I’m sure you’ve seen them in the store. A lovely couple, fashionably dressed, talking quietly, pushing a cart holding the latest deluxe baby carrier, educational toys dangling over their infant’s head. A whining toddler orbits the cart, sending shudders through the spines of everyone within range except, apparently, its parents. “I wanna look at the tooooys. I wanna look at the tooooys.” You might hear an occasional, “stop whining, Brandon,” but they never actually make him stop whining. (Note to parents: please don't let your kids whine. Zero tolerance is my recommendation.)

Sometimes I wonder if we send shudders through God’s spine. I can’t tolerate children’s whining, but I’m sure good at it myself. Of course, I’m a little more sophisticated about it than the average toddler. I’ve learned that the piercing nasal tone and the dramatic floppy body language aren’t so effective for a forty-something woman as they might be for a three-year-old. No, my whining might be disguised as righteous indignation, such as “Why can’t those deacons get the heating system working right? Poor old Mrs. Elroy is freezing.” Or it might sound like humble resignation: “I was hoping for a new mixer, but I guess you need those hunting boots more.” Sometimes I even aspire to sound like a self-sacrificing martyr. “You wouldn’t believe my week! So crazy, but it’s really okay, I’ll just cancel a couple of things and find a way to do that for you.”

I can think of two examples of whining in Scripture, and both are instructive. First, there’s Ahab in I Kings 21. He threw a full-blown pity party, sulking on his bed and refusing to eat (an adult man, the king of Samaria!) when Naboth wouldn’t sell him his vineyard. So what did wife Jezebel do? Read that story again for an example of extreme whining at its ugliest. Surely none of us are that spoiled rotten, immature and wickedly indulgent, are we?

Martha provides another example of whining, and Jesus was so gentle with her. In Luke 10:38-42, Martha was understandably irritated that she was working alone, probably preparing to serve Jesus and his disciples a meal. A dozen or so men had plopped down in the sisters' home, and Mary wasn’t helping her, but just sitting at Jesus’ feet, listening to him talk. How unfair! Martha made sure to bring this injustice to Jesus' attention. But Jesus gently told Martha that communion with him was far more important than any everyday work.

It still is. Imagine what our lives might be like if we were guided by what Jesus said was most important. What if everyone sat at Jesus feet, and dinner was late? What if I gave the deacons the benefit of the doubt and brought a quilt to church to keep my elderly friend warm? What if I talked with my husband honestly, letting him know my heart’s desires, avoiding any hint of manipulation via pouting or sighing? What if everyone—radical concept here—stopped running around like crazy and spent more time being (sitting at Jesus’ feet) instead of driving, calling, organizing, attending meetings and events until we’re all exhausted and burnt out?

If I’m upset that I’m working while others aren’t, why is that? Maybe they are living some precious moment that I should participate in, and let the work wait. Maybe when everyone gets hungry enough, they’ll all pitch in to get dinner ready. Maybe they won’t, but I needn’t be whiny about it either way. It’s good to work—work has to be done. But I must make sure my heart is right about it. So much ugly sin is completely internal. We’re proud. We’re selfish. We’re self-righteous. This interior filth will ooze out through our lips if we let it, and it often sounds like whining. We must be alert for that nasty sound and clamp our mouths shut. I've found it helpful to memorize Psalm 141:3, “Set a guard, O Lord, over my mouth; keep watch over the door of my lips.” We need to ask for forgiveness and help when we recognize the sin. We need to make it a rule: no whining, no complaining, no martyr syndrome. To please our sweet Jesus, we have to do what we do from love. If we can’t, maybe it’s time to put down the dishtowel, take a seat at Jesus’ feet and join the conversation.