Pondering in Silence

Know that the LORD has set apart the faithful for Himself: the LORD hears when I call to Him. When you are disturbed, do not sin; ponder it on your beds, and be silent. (Psalm 4.3-4)

Cleansing Power

Childhood fascinations with faith and film collided when, at seven or eight, I first watched The Nun’s Story (1959). Although Roman Catholicism and cloistered life were foreign to me, the picture’s piety touched me on a level unlike any movie I’d seen before—and very few since. I’d noticed nuns on the street and heard about them from playmates. Yet the depiction of their devotion floored me. Upon entering the order, the heroine (Audrey Hepburn) and other postulates are briefed on convent life, including the “Rule of Silence—interior and exterior silence” ridding one’s mind of idle distractions and thoughts. Having never heard such a thing, along with other customs I picked up from the film, it seemed worth a try. To my parents’ dismay (on many levels), I pinned a towel to my head like a veil, made the Sign of the Cross at every turn, and spoke only when spoken to. The role-play ended when my father sat me down and told me, “Son, it’s time to end this. You’re not Catholic. You’re not a nun. Nuns are girls, and”— his greatest concern—“you’re not a girl.” While I didn’t like it, he had a point.

Following that brush with sacred quietness, interest in contemplative silence eluded me, largely due to lack of exposure. As you may know, Pentecostalism (my faith background) is a noisy tradition. Instead of emptying our minds to listen, we were constantly raising our voices in prayer. And there are benefits to vocal prayer. Articulating one’s faith indubitably strengthens it. What’s more, audibly expressing needs and desires to God alerts one to false motives, pride, and vanity tucked into the requests. What goes missing, however, is silence’s cleansing power—a thing I only recently discovered by attending my present church’s monthly Taizé prayer service.

Modeled on the ecumenical monastic community in Taizé, France, the service builds to a 15-minute silence, as everyone sits together, alone in prayer and meditation. The quarter-hour feels like an eternity and an instant. I usually lose a few minutes to thinking about not thinking. Gratefully, such thoughts quickly grow tiresome. My mind rests as silence washes over it. Anxieties and ideas I seldom ponder surface, yet stillness puts them at ease. It becomes a presence that speaks assurance and peace to my innermost being. In the cleansing, I’m reminded troubling concerns belong to the world. Though they affect me, they’re not part of me. The same realization sits at the heart of Psalm 4.

Save It for Later

Signed by David, who notes it should be accompanied by strings, the song finds him holding three conversations at once: one with his God, another with his people, and a third with himself. A rift between the monarch and his subjects apparently inspires the anxious tone at the psalm’s outset. (Resurging idolatry in defiance of his rule is implied.) David begins with a prayer we all pray when dispiriting problems disturb our peace. It’s me again, Lord. “Answer me when I call, O God of my right! You gave me room when I was in distress. Be gracious to me, and hear my prayer,” he writes. (v1) He all but says, “You’ve helped me with this kind of stuff before and I’m sure You’ll show me how to handle it. Still, I need to know You’re there and listening.” With that, David turns to his nation, asking, “How long, you people, shall my honor suffer shame? How long will you love vain words, and seek after lies? But know that the LORD has set apart the faithful for Himself; the LORD hears when I call to Him.” (v2-3) The dejection (“Why are you doing this?”) and assertiveness (“You know God listens to me”) tell us how distraught David is. His mind won’t rest. He’s unable to sleep.

David’s experience in similar dilemmas proves its worth in wisdom he offers his people—and himself. “When you are disturbed, do not sin; ponder it on your beds, and be silent. Offer right sacrifices, and put your trust in the LORD.” (v4-5) This is advice we frequently hear and rarely heed. When troubles plague our waking thoughts and cloud our perception of what’s best to do, it’s best we do nothing. If we’re uncertain what we should say, talking about it certainly won’t help. From the sound of it, something has shaken Israel’s faith. In a panic to rationalize and remedy the situation, it’s talked its way into disobedience. David grants thinking about the problem can’t be avoided. But it can be corralled. “Save worrying for later,” he counsels, “when you’re alone and quiet—when silence can cleanse your mind from trouble that comes from the crazy, confused world outside, and guide your thoughts to peace and assurance residing within.”

