There
was once a monastery, St. Chavanel by name, situated high on the the slopes of
the Pyrenees. It was an isolated place
and didn't get many visitors, but the monks worked hard at their vocation, and that
helped. Seven times a day, they gathered
in their stalls in the chapel to recite the Liturgy of the Hours. Twice a day, they practiced Lectio Divina
alone, in their cells. And they
participated in the work of washing dishes, hoeing the gardens where they grew
their vegetables, and tending the two lonely cattle who gave them milk for
cheese for their table. Four times a
year, they received a load of salted meat and grain, brought by Brother Christopher
and a recalcitrant mule, and they would eagerly ply him with questions about
their mother house and the world beyond, but it was a lonely, isolated
existence most of the time.
Which
was why they were so excited when Brother Christopher brought word that Father Simon
Gerrans was coming for a visit. Doubtless
the most well-known member of their religious order, Father Simon was renowned
for his wise counsel, his prodigious faith and his astounding humility. What's more, he had lived at Mount Ventoux
monastery for over thirty years with the legendary Brother Jens Voigt, a true
giant of their faith. They were sure
they would hear some of the great man's teachings and what it was like to study
under him.
As
the day of Father Simon visit drew near, the monastery was abuzz with activity,
at least as much as a place dedicated to silence could be. The Abbot gave up his marginally more luxurious cell for the use of the visitor. Brother Richard almost broke his neck
whitewashing the side of the church. And
even the cattle’s stalls were mucked out with greater-than-usual care.
The
day finally came, and all the brothers lined the path as Father Simon
approached, led by Brother Christopher on the recalcitrant donkey. Anticipation shown in their eyes as they went
about their business for the rest of the day, waiting with barely-concealed
excitement for the evening meal, when the great man would give his first talk.
Like
the monks, Martha worked to make hospitality for Jesus. She swept and washed and cooked and worried
about whether what she was doing was adequate for the master. She fretted over
a stain in the table cloth, and imagined that Jesus looked critically at the
stain and then at her, with disapproval.
She made sure the flowers were placed just so, and the table settings just right.
Martha
had spent years working hard, being exactly what Palestinian society required
of her. She had been the dutiful wife of
her wealthy merchant husband, throwing wonderful parties with wonderful
guests. When her husband died, she had
taken over the household as the proverbial Rich Widow, and when her sister’s husband passed, leaving her the
proverbial Poor Widow, she dutifully
took her in and made her a home. Truth
to be told, she was glad of the help, although her sister was sometimes a
little too dreamy for her taste.
Like,
for instance, now. Martha bustled
around, making things just so, while
Mary sat at Jesus’ feet, like a disciple,
for Pete's sake, and never mind that women just didn't do that, that it was actually forbidden,
that didn't bother Martha at all, really it didn't, but she'd have liked some help, and grew increasingly indignant
that Mary didn't help with the chores, she just sat there at Jesus feet. Jesus wasn't even saying anything, just
resting his tired body, and Mary just sat
there, eyes downcast.
When
the monks at St. Chavanel monastery had eaten their simple dinner, and listened
to the readings prescribed for that
evening, it was time. Father Simon stood
up from where he sat at the Abbot’s table and walked slowly up to the front,
and every eye was on him, every ear turned to what he was about to say. “Brothers” he began “For 30 years I lived on
Mon Vonteux. And during that time, I ate
the monastery's gruel and gave it back in the latrine. But I did not learn the faith from Brother Voigt,
the famous monk who lived there, all I did was raise an ox. When he wandered from the path into the grass
I would pull him back, when he ran amuck into someone's garden, I chastised him
with a whip. Now he has been tame for
some time. Unfortunately, he used to pay
too much attention to what people said, but now, however, he has become a pure,
white, domesticated bull. He is always
right in front of me wherever I am, dazzling white all day long, and even if I
try to drive him away, he will not go." Then he turned and walked slowly back to the
Abbot’s table and sat down.
