we do not have much time
to gladden the hearts of those who
make the journey with us.
So… be swift to love,
and make haste to be kind.
And the blessing of God,
who made us,
who loves us,
and who travels with us
be with you now and forever.

Amen!

As always, may your ordinary days be extraordinarily blessed–especially when they are interrupted!

Christine

Spirituality, Writing

Plan 54

Christine Eberle

When I was a senior in college, I played Emily in Our Town.  You may recall that the play treats its audience to a few days in the lives of two families in a small New Hampshire town at the turn of the last century. The first two acts are a long, loving look at the ordinary, but the third act takes place in the town cemetery, where Emily (having just died in childbirth) has been laid to rest, but is not yet restful.  Venerable English professor Frank Olley was directing Our Town at St. Joseph’s University for the third time in as many decades.  Asked how it was different this time, he pondered for a moment, then said simply, “The third act looms larger.”

In October of 2016–almost thirty years after Doc Olley uttered that line–I began working on an essay called Act III, reflecting on the ways that the untimely deaths in my own life had caused me to reevaluate my priorities.  I wrote:

I find myself less willing to store my dreams in the “someday” column. And so I have to ask: when am I going to stop gazing longingly at every RV that I pass on the highway, ante up, and hit the road?  When am I going to bear down and actually write the book that’s been noodling around in my head for a decade?  When am I going to quit my day job and become the “freelance me” that I’ve spent the last 15 years telling people I want to be when I grow up?  Although I don’t know when the curtain will rise on my own Act III, it is starting to loom larger.  It’s time to take more risks.

The RV purchase remains a question.  (Where would I park it?)   But I did indeed bear down on the book.  Less than four months after committing that question to paper, I was curled up on a sofa at When Words Count, writing Finding God in Ordinary Time.  And now I have an answer to the third question as well.  When am I going to quit my day job and become the “freelance me” I’ve talked about forever?  July 31.

That’s right . . . after twenty-six years as a campus minister, I am stepping down from my position at Gwynedd Mercy University at the end of this month.  I am leaving a field I have loved extravagantly, peeling off a label I’ve used to identify myself for almost half my life.  People keep asking me if I’m sad, or scared, and the answer really is no to both.  This is what God is calling me to at this point in my life.  It’s time.

Shortly after writing the essay about Act III, I started a file on my computer called “Plan 54.”  I was 51 years old at the time, and figured it would take me about three years to lay the groundwork for the future I was dreaming of.  With no clear idea how to get from there to here, I named the file aspirationally, and got to work. 

Today is my 54th birthday.

In the final chapter of Finding God, I wrote about my cousin Susan, whose death (seven years ago yesterday) at age 46 was one of the losses that inspired my soul-searching about priorities.  I closed the chapter by saying:

Will I take a risk to pursue a dream?

It is, as they say, a matter of life and death.

Choose wisely!

That is exactly what I’m doing now: taking a risk to pursue a dream.  It may look fanciful, but deep down, it is highly practical.

When I talk about time management at work, I often say this:  do what only you can do.  If you’re up against a deadline on a report that only you can write, and the copier’s out of toner, ask someone else to change the toner; sometimes it really is that simple.  This life change is based on a similar principle: someone else can take the helm of Gwynedd’s campus ministry quite capably; only I can offer the retreats I want to give, talk about the topics I’m passionate about, and write my next book.

The details are still a bit fuzzy.  I have a slate of speaking engagements lined up throughout the fall and well into winter.  But first, I’ll be spending three weeks in September at a cottage in Maine.  I want to give myself a definitive break.  At the time of year ordinarily reserved for countless back-to-school activities, I plan to go for long walks, cook leisurely meals, and watch the ebb and flow of the harbor tide as I ponder the ebb and flow of prayer and productivity that will anchor my new life.  It is something I must discover and decide as I go.  I look forward to sharing the fruits of this adventure with you here.

If you, too, have a dream that requires some risk, may I suggest this:  go ahead and give it a name. 

Who knows what could happen?