Not Obsessing—Accessing

Pondering in silence sounds like the worst possible means of easing anxiety, particularly in an overly anxious age hounding us about suppressed emotions and denial. We spend hours talking about our problems and talking to others about theirs. If it helps—and sometimes it does, though not as reliably as we’re told—negativity we breathe into the air nonetheless poisons our perceptions and dims the brightness of future expectations. By and large, thinking we can talk our way out of troubles talks us into paralyzing pessimism. David observes this phenomenon in verse 6: “There are many who say, ‘O that we might see some good! Let the light of your face shine on us, O LORD!’” (Again with the talking!) While they fret over what they don’t have, David’s silent pondering clears his mind to reconnect with abiding joy, peace, and assurance obtained by trusting his Maker. He verges on gloating as he closes in verses 7 and 8: “You have put gladness in my heart more than when their grain and wine abound. I will both lie down and sleep in peace; for you alone, O LORD, make me lie down in safety.”

How nutty is it that the very thing David suggests our talkaholic culture resists most? What he calls “pondering in silence,” we disparage as “obsessing"! All that reflects, however, is how grossly we underestimate force silence accrues when prayerfully approached. Entering silence to listen rather than talk transforms obsessing about troubles we can’t prevent or control into accessing strength we possess by faith. We say to God, “It’s me again. I know this is an easy matter for You, because we've gone through similar situations before. I just need to know You’re there and listening. Now I’m going to quiet myself to hear what You want to say.” If we start there, silence clears thoughts and anxieties muffling the hushed Voice that imparts calm and confidence and anchors our souls. Chaos surrounding us loses its influence over us once we renew access to sacred joy, peace, and assurance abiding within.

We welcome silence to cleanse our minds of anxiety about troubles we can’t prevent or control so we can access peace and assurance we possess within.

Take It Easy on Yourself

Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. (Matthew 11.28-29)

Digging Down and Doing

This is one of those passages we regularly reach for, yet seldom grasp. Without doubt, it’s one of the most blissful—and blessed—promises Jesus makes: “When you’re worn down, come to Me. When you’re overloaded, come to Me. I will give you rest.” (Matthew 11.28) Could it be more straightforward? So we take Him up on His offer. We go to Him and sigh, “Oh, Jesus, I’m so beat. I just don’t have it in me to move ahead.” Or, “Oh, Jesus, I’ve had it up to here. I just can't find the strength for one more problem.” We stand and wait, as though He’s running a supernatural rebound clinic, where He doles out reenergizing pills and burden reduction therapy. To some degree, the protocol we’ve derived from this text works, because time spent in Christ’s presence always restores energy and strength. Yet when we study the instructions attached to it, our approach is out of line with His direction. Like everything Christ teaches, the outcome He promises expects significant behavioral change from us.

It’s the next part that throws us, where Jesus explains how we get rest. Thus, before staggering to His doorstep, clutching verse 28 like a gift certificate to a spiritual spa, we should read verse 29’s fine print a few times:

Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.

Notice the not-so-subtle shift from “I will give” to “you will find”? When we feel too exhausted and put-upon to keep going, we turn to Christ. But in our turning, we realize His promise isn’t about standing around and waiting. It’s about digging down and doing. Jesus never says He’ll handle the heavy lifting. He invites us to exchange our baggage for His lighter load. He doesn’t offer a massage and a nap. He shows us how to take it easy, so our backs don’t ache from unnecessary burdens and our stamina isn’t spent on pointless exertion. “Be like Me,” He says. “Be gentle. Be humble. And you’ll find rest.”

