Wonderstruck (9 page)

Moses notes that the Sabbath finds its roots in Genesis—the story of creation where God is revealed as one who celebrates the good, the
tov
, of creation with a rhythm as natural as exhaling. With each passing day, the heavens and earth splash to life until the sixth day, when God declares the forming of humanity as
tov me’od
, or abundantly good. The work of creation is a good and purposeful work performed by a good and purposeful God.

Of all the days, perhaps the seventh is the most eloquent and insightful as to the nature of God. From a literary perspective, the Sabbath forms the pinnacle of the story. Like the dramatic kiss of a soldier returning from war, this is the moment we’re not meant to miss. In choosing rest as the grand finale, God reveals himself as one driven by neither anxiety nor fear but one who finds gladness in both the work of creation and the creation of work.

On the Sabbath, the world rests firmly in the palms of God. Neither the stars nor the birds fall from the sky. But unlike the other days of creation, the entry is missing the closing refrain, “And there was evening and there was morning the [insert the numeral] day.”
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All other days close with the same chorus, except the seventh. Why? Maybe because God is inviting us to enter rest and reminding us that the invitation has no expiration date.

This scriptural detail is a source of great comfort, because it means that no matter how many times we reduce the Sabbath to nothing more than an hour of church or five minutes of shuteye or another long day of hard work or play, the invitation to enter the rest of God has no end. The Sabbath is a sanctuary in time with doors that remain wide open—even for the bankrupt like me.

If we choose to enter, we may find ourselves partaking of the very sustenance of God.

During the first few weeks of remembering the Sabbath, I reminded myself of this truth as I struggled to break old habits. Innocently popping online to research a recipe or factoid, I’d get lost in hours of work e-mails. Opening a book for leisure, I’d end up outlining a possible magazine article for work. Even during an afternoon with friends, the conversation circled back to work. Celebrating the wonder of rest on the Sabbath turned out to be more difficult than I imagined. But also filled with rich rewards.

A Jewish philosopher once made the keen observation that the Sabbath isn’t for the sake of the other days of the week, but the other days of the week are for the sake of the Sabbath. This great day isn’t an interlude but the climax of living.
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Through the Sabbath, God asks us to slow down so we once again become
awestruck by the goodness of God in our lives, relationships, and world. The Sabbath provides the opportunity to nurture our appreciation for the beauty of creation, the deliciousness of provision, the joy of celebration. In a single day, God gives us the opportunity to recapture the wonder of everyday life.

A full day of rest forced me to develop a hybrid of passive and active events that are truly life giving:

A late morning walk.

A handful of scriptures for reflection.

A church gathering.

A book read in pinches throughout the day.

A meal with dear friends.

An afternoon nap.

An early bedtime.

I discovered the Sabbath isn’t about what is done or left undone as much as breathing in the goodness of God. The more I inhaled, the more I desired another long breath.

Setting apart one day each week required forethought. Sometimes it’s easy to read the story of creation and think that on the seventh day God’s work was done, but really God’s work had only just begun. Yet God chose to break anyway. That’s an important detail because on the evening before the Sabbath I, too, discover how much more could be done. I can’t run headfirst into the Sabbath sanctuary and expect to find deep spiritual replenishment; rather, I’ve had to learn how to develop a relaxed stroll. Slowing my pace has to begin a day or two before as I make sure the house
is relatively clean, the dryer empty, the clothes semi-neatly folded so these chores don’t niggle at me during the day of rest.

One Sabbath lingers in my mind as especially meaningful. I awoke that morning, crawled out of bed, and opened the blinds before nestling back in bed with a long s-t-r-e-t-c-h. Through the window, I imbibed the beauty of the indigo sky. Expressions of worship and adoration naturally flowed as I reflected on God’s goodness. I lay in the stillness for some time before following the sweet tangy scent of simmering green chili into the kitchen. Lifting the lid of the Crock-Pot, I inhaled the zesty deliciousness. Then I plucked a tangerine from the fruit bowl and joined Leif on the living room couch where he shared the details of a zany dream from the night before involving Secret Service agents and a speedboat. We chatted for some time before becoming absorbed in reading—he dove into his book on the fear of the Lord while I relished a commentary on the Gospel of John.

The allure of the green chili chicken became irresistible.
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With the meal prepared the day before, cooking on the Sabbath becomes an option rather than necessity. I heated a handful of white corn tortillas. We sat gathered around our kitchen table to eat and pray. Then we both took time to engage in life-giving activities. Our choices couldn’t be more different. Leif caught up with friends on PlayStation; I reflected and prayed during a long hike. That evening we gathered in the kitchen for another round of chili before watching a light-hearted comedy together.

