Here is Your Permission

Reclaiming Sabbath for your summer

I almost didn’t write this. Almost sent you a note instead that I couldn’t and wouldn’t do it after a long week of book writing (which was heaven-sent, which was hard, which was energizing and exhausting, which sounds a lot like work for a lot of us). 

Not writing this would have been fine. More than fine, in fact: the world would have kept spinning for all of us. (And if it didn’t, all the more reason why churning out work-for-the-sake-of-work would have been unnecessary.)

But as I was mentally composing an un-newsletter note for today, I came across the poemish reflection below about rest, written long ago and never shared. 

Suddenly I realized what I wanted to say, what I need to hear for myself, was not a nihilistic nothing but a return to the sacred space of Sabbath.

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Sabbath means you stop. Sabbath means you rest.

Sabbath means that for 1/7 of your time, you remember that you are not the epicenter of the universe, that you can release into holy rhythms to restore body, mind, and soul.

The rest (and reset) that is both calling and commandment, both human and divine.

Sabbath is the antidote to hustle and grind, our ancient resistance to the relentless ways of the world that are antithetical to the kingdom of God.

You get to remember two essential truths, echoing the words of one of the great lines from one of the great movies:

Rudy: “Have I done everything I possibly can? Can you help me?” 

Fr. Cavanaugh: “Son, in 35 years of religious studies, I’ve come up with only two hard, incontrovertible facts: There is a God, and I’m not Him.”

//

The more I worked and wrote about work and vocation over the years, the more convinced I became about Sabbath.

Most of us secretly think we are irreplaceable, indispensable. That no one else could do our job or raise our kids or make our mark or care for our people. But the quiet, honest truth is: someone else could. 

Sabbath reminds of this double truth, too. That we are beloved and deserve rest. That we are one of billions of beloveds on the planet, not shouldering the world alone like Atlas, not saving it like Christ who already came. 

So if you need permission, here it is. You get to un-do something this weekend. You get to say no to pressure. You get to say yes to prayer. You get to sleep more. You get to slow down. You get to sit for five (!) full minutes and do absolutely nothing.

It may feel itchy and uncomfortable and impossible. Exactly as it was created to do.

Most days worship and work walk hand in hand, the warp and weft woven together in the fabric of our lives. But on one day, we were told to do only one. To reorder our lives and our use of time, to return to the God who made us, to restore whatever rhythms have gotten out of whack after another week of hard living in hard times.

If we think the rules don’t apply to us, we might gently want to take some of that Sabbath to ask why. (She writes sheepishly, having had such thoughts before.) 

There is a God. It’s not you. Even God rested. You can, too.

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The rest is either

everything else
we have to do
the overwhelming
accumulation
of another
again
more
more
more

Or

deep un-doing
the longer
leisure
of less
the surrender to sleep
honoring the need
for stillness.

Restoring relaxation
need for nothing
save whatever brings peace and prayer
to quiet
mind body
and soul.

Every Sabbath
I can choose

the rest
(leftovers from the week before
and preparations for the week ahead)

or

the rest
(holy work of making space
for God alone—which fills me too).

Rest is a complete sentence.

Let it be enough.

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Find my books here: Everyday Sacrament | Grieving Together | Prayers for Pregnancy & Birth | To Bless Our Callings | Living Your Discipleship