Weary

At a glance, this passage seems to pop up from nowhere. It feels tacked-on at the bottom of a relatively uneventful chapter, as if Matthew decided he needed a button—a closing zinger—to pep it up. When we read chapter 11 with wide eyes, however, there’s no mistaking why it’s there. By the time we reach verse 38, it’s obvious Jesus is weary. The chapter starts with bad news. A big crowd has turned out to hear Him preach. Just before He speaks, disciples of John the Baptist arrive to inform Him their imprisoned leader now has second doubts about Jesus. “Go back and tell him what you see,” He replies. “People are being healed. I’m preaching the truth. John needs to settle down.” After they leave, Jesus realizes the crowd overheard His discussion. Some damage control needs doing, because it’s commonly known Jesus began His career as John’s disciple and launched His ministry at the Baptist’s urging. This little dust-up could easily be misinterpreted as rank ingratitude on Jesus’s part or, worse yet, set fire to new questions about His legitimacy. Now He has to scuttle what He intended to tell the people and assure them He holds John in highest regard.

It clearly enervates Jesus that John, his followers, or the crowd would entertain the notion He’s not authentic. “What do you people want?” He asks. “John lives in the desert like a recluse and you say he’s possessed. I minister in the towns and because you’re not thrilled with the company I keep, you say I’m a glutton and drunkard. You’re like a bunch of kids trying to run the show.” Then, catching Himself, Jesus finishes this part of the sermon by saying, “Wisdom is proved right by her actions” (v19)—the same message He sent to John. Usually, He’d change gears here, maybe tell a story with an uplifting moral, or point to something—a tree or field or coin—and extract life-giving wisdom from it. But He can’t seem to escape the weariness and pressure brought on by relentless questions about Him no matter how much good He does. Jesus unleashes a barrage of woes aimed at cities that doubt Him despite the miracles He performed in their streets. It’s not pretty. Once more, He catches Himself, only now He stops preaching and starts praying. The prayer reveals what’s actually going on and why He’s so tired of it. It’s in the prayer that He finds—and we learn how to find—rest and relief.

A Child Can Do It

“I praise you, Father,” Jesus says, “because you have hidden these things from the wise and learned, and revealed them to little children.” (v25) The challenges that weary Christ come from clever people driven by insatiable craving for difficulty. They make things more taxing than they are because simplicity strips their audacity and pride. When the answer is so obvious a child can see and understand it, the smart crowd loses its edge. They flood the squares and pulpits, declaring, “It’s not as simple as it looks.” Yet in Christ’s case, looking proves how simple it is. As He prays, Jesus comes to grips with the fact He’s made Himself tired by trying to get the smart set—whether people of faith, like John and his followers, or doubters, like the cities He condemns—to see what they won’t believe. He’s got sucked into their madness, which He doesn’t relate to, because He’s not like them. They’re harsh; He’s gentle. They’re haughty; He’s humble. They love difficulty; it’s their weapon. He loves simplicity; it’s His gift.

“All things have been committed to me by my Father,” Jesus confesses in prayer. (v27) He has no use for grueling debates and cumbersome issues. Faith in His Father and His purpose removes any reason to be combative and haughty. After this coalesces while He prays, He tells us: “Learn from me. Don’t get sucked into the madness. It’s not as difficult as they claim. It’s just looking and believing—so simple, a child can do it. Don’t let non-essentials exhaust and burden you. Be gentle. Be humble. Be like me. Take it easy on yourself and you will find rest.”

We exhaust and overload ourselves with non-essential complexity. Christ teaches His way is so simple a child can see it. Following His example is how we find rest.

Way Over Yonder—A Personal Reflection

If only for this life we have hope in Christ, we are to be pitied more than all men. (1 Corinthians 15.19)

Bishop Walter Hawkins

May 18, 1949 – July 11, 2010

Shelter

Last weekend started one way and ended another. Both events jettisoned me back to my teens. On Friday night, Walt and I attended Carole King and James Taylor’s “Troubadour Reunion” concert. On Sunday evening, I opened my Facebook page to see a link posted by my good friend, Calvin Bernard Rhone. It took me to a Washington Post article: Walter Hawkins dead: award-winning gospel singer was 61. Since the early 70's, if anyone asked, “Who are your greatest musical influences?” without a second’s thought, I’d reply, “Carole King and Walter Hawkins.” As a burgeoning church musician, both drew me with their keyboard and songwriting genius. I spent hours listening to their breakthrough albums, Carole’s Tapestry (1971) and Walter’s Love Alive (1975, recorded with the choir of the church he founded, Love Center), followed by countless hours at the piano, trying to replicate their sound.

