Sodor and Sabbath
Our kids like playing with trains, and for a little while in their toddlerdom, Thomas the Tank Engine was a regular feature on our TV screen. One of the things Mark and I noticed while watching Thomas and friends on the Island of Sodor with our kids was the emphasis on being "really useful." Engines got in trouble when they weren't useful, when they did frivolous things or got too selfish and took a track of their own choosing rather than the one assigned them. It struck us at the time, and still does, that this show is tailor-made for the industrious West--a collection of countries and cultures whose wealth and status depend entirely on the production of goods and services and the people who buy them. A really useful engine is always industrious. A really useful engine stays on the prescribed track. A really useful engine arrives on time. A really useful engine is happiest when serving others according to the rules.
I like Thomas. I do. It's wholesome and teaches lessons about helping others and being selfless and reliable. On the other hand, I wish just once that getting off track bloomed a flower other than shame, or that being useful meant more than working hard all the time. Or that sometimes breaking the rules can be good for us. Too counter cultural, I guess. Being compulsively industrious people ourselves, I sometimes feel hard-pressed to find ways to teach our kids about the creativity, thought, imagination and (above all) gratitude that bloom when we still our limbs long enough to listen to our souls.
Not to get all preachy, but the idea of creating a sacred space to do nothing is nothing new. In her book An Altar in the World: A geography of faith, Barbara Brown Taylor notes that "the Jews were observing Sabbath before Moses brought the stone tablets of God's holy law down from Mount Sinai. The first holy thing in all creation, Abraham Heschel says, was not a people or a place but a day. God made everything in creation and called it good, but when God rested on the seventh day, God called it holy. That makes the seventh day a 'palace in time,' Heschel says, into which human beings are invited every single week of our lives. Why are we so reluctant to go?" (127)
Wow. We are reluctant aren't we. We chug along all week doing useful things, and when we reach the day appointed us for rest, appointed since the dawn of creation, we chug right through it, too. A day so holy God himself observed it is too counter-cultural for industrious people like us. We even rope our kids into disbelieving the value of Sabbath rest as we usher them to endless sporting events and sit them down to their homework before bed on Sunday nights. We groom them early for the culture they call home, but do we do it at the expense of a connection with our true home?
Taylor writes:
"According to the rabbis, those who observe Sabbath observe all the other commandments. Practicing it over and over again they become accomplished at saying no, which is how they gradually become able to resist the culture's killing rhythms of driveness and depletion, compulsion and collapse. Worshiping a different kind of God, they are shaped in that God's image, stopping every seven days to celebrate their divine creation and liberation" (134).
Is this true? Can saying "No," free us to the infinite "Yes" of the lives we've been given? If I put my feet up, cease folding laundry, forget to make supper, let the lawn grow higher, let the paint peel further, let the garden dry under a June sun for one whole day, isn't that neglectful of the gifts I've been given?
If I turn off the phone, the computer, the television, what will replace its noise? An inner dialogue I'd rather not hear?
But what if observing the Sabbath is as practical as it is spiritual? What if the commandment is less about following a rule (Thomas-like) and more about entering that "palace in time" that says you are worthy and worthwhile excluding the tasks you perform? You are loved and lovable and precious in the singular space of your humanity; that by grace alone the tiny patch on earth your very breath fills is sacred and beautiful and right. Wow. What if?
"When you live in God, your day begins when you open your eyes, though you have done nothing yourself to open them, and you take your first breath though there is no reason why this life-giving breeze should be given to you and not to some other. In the dark or in the light, with a stone slab under your back or a feather topper, your day begins when you let God hold you because you do not have the slightest idea how to hold yourself--when you let God raise you up, when you consent to rest to show you get the point, since that is the last thing you would do if you were running the show yourself" (140).
Consent to rest. What a strange phrase, since our bodies require it, are wired for it, and yet we find an endless list of reasons why we should not allow it. It's a luxury. Too luxurious for the likes of us, who must work to earn our keep, and who must show our neighbors that we are forever doing so, lest the world, our own children, judge us useless.
