Drawing Closer

Jesus once sat in a home filled with movement, noise, and good intentions.

One sister was busy—serving, preparing, doing everything she could to honor Him.
The other simply sat at His feet and listened.

And Jesus said something that still unsettles us:

“Martha, Martha, you are anxious and troubled about many things.
But one thing is necessary.
Mary has chosen the better part.”

Jesus didn’t rebuke Martha for serving.
He named her anxiety.

He didn’t praise Mary for doing nothing.
He protected her nearness.

That story has followed me for years—not because I don’t value work or devotion, but because I recognize myself in Martha far more often than I’d like to admit.

Almost everyone asks this question at some point:

How do I draw closer to God?

I’ve asked it myself more times than I can count.
Usually quietly.
Often when I was tired.
Sometimes with the nagging fear that the question itself meant I wasn’t doing enough.

Hidden inside that question is an assumption we rarely stop to examine:

That closeness is my responsibility.

Think for a moment about a father and a very young child.

Who is responsible for the closeness of that relationship?

Not the child.

The child doesn’t maintain the bond.
They don’t manage communication, interpret silence, or ensure consistency.

The father does.

The child’s only “responsibility” is to respond—to reach back when held, to rest when carried, to cry when hungry. Even that response is often imperfect, emotional, or inconsistent.

And yet the relationship is secure.

Somewhere along the way, I realized I had been treating God less like a Father…
and more like a distant evaluator.

So when I asked, “How do I draw closer to God?”
I was already carrying a weight He never asked me to hold.

For years, I was encouraged—sometimes gently, sometimes urgently—to read more, pray more, fast more, deny myself more.

Those things aren’t bad.
Some of them can be helpful.

But if I’m honest, they rarely gave me rest.

Years ago, Wayne Jacobsen shared a thought that stopped me in my tracks—something like this:

If I didn’t do another thing for God for the rest of my life, He would not love me any differently… or any less.

I didn’t know whether to resist that thought…
or let it undo me.

Because if it’s true, then nothing I do earns God’s love.
Nothing I fail to do diminishes it.
Nothing impresses Him.
Nothing draws Him closer.

And slowly, I began to realize that this wasn’t a dangerous idea at all.

It was exactly what Jesus had been saying all along.

In John chapter fifteen, Jesus tells His disciples:

“I am the vine; you are the branches.
Whoever abides in Me and I in him, he it is that bears much fruit.
Apart from Me you can do nothing.”

A branch has no responsibility to produce fruit.

Fruit has no power of its own.

The branch doesn’t strive.
It doesn’t apologize for yesterday’s lack of growth.
It doesn’t wake up trying to impress the vine.

It simply remains.

Life flows from the vine into the branch.
Fruit flows out of that life.

That order changed everything for me.

Closeness comes first.
Fruit follows later.

Suddenly, the story of Mary and Martha came into focus.

Martha wasn’t wrong.
She was anxious.

Mary wasn’t lazy.
She was present.

Jesus wasn’t choosing between work and rest.
He was revealing that relationship is not built on anxious effort—even good effort.

It’s built on nearness.

And I began to see how often my devotion had been driven not by love, but by fear—
fear of drifting, fear of displeasing God, fear that if I didn’t keep moving, something precious might be lost.

But a Father doesn’t ask His child to manage closeness.

He carries it.

So maybe the better question isn’t:

How do I draw closer to God?

Maybe it’s:

What if I’ve been close all along…
and just didn’t know I was allowed to rest there?

A Simple Prayer

Father,
I confess how easily I turn relationship into responsibility.
I strive for closeness instead of trusting it.

Teach me to abide.
To remain where life already flows.
To walk in the Spirit, not perform for You.

Free me from anxious devotion,
and teach me to live from Your love—not for it.

Amen.

If something in you loosened as you listened,
if you felt more invited than instructed,
more rested than challenged—

maybe this wasn’t a call to do more.

Maybe it was permission to stay.