With music playing such a forceful role in my life and my faith, their influence exceeded its impact on my tastes and musicianship, however. Their lyrics shared many similarities that moved me profoundly. Admittedly, Carole’s songs were secular and often directed to friends and lovers, while Walter’s spoke of or to God. Yet it’s irrefutable both came from comparable places in their hearts. For example, Carole sang:

Way over yonder is a place that I know

Where I can find shelter from the hunger and cold

And the sweet-tasting good life is so easily found

Way over yonder, that's where I'm bound

Walter’s choir sang:

If you want to know where I'm going

Where I'm going soon

If anybody asks you where I'm going

Where I'm going soon

I'm going up yonder to be with my Lord

Carole sang:

Winter, spring, summer, or fall

All you have to do is call

And I'll be there

You've got a friend

And, on Love Alive II (1978), Walter’s choir sang:

He will never forsake you

Even though He knows everything

There is to know about you

He's that kind of Friend

These were potent messages of hope for a teenager struggling to reconcile his faith and sexual orientation. Knitted together, Carole’s compassion and Walter’s confidence became the shelter in my storms—the place where I could steal away to hear angels sing hope and acceptance. It was where I heard Walter’s music say:

God has not promised me sunshine

That's not the way it's going to be

But a little rain mixed with God's sunshine

A little pain helps me appreciate the good times

Be grateful, and it will be all right

While Carole told me:

You've got to get up every morning

And show the world all the love in your heart

Then people will treat you better

You're gonna find, yes you will

That you're beautiful as you feel

The Far Shore

So I wept with joy on Friday, as Carole performed her life-giving songs, and again Sunday, on learning Walter was gone—up yonder, way over yonder. Yet in my tears, sorrow would not come. What I felt was no less than insurmountable joy. In song after song, sermon after sermon, he insisted he was bound way over yonder. I couldn’t have been happier for him. And in my happiness, I realized the depth of his impact on me. All along, he’d been my living example of 1 Corinthians 15.19: “If only for this life we have hope in Christ, we are to be pitied more than all men.” I understood why I felt no alarm when I heard he was battling pancreatic cancer. I knew hope for him surpassed healing and longevity. He’d lived his life looking to the far shore.

Walter Hawkins taught me—and hundreds of thousands he graced with his music—to live in hope. Through him we grasped there’s no such thing as hopelessness when we place total faith in Christ’s word: “Do not let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God; trust also in me. In my Father’s house are many rooms; if it were not so, I would have told you. I am going there to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am.” (John 14.1-3) Walter compelled us always to remember we’re going up yonder. Setting our sights on the far shore keeps life’s trials in perspective. Here’s how Carole framed it:

I know when I get there the first thing I'll see

Is the sun shining golden, shining right down on me

And trouble's gonna lose me, worry leave me behind

And I'll stand up proudly, in true peace of mind

When the Battle’s Over

While playing Walter’s records as a kid, I never imagined I'd personally know him. I lived in Chicago. He was in Oakland. He was world-famous. I was nobody. I moved to Los Angeles after college and a series of coincidences landed me in the heart of L.A.’s gospel community. A good friend was recording his choir’s first major album, which Walter offered to produce. We’d briefly met a few times in passing, mostly when I visited his church in Oakland. When he came to L.A. to record my friend’s album, I somehow ended up driving him around town. He talked excitedly about his upcoming project, Love Alive III, and when we happened to pass my church, West Angeles, he asked to stop so he could say hello to my pastor.