Consenting to rest is ultimately a consent to grace. We accept the gift of our brokenness, our exhaustion because it reminds us from where we have come and to where we are going. The "palace in time" turns out to be a palace of time, where the value of our own work is put on hold in order to recognize the value of God's work in us. A palace of time in time. Who wouldn't want that?
Of course my mind races to the practical application of a spiritual practice that seems to make no sense in this day and age. How can I observe Sabbath and still chase after three little munchkins--feeding, clothing, and caring for their needs? Is something work if I enjoy doing it? What if my favorite day of the week is the one in which I pull out my camp chair and park it in on the fringe of right field to watch my daughter pitch a game? Is that work? Surely the Herculean effort of getting an entire family out the door to church on time is work! If it's not, I don't know what is!
I don't know how to answer those questions any more than you probably do, except to say that if the day's activities compel me to keep a schedule that mirrors the other six days of my week, then I've probably lost track of observing Sabbath. And if my children don't recognize the sacred space of rest in our lives, then I've probably lost track of observing Sabbath. As for the conundrum of the little bodies that people my house 24/7 and place demands on my every waking hour and even some of my sleeping ones, perhaps the key is to say "No" to as many things as possible in my own life so that the task of caring for three littles on the Sabbath feels less like the work it can be and more like the gift it is. That way we can all say together that there is something special about that one day every week where we set down our burdens long enough to see the sacred holiness of a Creator forever at work in the lives of the people we love most.
Nothing in the Bible suggests that the task of consenting to rest will be easy, especially not for the "very useful," like us. But even if you're not the least bit religiousy, or if you hail from a tradition other than the Christian one, you can imagine with me the possibilities than an entire day spent in the palace of time might hold. Sure, anyone can run the rat race day in and day out. But how many of us can perform the God-like task of stepping back from all we've created and even all we haven't long enough to recognize its goodness, long enough to let gratitude swell, long enough to see and to hear and to taste that the Lord, the Cosmos, or whatever name you might tag it with is GOOD.
Consenting to rest is consenting to grace and consenting to grace is the truest form of gratitude--the one that says I can't earn the gift (and thank God I don't have to!), I can only accept it. A whole day devoted to the remembrance of grace. Now that's something really useful I think I might have time for. Now to train myself to actually sit down...
I like Thomas. I do. It's wholesome and teaches lessons about helping others and being selfless and reliable. On the other hand, I wish just once that getting off track bloomed a flower other than shame, or that being useful meant more than working hard all the time. Or that sometimes breaking the rules can be good for us. Too counter cultural, I guess. Being compulsively industrious people ourselves, I sometimes feel hard-pressed to find ways to teach our kids about the creativity, thought, imagination and (above all) gratitude that bloom when we still our limbs long enough to listen to our souls.
Not to get all preachy, but the idea of creating a sacred space to do nothing is nothing new. In her book An Altar in the World: A geography of faith, Barbara Brown Taylor notes that "the Jews were observing Sabbath before Moses brought the stone tablets of God's holy law down from Mount Sinai. The first holy thing in all creation, Abraham Heschel says, was not a people or a place but a day. God made everything in creation and called it good, but when God rested on the seventh day, God called it holy. That makes the seventh day a 'palace in time,' Heschel says, into which human beings are invited every single week of our lives. Why are we so reluctant to go?" (127)
Wow. We are reluctant aren't we. We chug along all week doing useful things, and when we reach the day appointed us for rest, appointed since the dawn of creation, we chug right through it, too. A day so holy God himself observed it is too counter-cultural for industrious people like us. We even rope our kids into disbelieving the value of Sabbath rest as we usher them to endless sporting events and sit them down to their homework before bed on Sunday nights. We groom them early for the culture they call home, but do we do it at the expense of a connection with our true home?
