A few years ago, in May, when everything was rich and green, I was reading in my garden, imagining myself into the story of Mary and Martha as told by Luke. I was thinking of Mary sitting at the feet of Jesus, how that was an expression used elsewhere in the New Testament for receiving teaching as Paul did from Gamaliel (Acts 22:3).
I could not recall reading this story in the other gospels, but as my memory searched, I remembered how John writes of this family. Into my mind came powerful pictures of Mary at Jesus’ feet in those stories – firstly I imagined her as she ran to Jesus after her dear brother Lazarus had died, and I saw her in black speaking from her knees before him. I heard her voice as heartbroken, perhaps with an edge of disappointment, or even accusation. Then, I thought of the feast they had to celebrate Lazarus’ renewed life, and how once again Mary was at Jesus feet, this time in extravagant thanksgiving.
Such different occasions, with such different emotion about them, but all springing from the depth of love and relationship between Mary and Jesus. She shows Jesus, and us, who she is and how she reverberates with the sadness and joy of her life. She comes across to me as a rich and spontaneous character, fully alive. So in some ways it is strange that we celebrate her, in Luke’s story, for her stillness. How hard it is for us to sit and listen, and I suspect it would have been hard for Mary too, had it not been the desire of her heart, had not that stillness have been active, charged with love.
It is a good poem to read for Sabbath rest. It reminds us that all are welcome at the feet of Jesus, and that it is a high good to be as we are and receive. I do not always desire this as Mary seemed to. My mind is often scattered by worries and things which, in the end, are of little value. We are so distracted, so pulled by so many things. We can end up feeling that those things are what define us. That it is what we do, or think, or believe, or how people view us that makes us who we are. Just being doesn’t seem enough, but our efforts to be more or different or better than we are can be life-sapping.
Acceptance can be hard to accept!
I am attempting to learn to be still, and that love, however thin it may be on our side, is enough.
God’s love is enough.
In writing this poem, I hoped to create a place of stillness. The kind of place where contemplative prayer begins. A place where we can open up a little to love, and light. A place where we know we are welcomed.
I read early versions of these poems at a local Christian festival, Alive, and as the festival time of year comes around again, I find I am remembering them, and going back to those thoughts. I share the first one with you today.
The photograph is taken in the Chapel of St Peter on the Wall, Bradwell on Sea, Essex.
Mary, sister of Martha, at your feet for the first time
You came in search of rest
away from the road,
that bright, shadeless road,
where so many came,
and you gave so much.
You came and sat down
in the cool room,
the shutters pulled
against the heat,
and Mary sat, too,
and it was enough.
Just sat, quietly, at your feet,
her face turned up to
yours as she listened.
And you saw how the light
fell across her,
as if for the first time.
And this is what you want,
what you long for.
Not the elaborate
preparations we would make,
not ourselves swept and
scrubbed to perfection,
our acts and our
thoughts impeccable
in lifeless rows,
but to be, here in this light,
to be, here at your feet,
Luke 10:38-42
You can read the second poem here
and the third one here
Edit: 19th July 2022
The last stanza of this poem was quoted by the inspirational Diana Butler Bass in her Sunday Musings this week. If you don’t know her work, I’m finding it’s helping me a great deal. She combines deep scholarship with passionate lived experience. You can find a link to this work, and her reference to my poem, here.
This next in a series of poems drawn from the story of Exodus circles again around the mystery of the burning bush. Like all these poems, it draws on my meditations on the Hebrew scripture held in one hand, and an awareness of our current situation in the other. I am exploring what this ancient story may have to tell us at this critical and bewildering time.
I’ve been sharing with you an emerging series of poems drawn from the first chapters of Exodus, in the Hebrew Scriptures. I am finding they help give me a way of thinking about our own difficult time. Sitting alongside those, I’m writing some posts which tell the story in prose, drawing on my book, 
Andrea Skevington 