After he and Bishop Blake visited, Walter said, “Let’s go to the sanctuary. I want to play some of the new album for you.” I can’t describe the emotions rushing over me as I sat beside him, watching his hands glide over the keys, listening to songs the general public had yet to hear. I wanted to explain what this moment meant to me, yet I knew I wouldn’t do it justice. So I sat in silent awe. We’d been there a while when Walter said, “One more, then we need to go. You’re really going to like this one.” He sailed into a classic Walter Hawkins toe-tapper, “When the Battle is Over.” Here’s the second verse:

With tears streaming down, when there's no one around

And you feel like all hope is gone

Don't despair, God is right there

When the battle's over, when the battle's over

We're going home.

Walter’s passing compels me to encourage all of us to live in the bright hope of God’s promises. We will cry sometimes. At times, family and friends we look to won’t be there. We’ll feel like hope is lost. But we must never forget the hope we possess will ultimately triumph. We must always keep the far shore in sight. Way over yonder—that’s where we’re bound.

When the battle’s over, we’re going home.

"One of these mornings, it won’t be long, you’re gonna look for me and I’ll be gone on home!” Bishop Walter Hawkins sings, “When the Battle is Over.” (Choir conducted by his brother, Edwin Hawkins.)

Doxology: A Pride Reflection

Know that the LORD is God. It is he who made us, and we are his; we are his people, the sheep of his pasture. (Psalm 100.3)

Rest

The past two weeks have brought a deluge of new work—always a good thing for freelancers like me, but in this economy, a virtual outpouring of God’s goodness. While Straight-Friendly and its family never left my thoughts and prayers, time to write and post new reflections hasn’t been there. This concerned me, particularly with the annual Pride celebrations looming closer. I somehow assumed the Holy Spirit would guide me to texts or thoughts lighted with urgency to explore. Yet every prayer for direction led me back to Psalm 100.3. Each time, I heard it as a song of praise—a doxology:

Know that the Lord is God.

It is He Who made us

And we are His.

We are His people—

The sheep of His pasture.

I rushed to explore what this praise says to all of us, gay and straight, female and male, younger and older, etc., etc., etc. We should embrace inner pride as sacred praise for our unique making. God’s acceptance releases us from shame and stigmatization. Knowing Him as our Maker and Shepherd protects us from predatory prejudice and condemnation. The words flowed like water springing from a well—up to a point. Then, like the “Amen” that ends liturgical doxologies and returns us to our seats, I repeatedly heard:

Rest.

The tone and comfort were indubitably those of our Creator and Keeper, the One Who crafts us by hand, Who places us where He wills, Who tirelessly watches over us, Who authors our circumstances, and, most important, Who knows us better than we know ourselves. “Rest.” Silly me, I took it mean, “This can wait. Go to bed. People will understand.” I knew that, of course, but it was a much-needed reminder. Then, this morning I awoke to a keener awareness of what it actually meant, what we should hear in the Psalm 100.3 doxology, and how that affects our understanding of Pride’s personal, cultural, and spiritual relevance.

Confidence

In this weekend’s cacophony of parades and parties, speeches and songs, God is speaking rest to His children everywhere—people of every race, gender, and orientation. He reminds us GLBT Pride, like any effort promoting equality and justice, will end in frustration if we listen only to what we say and think. Our vision will remain myopic and clarity won’t fully emerge until we hear our Creator and Shepherd speak rest to our spirits.

Does this suggest we cease our fight for freedom, equality, and justice for oppressed peoples everywhere? Emphatically not. God’s Word explicitly commands us to care for and defend the downtrodden, dispossessed, and abused among us. Abandoning them constitutes sin. Yet we can rest. As we go forth with passionate conviction, demanding the end of all social, legal, and religious strife, we carry in our hearts undying confidence they will end. Every step of progress brings us closer to our Creator and Shepherd’s intentions for His people, the sheep of His pasture.

Deliverance

The enormous strides made by the GLBT global community and its allies generate untold reasons to rejoice. We have every right to take pride in our progress to date. In many ways, the GLBT movement’s success stands as a case study in deliverance. It’s taken less than a half-century of unyielding effort to free multitudes, within and beyond our community, from shackles of fear, hatred, ignorance, and complacence. Thus, when gay people and their allies speak of “pride,” they—we—must acknowledge it long ago surpassed its original meaning: defiance of shame. Gay Pride now encompasses all oppressed peoples and shines a light on the promise of deliverance. More than that, it proves deliverance is a process, a steady evolution that overtakes hearts and minds, not overturns courts and institutions. Laws and restrictions change when the people who make them change.

