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.