Taylor writes:
"According to the rabbis, those who observe Sabbath observe all the other commandments. Practicing it over and over again they become accomplished at saying no, which is how they gradually become able to resist the culture's killing rhythms of driveness and depletion, compulsion and collapse. Worshiping a different kind of God, they are shaped in that God's image, stopping every seven days to celebrate their divine creation and liberation" (134).
Is this true? Can saying "No," free us to the infinite "Yes" of the lives we've been given? If I put my feet up, cease folding laundry, forget to make supper, let the lawn grow higher, let the paint peel further, let the garden dry under a June sun for one whole day, isn't that neglectful of the gifts I've been given?
If I turn off the phone, the computer, the television, what will replace its noise? An inner dialogue I'd rather not hear?
But what if observing the Sabbath is as practical as it is spiritual? What if the commandment is less about following a rule (Thomas-like) and more about entering that "palace in time" that says you are worthy and worthwhile excluding the tasks you perform? You are loved and lovable and precious in the singular space of your humanity; that by grace alone the tiny patch on earth your very breath fills is sacred and beautiful and right. Wow. What if?
"When you live in God, your day begins when you open your eyes, though you have done nothing yourself to open them, and you take your first breath though there is no reason why this life-giving breeze should be given to you and not to some other. In the dark or in the light, with a stone slab under your back or a feather topper, your day begins when you let God hold you because you do not have the slightest idea how to hold yourself--when you let God raise you up, when you consent to rest to show you get the point, since that is the last thing you would do if you were running the show yourself" (140).
Consent to rest. What a strange phrase, since our bodies require it, are wired for it, and yet we find an endless list of reasons why we should not allow it. It's a luxury. Too luxurious for the likes of us, who must work to earn our keep, and who must show our neighbors that we are forever doing so, lest the world, our own children, judge us useless.
Consenting to rest is ultimately a consent to grace. We accept the gift of our brokenness, our exhaustion because it reminds us from where we have come and to where we are going. The "palace in time" turns out to be a palace of time, where the value of our own work is put on hold in order to recognize the value of God's work in us. A palace of time in time. Who wouldn't want that?
Of course my mind races to the practical application of a spiritual practice that seems to make no sense in this day and age. How can I observe Sabbath and still chase after three little munchkins--feeding, clothing, and caring for their needs? Is something work if I enjoy doing it? What if my favorite day of the week is the one in which I pull out my camp chair and park it in on the fringe of right field to watch my daughter pitch a game? Is that work? Surely the Herculean effort of getting an entire family out the door to church on time is work! If it's not, I don't know what is!
I don't know how to answer those questions any more than you probably do, except to say that if the day's activities compel me to keep a schedule that mirrors the other six days of my week, then I've probably lost track of observing Sabbath. And if my children don't recognize the sacred space of rest in our lives, then I've probably lost track of observing Sabbath. As for the conundrum of the little bodies that people my house 24/7 and place demands on my every waking hour and even some of my sleeping ones, perhaps the key is to say "No" to as many things as possible in my own life so that the task of caring for three littles on the Sabbath feels less like the work it can be and more like the gift it is. That way we can all say together that there is something special about that one day every week where we set down our burdens long enough to see the sacred holiness of a Creator forever at work in the lives of the people we love most.
Nothing in the Bible suggests that the task of consenting to rest will be easy, especially not for the "very useful," like us. But even if you're not the least bit religiousy, or if you hail from a tradition other than the Christian one, you can imagine with me the possibilities than an entire day spent in the palace of time might hold. Sure, anyone can run the rat race day in and day out. But how many of us can perform the God-like task of stepping back from all we've created and even all we haven't long enough to recognize its goodness, long enough to let gratitude swell, long enough to see and to hear and to taste that the Lord, the Cosmos, or whatever name you might tag it with is GOOD.
Consenting to rest is consenting to grace and consenting to grace is the truest form of gratitude--the one that says I can't earn the gift (and thank God I don't have to!), I can only accept it. A whole day devoted to the remembrance of grace. Now that's something really useful I think I might have time for. Now to train myself to actually sit down...