There can be no doubt changes we’ve witnessed and those we hope to see exceed our capability to bring about. Daniel 2.21 says, “He changes times and seasons; he sets up kings and deposes them. He gives wisdom to the wise and knowledge to the discerning.” It’s foolish to allow pride to swell into hubris. Our deliverance thus far has not come about through persuasive powers or political savvy. It is the work of a Creator Who thrives on change—Who sacrificed His Son’s life to enable change—and a Shepherd Who delivers His people by changing hearts and minds that shape our seasons.

Though the task seems too great, we rest in knowing God’s purpose will be done. Though justice we seek appears too elusive to be grasped, we rest in belief He has it well in hand. Though hateful forces display their might to turn tides of opinion away from God, we rest in certainty they are no stronger than the weakest among those they oppress. Our Maker favors none of us above another. He is our God. We are His people. No matter where we side on any issue or cause, it is He Who has made us and we are His. He will do as He sees fit. We revel in deliverance we’ve experienced thus far as our guarantee full and final deliverance will come.

God Pride

Whether actively engaging in this weekend’s festivities or rejoicing with the GLBT community from afar, it’s incumbent on every believer to discern God Pride hidden at its core. This holds true for every event that exults in human diversity or promotes freedom from social oppression and inequality. Innate pride in who we are is founded on inherent awareness each of us has divinely sanctioned equal worth. From the greatest to least, the best to worst, we all reflect our Creator. Differences that challenge us are merely singular aspects of God’s self-image. By themselves, they’re inconsequential. Only when they're seen as pieces of a whole do they acquire importance. Pride in who we are ultimately reveals inescapable—in some cases, involuntary—God Pride. It confesses our God-given desire to identify with Something greater, richer, and far more beautiful than anything we can possibly be on our own. Know the Lord is God. Know He has made you. You belong to Him. You number among His people, the sheep of His pasture. Nothing can change this, or ever will. Rest.

At its core, Gay Pride, like any diversity celebration or effort aimed at social inclusion and equality, expresses God Pride—recognition He is our Maker and we are His people.

Personal Postscript: Two Years Down This Road

It was during Pride Weekend 2008, that Straight-Friendly launched. I can’t really recall what I expected, but I know it was nothing like what I found. The past two years have been the most precious and productive of my life.

I can’t allow this milestone to pass without expressing my profound gratitude to all of you who’ve traveled this road with me. You have been constant, lifting me, enlightening me, feeding my soul with your comments and emails, and welcoming me into your hearts. You have changed my life in extraordinary ways, always helping me grow stronger and wiser in this marvelous faith we share. My debts to you are more than I can possibly repay. Yet I know with complete assurance you will be rightfully rewarded and blessed beyond measure for all you’ve done. Thank you.

With all my love,

Tim

Day Seven

God blessed the seventh day and made it holy, because on it he rested from all the work of creating that he had done. (Genesis 2.3)

Exhausted

I recently bumped into an artist friend who complained, “I’m totally exhausted!” Just to needle him, I said, “God, I hope not. How will you work if you’ve got nothing left?” It took a moment to sink in and then he rallied. “Trust me, there’s plenty left. I’m just tired and need to take a break.” Not be outdone by my jab at his grammar, he added, “You look like you could use a break yourself!” With Lent winding down, I started thinking about this tired-exhausted-need-a-break business.

This year’s journey is my richest yet. Having traveled beside many of you, I suspect you feel the same. But I must confess at this stage, I’m not only tired. I’m exhausted. My reserves are depleted. I’m now wholly reliant on the One Who calls us to the desert—which is Lent’s overall purpose, and I get that. Yet cognitive recognition is no anecdote for decreased attention span and mental fatigue. Yesterday, without conscious thought, I told God, “I’ve got nothing left to get through next week, let alone Holy Week’s emotional rollercoaster ride.” I let go a big sigh, and before I could embellish, in the recesses of my being I heard Him say, “So tomorrow you’ll rest. Even I rest on occasion. You think you shouldn’t?” (For reasons I can’t fathom, God often replies to my whines in the voice of a Yiddish watchmaker.)

