Sitting Ovation

I was raised in a house where you finished your homework before playing outside, picked up your room before watching TV, made your bed before eating breakfast, and cleaned your plate before getting dessert. Work, then play. Chores and then fun. Now that I am an adult (or pretending to be one at any rate) I find there is always work to be done and this confuses my work/play understanding something terrible.

How can I take a nap when there are dust bunnies under my bed? How can I enjoy after-dinner conversation when there are dirty dishes in the sink? How can I spend time blogging when there are e-mails to send and programs to plan? You would think that such a mindset makes me uber-productive, but it really just makes me resentful of people who go for walks and read for pleasure and watch movies on weeknights. And then there is the card that trumps all forms of play - people who sit. Not sit while talking to someone else. Not sit and listen to an iPod or sit and surf the Internet. Not sit and read a book, pen a letter, or write in a journal. Just sit. For hours.

At one point I developed the notion that people who sat were either old, tired, or both. Children did not sit. Children played. Parents did not sit. Parents picked up after and chased down children who play. Adults did not sit. Adults worked. They were productive. They did things. They moved. And if they did not do things, if they did work, or run, or build, or clean, then they were lazy. This mindset (much like the one that believed unemployment was the result of a poor work ethic) stuck with me for a long time. Too long. So long, in fact, that I now find myself rather incapable of sitting for more than five minutes without getting anxious. I have to move, or eat, or read, or clean, or at least get my hands on a piece of paper and a pen so that I can write down what I'm thinking, lest I be left along with my thoughts. And this, I believe, is not a good thing.

At some point in my Christian education I think I learned too much about idleness being the devil's workshop and not enough about the holy rest of Sabbath. When I read in Exodus 34:21 "Six days you shall labor, but on the seventh day you shall rest; even during the plowing season and harvest you must rest," it sort of upsets me. Even during the plowing season? Are you crazy? Do you expect the fields to take care of themselves? This is my instinctual response. If the fields were done, perhaps rest would be deserved, but in the middle of the season? I think not. I grew up with what I thought was a pretty solid Christian education. I learned the commandments. I knew that Sunday was the Sabbath. But what that really meant to me was that you shouldn't play baseball or go to soccer games or schedule yourself to work on Sunday morning because that was sin. Sunday was the day you went to church. And then after you went to church you were free to garden and do homework and send e-mails and play sports. To this extent even my Sabbath-keeping became a form of work for me.


My freshman year of college I took a class called "Introduction to Christian Ministry" or something of that nature. And in that class I read a book called "The God-bearing Life" by Kenda Creasy Dean. I found Dean's concept of Sabbath-keeping to be revolutionary. Sabbath, she points out, is made for rest, for play, for regeneration. "It dislodges [us] from the relentless onward march of linear (chronos) time and attunes us to God's unhurried time instead (chairos)." My professor put it this way, "Sabbath is a humbling recognition that the world will continue to go on without you." I like to be needed and necessary. Though it ultimately stresses me out, I like to think that without me things won't get done, or won't get done "correctly." It makes me feel important. It gives me value. But our value does not lie in how much we do or how quickly we get it done. Our value lies in who we are.

Shortly after I moved to Derby to intern at the International Community Church (ICC) I went camping with a church community in southern England. During the trip someone asked me what I would be doing during my time at ICC. I answered, "I don't really know. I'm not entirely sure why I'm here, but I really want to contribute something. To do something." Her response took me by surprise. "Maybe," she said, "the reason that you're here isn't to do anything. Maybe you're here just to be." That thought stuck with me during my next four months in the UK. It's something I still haven't learned - how to be still.


When I look through the Bible I see stories of action - of fighting battles, and marching around walls, and traveling to far-off countries. But there are also so so many stories of sitting - in the city square (Judges 19), under a bush (1 Kings 19), at the gates of the temple (Psalms), under trees (Judges 6), and in the presence of God (1 Samuel 17). And when you get to the prophets - Ezra, Nehemiah, Job, Ezekiel - they sit for days and weeks and months, seeking the ear and the heart of the Lord.

And so I have begun to sit. Each morning I take my breakfast tray outside, sit on the front porch and try to be still, which is no small task for me. I shovel in my cereal, gulp down my tea, and get strong urges to check my phone and send e-mail reminders. I have since developed a strong respect for the sitters of the world - the people who are able to rest in the solitary presence of God. It isn't easy, and often it doesn't feel very rewarding for me. But it's in the little changes and sacred spaces that I believe God begins to enter our lives. If I make space He is sure to find it and fill it. And that is enough for me to keep trying.