The Sabbath is a reflection of so many attributes and characteristics of God—his love, goodness, wisdom, holiness, and sovereignty to name just a few. Through Sabbath, I rediscover God as the source of peace amid activity, the source of quiet in the noise, the sustainer of my soul. Though this particular day wasn’t marked by any spiritual epiphany or profound moments, when I crawled into bed that evening, I sensed the sweet smile of God on my life. In Sabbath, I unwrapped the culmination of the good gifts God had been longing for me to experience all along. In a mere twenty-four hours, God enhanced everything from my perspective to my energy level to my appreciation of others. The day renewed my joy in the beautiful gift of God called life.

Sabbath became an extension of the rhythm of rest God was working into every area of my life. This weekly spiritual practice shifted from a negotiable to a non-negotiable—a holy moment when I practiced establishing healthy boundaries with myself, others, and God. At times I still struggle to distinguish between the borders of work and play and rest. I accidentally bump the up arrow rather than the down arrow on the treadmill. But the mistakes I make one day can be redeemed the next.

Looking back on the transformation that came through choosing to embrace rest, I’m shocked that such small changes could have such an enormous impact. Yet they’re changes that almost anyone can make. We can choose to develop a healthy rhythm and learn to embrace the wonder
of rest. Such rhythms of rest will look different for everyone—especially when it comes to the Sabbath.
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Such shifts begin with an honest personal inventory: In what areas of your life do you need to learn to say no? Where are you prone to overcommit and overextend? What healthy rhythms do you need to establish in your work, relationships, and daily schedule—including the Sabbath—to seize the life God has for you?

One day, some four months later, I woke up feeling something I hadn’t for as long as I could remember: I felt alive—my mind clear, my imagination ignited, my senses attuned to possibilities all around me. Joy percolated in my soul. My internal energy tank splashed over the rim. Life became manageable.

I felt like I had something to give again.

My eyes still adjusting to the morning sun, I felt a smile saunter across the corners of my face. I turned to Leif and whispered in his ear, “I’m not tired anymore.”

S
OME
A
NGLICAN FRIENDS
, wearing soot on their foreheads, introduced me to Lent more than a decade ago. Until then, my faith tradition was decidedly non-liturgical, and such attentiveness to the church calendar was new to me. From their descriptions, I imagined Lent as a formidable character who rode into town each year on the eve of Ash Wednesday and stayed until Easter morning. He spent every waking moment petitioning believers to prepare for Holy Week through a blend of prayer, repentance, giving, and self-denial. Though noble, Lent was dismissed with barely a glance. I treated him as if he were a stranger at a crowded dinner party.

But Lent continued pursuing me. A group of friends sang his praises. A pastor shared with enthusiasm the difference Lent made in his own life. Even a few of my favorite bloggers bragged about knowing him. Each time I encountered his name, I felt
like Lent was looking over my shoulder, smiling. I decided I needed to know him better.

Searching online, I studied Lent’s vibrant heritage and background and read about his longtime connections with the Orthodox and Catholic churches as well as newfound friendships among Mennonites and Baptists. I discovered the roots of his name, which in Latin was
quadragesima
, meaning “fortieth” based on the forty days Jesus spent in the desert before his few brief years of earthly ministry. In the Middle Ages, he became known as Lent from a German root meaning “spring,” or “long,” reflective of the spring days growing in length.

The following Ash Wednesday, I knew we shared a common bond—a fiery passion for Jesus. I felt compelled to spend the next forty days studying the crucifixion and resurrection accounts in-depth. By the time Good Friday arrived, I didn’t just take a fancy to Lent but also longed to know him better. My affections blossomed when I learned of Lent’s passion for Christ as well as his ardor for justice as demonstrated in prayer (justice toward God), fasting (justice toward self), and almsgiving (justice toward neighbors). Charmed by his personality, I dove headfirst into the Gospels the following year for another forty days, ruminating on the life of Jesus. Lent transitioned from being a drifter passing through to a dear companion.

Forty days seemed like an expensive tithe of time when we first met, but soon our time together became as fleeting as watching tumbleweed blow across the plain on a windy day. I
found myself counting down the days until Lent’s homecoming by considering the best way to spend almost seven weeks together. Reflecting on the various facets of Lent’s character, I debated what to give up as an act of self-denial.

My friends placed a haphazard array on the altar of oblation. Some sacrificed technological tools such as Facebook, Twitter, or texting; others gave up temptations like sugar, chocolate, caffeine, soda, or fast food. Still others committed to shrinking their carbon footprint by riding their bike more and nudging the thermostat two degrees lower. A friend even gave up porn; though an awkward announcement, I applauded his efforts and hoped they continued long past Easter.

That year I felt an overwhelming sense that God asked me to give up something rather odd: prayer.