Interrupted

I really dislike being interrupted.

This morning, the postman knocked on my door with a parcel, but I was busy doing something. His friendly hello was met by an abrupt smile before I quickly shut door.

My daughter asked me a question about how we measure time but I was looking at something on my phone and I fobbed her off with a snappy answer.

My husband suggested that we boycott fossil fuels as our own personal sanction towards Putin’s invasion of Ukraine but it seemed too outrageously impractical to take it seriously.

The blue tits that come back to our garden every year to make their nest had just arrived but I didn’t notice them at first; I was too busy making packed lunches clearing up spilled milk brushing teeth combing hair practising spellings folding the laundry feeling anxious.

It wasn’t until hours later – forced into solitude by Covid round two – that I looked out of the window and saw them. Utterly glorious. Flashing blurs of colour dancing through the trees. Tiny living things pulsating with life and energy. Too quick for my eye to follow as they darted through the boughs of the elder tree and sang to each other, incessant in their joy, giddy in their embrace of the first sunny day for what seems like forever.

I almost missed it.

I wonder what else I’ve missed.

Over the past couple of weeks, I have been reading the story of Jesus and Jairus.

Jairus is an important local leader and he begs Jesus to come with him and heal his daughter who is dying. Jesus follows. There is a big crowd that day and people surround him, press upon him, pushing and shoving their way to get a glimpse of the action.

But then Jesus stops.

“Who touched me?” A ridiculous question. And one that no one has time for. Everyone has touched him. Everyone is clamouring around him.  How can they possibly hope to ascertain whose particular shoulder has brushed up against the rabbi? But Jesus is insistent. “Someone touched me.”

And then the woman comes forward. Ashamed, trembling, full of the fear of a public rebuke. It was me who touched you she confesses. I touched you and you healed me.

“My daughter, your faith has made you well. Go in peace.”

The concerns of the crowd, of Jairus, of the disciples are for a first daughter, the girl, just twelve years old, desperately in need of help. But Jesus does not just see one daughter in this story but two. Despite the pressing needs of the moment, Jesus allows himself to be interrupted by this woman. Jesus is on his way to do something incredibly important – arguably a more important thing than most of us have ever done: to save the life of a child – and yet he stops on the way.

Now, Jesus is Jesus, and this story has a happy ending. He successfully meets the needs of both daughters. It’s easy – a bit too easy – to compare ourselves to Jesus here and let ourselves off the hook. Of course it’s OK for Jesus to stop. He’s Jesus. It doesn’t matter if he’s interrupted because he can still do what he intends to do. He still manages to get everything done and make everyone happy; his ‘to do’ list still ends up being completed. That’s not the same for me!

But today, as I watch the birds start to build their next, I wonder if God would like to interrupt us more often that we’d like to think.

Perhaps interruption isn’t an annoyance, but an invitation.

This Lent, I want to slow down slightly. I want to be interrupted. I don’t want to miss anything.

 

Father God,

Interrupt me today.

Open my eyes to see your beauty in unexpected places.

Open my ears to hear the whisper of your Spirit.

Open my mind to understand your love.

Open my heart to be moved with compassion.

Open my hands to respond with generosity.

I do not want to do today without you.

Alert me to your presence.

Amen.