Martha’s
ox was in front of her all the time, shining and white, impelling her to
continue training it up, daring her to make one slip lest she lose face, lest
she lose her identity as the perfect 1st Century woman. All the time she'd been correcting her ox, pulling
it back onto the path, chastising it when it dared to deviate from the
righteous path, and so now it was a perfect, demure white bull which was before
her all the time, which surrounded her like a perfect, impenetrable housing,
protecting her from the accusing glare of judgmental neighbors, and compelling
her to work constantly, to continue to train it up, to bustle around making
sure things were just right. And she
couldn't get rid of it if she tried, she couldn't drive it away, because it had
become her identity, her shell, the one she showed the world, and it grinned at
her, compelling her to maintain that image, the face she showed the outer
world.
And
as she continued to train her ox, sweating and swearing under her breath, she
became increasingly irritated and indignant at her sister’s passivity, her sitting
there taking it all in, as if she were just being,
just living, you know? As if she didn't have a care in the world, as
if she were just eating gruel, getting rid of it in the latrine, and remaining
open to whatever comes along. Finally
she couldn't stand it any more and blurted out: “Lord, don’t you care that my sister has left me to do
all the work by myself? Tell her to help me." But Jesus said, "Martha, Martha, you’re
worried and distracted by many things; there’s need of only one thing. Mary has
chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her."
And
notice that Jesus didn't tell her not to raise her ox, not to do stuff that
should be done, it's the worry and distraction that he is zeroing in on. “You're worried and distracted by many things. Ox-raising is important, but simply living, simply being is more so. Just
remaining open to things as they come up, as they arise.”
And
that’s kind of what we mean by faith, isn't it?
Being open to things from God, being open to what God has in store for us,
and trusting it will be enough, consider the lilies, after all. Martha was distracted by all the things she
had to, all the things her ox-ego—which she’d trained from birth—required to
maintain it, to keep it burnished and well behaved, and instead of just sitting
there, being open to what Jesus wants of her, she was compelled to be indignant,
she actually scolded him: “don't you care that my sister’s getting away with murder? Don't you care that I'm working my fingers to the bone while she just sits
there?” And we can hear the martyr
complex going full bore, see that ol’ white ox smirking and controlling the
show. The white-ox-ego gets its rewards
from being put upon, from being a martyr—just use me for a door mat—but Mary
has chosen the better way, the one that will not be taken away. For oxen will all pass away, no matter how
ell they've been trained, carefully-constructed identities will go the way of
the dodo, false selves will be shed, but our relationship with the divine,
nurtured by just being, just being open to
what the Spirit is telling us, will be eternal.
So
how do we do this, sisters and brothers?
How do we become less wrapped up in training up our own oxen, less
wrapped up in maintaining our own harried, distracted false selves, and more open
to the Spirit which, after all, Jesus has told us, is within? Well, at the the expense of sounding like a
Nike commercial, you just do it, and Mary has shown us the way: you just hold yourself open to God. It takes doing, it takes practice holding
yourself open to God’s word.
In
other words, it takes prayer. But though
petitioning prayer, where we do all the talking, is a good thing, it alone
won't cut the mustard. We have to learn
to be quiet, to quiet our egoic self, the ox we've trained so faithfully over
the years, so we can actually hear the divine, who speaks through the silence of
our hearts.
Of
course, I’m talking about meditation here, sitting still and quieting the mind
before God. You don't have to completely
silence the mind, to quit thinking, that’s impossible to do anyway. But what you learn to do is quiet the mind,
and just rest in the arms of God. There
are several techniques to do this, the one I use is called centering prayer,
but there are others, and if you want pointers, ask me.
One
of the objections I hear is that it is difficult to find the time, and it's
true: sometimes it can be. But you don't
have to start out being a super-meditator, going at it for hours a day, just
five minutes a couple times a day, or even once a day, to start. And really, it's a matter of priorities, like
everything else. The fruits of an
established meditation practice have been shown over and over again. Reduced
anxiety and stress. Increased peace,
patience and joy. Gentleness and
self-control. And that old white ox of
the ego will be a little less in control.
Amen.
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