Learning to Pause
Sixth Sunday After Pentecost
Last week, I served as a counselor at a camp for high school students where the theme was “Free Play.” Throughout the week, we encouraged the kids to think about life through the lens of some of the games they might be used to playing—board games, card games, video games—with the understanding that God calls us to play freely in the context of his kingdom, motivated by his love and empowered by the joy of the Spirit to flourish. Among the focal points of our nightly messages were calls to Stop (embracing the rest of Sabbath or retreat), to Rewind (looking to the stories of the past and reflecting on how these narratives shape us), and to Fast Forward (anticipating hopefully the ways that God’s kingdom is unfolding as we look toward the fulfillment of that kingdom). The task I was assigned, for Thursday night worship, was to reflect on what it looks like for us to Pause.
The idea of pausing, of course, is kind of like stopping, but not quite. In our discussions with the kids, we talked about the fact that on most game controllers or movie watching devices, the play and the pause button are the same. So a pause might be understood as more of a temporary break in the action, something that allows us, in the midst of our playing or our viewing to take a moment, rest briefly, and then jump back into the action. More like a time out or a water break during a basketball game than a complete cessation of action.
In terms of a life of service or of contemplation, a pause might be what we turn to when we can’t take a full day of rest or worship, let alone a weekend retreat from our duties and responsibilities, and yet we want to—we need to—reflect on God’s presence, seek God’s guidance, and abide in God’s love. This talk came near the end of the week, and so I reminded them that soon they would be jumping back into their day-to-day routines of summer jobs and football practice and band camp and all of the other things they might have on their plates. It would be a challenge to enjoy the kind of quiet or the kind of time for prayer and reflection that a week of camp afforded them. In a world where we are tempted to shrink the margins in our lives with each new opportunity and each new obligation, carving out this time becomes more and more difficult, and yet more and more necessary.
This is nothing new. I pointed to the example of Jesus himself, who at various times when he wanted to get away for silence and solitude found that the struggles and the stresses of the day found him anyway. To point to just one example, there is the moment after the disciples return from their mission in Mark’s gospel when he wants to retreat with them for prayer. The crowds run ahead of the boat and are there waiting for him when he arrives. Even for Jesus—especially for Jesus—finding the opportunity to rest, to pray, to seek out solitude—could be tough.
When we read today’s Gospel story, I think it’s important to remember that this God who became flesh, this high priest who sympathizes with us in everything, knew what it was like to be in Martha’s position. Wearied by her work, burdened by her tasks, frustrated by the feeling that she was doing everything herself, or as Luke puts it, “distracted by many tasks,” she was unable to abide fully in the moment with Jesus. While her sister Mary could sit at Jesus’ feet and soak in his teaching, taking comfort in his presence, this same comfort eluded Martha. It’s easy when we read this story to see ourselves in Martha and to feel guilty about it. But this kind of guilt rarely does anything to transform us. Far better to take comfort in the fact that Jesus understands the struggle and still invites us into something better.
Jesus invites us to pause, not because the work will go away, not because our responsibilities will vanish, not because our worries will magically disappear, but because he wants us to have the joy and the freedom that can come with pausing, even for a moment, to take note of God’s presence in our day and in our lives, so that, even after we have worked, like Martha and like Abraham to make room at our table and in our tents for a divine visitation, we can pause and contemplate what Paul calls “The riches of the glory of this mystery, which is Christ in you, the hope of glory.” In those moments of pausing, however hard they might be to come by, God will make his presence known, he’ll make his glory and his beauty known, and he will give us the rest and the strength that we need.