For the Moment

When the Creation narrative reaches Genesis 2.3—“God blessed the seventh day and made it holy, because on it he rested from all the work of creating that he had done”—we’re prone to think, “Hence the Sabbath,” and scoot on. Few of us consider the implications of what we’ve just read. God spends six “days” speaking the universe into existence, summoning plants and animals to life, and fashioning His surrogate creature by hand. He gets everything up and running—stars and planets in orbit, rivers flowing, grass growing, etc.—and instead of becoming preoccupied with His creation, or monitoring its early progress, He takes Day Seven off. He lets everything go so He can rest. What’s most peculiar here is God’s making this, Creation’s least notable day, a holy one. It’s the first in an endless series of classic reversals, when what God does is stridently counterintuitive to what seems logical to us.

After we wrestle with that for a bit, we still need to solve the paradox of God’s exhaustion. Six days of tireless, infinitely detailed and diverse creativity refutes any suggestion He’s out of ideas and energy. Yet He stops. He’s exhausted, though not in the sense of being completely emptied of imagination and power. For the moment, His work is finished, His world perfect. There’s nothing left to be done, no need to continue just to prove He can. What’s more, He knows this perfection won’t last. The Tempter lurks in the Garden, waiting to captivate the Human’s idle thoughts, after which the struggle to prevent both from undoing God's work will commence. Because the world is perfect, because it’s complete, because there’s nothing He needs to do for the moment, God takes His rest. Day Seven is His finest day, and that makes it holy.

Keep It Holy

Excess or neglect—usually a combination of the two—makes us tired. This holds true on every level: physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual. Moderation and mindfulness remedy tiredness. We pull back on some things so we can attend to others. Exhaustion is different. It comes from a different place and requires different treatment. When we’re exhausted, it’s because we’ve done all we can for the moment. The empty fatigue signals it’s time to let go and rest. Our world may not be perfect and our work may be incomplete, but knowing there’s nothing more we can do for now tells us now is the perfect time to do nothing. There’s no gain in sacrificing rest to admire our work or keep close tabs on people who can manage without us. Besides, trying to plow through our exhaustion now renders us useless later. It’s time to rest.

Rest doesn’t come easily to us, though it should. From what we see in Genesis, it comes easily to God. His work reaches a stopping point and He rests. Our resistance to rest derives from insecurities, fears, and other feelings that are alien to Him. We deal with pride; we’re too essential to care for ourselves. At the spectrum’s other end, we constantly need to be needed to maintain our sense of worth. We worry how we’ll be regarded if we withdraw for a respite. We fear living with guilt if something we might have prevented occurs in our absence. And on and on we go, whining with doubt and impatience, falling shorter by the day, failing others and us by trying to give what we no longer have. It’s time to rest.

Judaism teaches rest is worship, reserving the seventh day of each week as a holy day of obedience to the Fourth Commandment: “Remember the Sabbath day by keeping it holy.” (Exodus 20.8) Early Christians adopted the first day of the week as the “new Sabbath,” which combined commemoration of Christ’s resurrection with the Jewish day of rest. The “rest” component of Sunday worship hasn’t stuck; since we’re no longer under the Law, I’m not persuaded it should. Nonetheless, we should honor the principle of rest as worship by calling Day Seven any time we’re exhausted. Our Sabbath may last an hour, a day, a week, or year. Regardless of duration, we set time aside time to rest and keep it holy. We let worries and fears go until we’re replenished and ready to resume work. In Mark 2.27, Jesus says, “The Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath.” God made Day Seven a holy day of rest to remind us we need to rest.

When we’ve exhausted our capabilities, it’s time to rest. (Van Gogh: Noon: Rest from Work (after Millet); c. 1890)

Postscript: Sabbath Song

A restful jazz meditation on the Sabbath by Neville Peter.