Finding Bethany

A Sunday Morning Letter

The coffee is ready.

This morning I found myself sitting here a little longer than usual.

The house was still quiet. The morning sun had just begun to make its way across the old pine floor, catching the places where generations of footsteps have worn the wood smooth. My Bible was open in front of me, but instead of reading, I found myself looking around the room. I have discovered that I do some of my best thinking that way. Not by searching for answers, but simply by paying attention.

My eyes wandered first to the old fireplace. It hasn’t warmed this room with a fire for many years, but every time I look at it, I smile. It now holds something far more precious than burning logs. My daughter’s artwork rests across the mantle, replacing flames with imagination. The room is different because of it, and somehow the fireplace has not lost its purpose. It has simply discovered another one.

From there my eyes drifted to the mural above the mantle. The pilgrims are still making their journey, just as they have every morning since we moved into this old house. They never seem to arrive anywhere. They simply keep walking together toward a place beyond the edge of the painting. I have looked at them hundreds of times, yet they still remind me that faith has always been less about arriving than about learning to trust the road beneath our feet.

Then I looked across the table.

The chair was empty.

Last week we spent some time thinking about that chair and the stories it has held over the years. This morning it simply sat there in the quiet, waiting for the next conversation, the next shared meal, the next cup of coffee.

It was then that a thought came to me so gently I almost missed it.

This room has become my Bethany.

For most of my life, Bethany was simply a village in the Gospels. It was the home of Mary, Martha, and Lazarus, the place where Jesus often stopped on his way to Jerusalem. In the past, I have preached about Mary choosing the better part and Martha worrying over many things. I have admired their hospitality and reflected on their friendship with Jesus.

This week, however, I noticed something I had never really noticed before.

Jesus kept going back.

Of all the places the Gospels mention, Bethany is one of the few that feels like home. It is where Jesus rested. It is where he was welcomed without expectation. It is where he could sit at a table among friends before continuing the difficult journey that lay ahead.

It was the place where Jesus could simply be Jesus.

That thought stayed with me.

As I sat quietly with it, another memory found its way into the room.

Years ago, after my mother died and during the difficult transition from the Orthodox Church into the United Church of Christ, I found myself at Bethany Congregational Church in Quincy. Looking back now, I realize that I didn’t simply find another church. I found a place where weary parts of my soul were given room to breathe again. The people there welcomed me with a kindness that asked for nothing in return. They reminded me that before I was a pastor, before I was anyone’s minister, I was simply someone deeply loved by God.

At the time, I don’t think I would have called it Bethany.

Now I would.

Perhaps that is the way these places work. We rarely recognize them while we are living inside them. Only later, when we look back across the years, do we begin to understand that God had quietly prepared a place where we could rest before continuing the journey.

These days, I have discovered another Bethany.

It is not a church.

It is not a monastery.

It is not even a particularly remarkable room.

It is an old New England dining room with uneven pine floors, a fireplace that now displays a child’s artwork, and a table worn smooth by years of ordinary family life. It is where I begin most mornings with coffee, Scripture, prayer, and enough silence to hear my own thoughts before the rest of the day begins asking for my attention.

Somewhere along the way, without my ever deciding it should happen, this room became the place where God meets me.

Perhaps that is why the story of Mary and Martha feels different to me this year. I no longer hear it as a choice between doing and being, or between work and prayer. Instead, I hear an invitation to remember that before we continue the journey, we must first allow ourselves to be restored. Martha’s hospitality and Mary’s listening were not competing virtues. Together they created a home where Jesus wanted to return.

What a beautiful thing that must have been.

As I finish this second cup of coffee, I find myself wondering how many Bethanys God has quietly placed along the roads we travel. They may not look especially holy. They may be a porch where the morning sun catches your favorite chair, a garden that has become a sanctuary, a quiet chapel, a workshop, a walking path, or an ordinary kitchen table where the world slows down just enough for you to hear your own thoughts again.

Wherever it may be, cherish it.

The world will always urge us to hurry toward the next destination. God, it seems, often invites us to stop for a while before continuing the journey.

I have come to believe that Bethany is not where the pilgrimage ends.

It is where pilgrims discover they have the strength to continue.

Thank you for sharing your second cup of coffee with me this morning.

Until next Sunday, companion.

I’ll be here.

The coffee will be ready.