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My son Aidan has always been a big fan of the movie The Prince of Egypt, an animated film depicting the events of the Passover when the Hebrews were freed from slavery to Pharoah. Once, when Aidan was three years old we were at the playground. A very large five year old approached a much smaller Aidan and said, “This is my sandbox and you will leave now.”
Aidan turned to look him square on and stated dramatically. “Silence, Pharaoh speaks.” While Aidan continued his speech to the baffled bully I nervously looked around for the other child’s parent. Upon finding none, I gently ushered Pharoah out of the sandbox.
Years before Aidan was born, I kept what I called a Sabbath day. It had nothing to do with being freed from slavery. I arrogantly made the Sabbath an important event. After all, I was friends with Rabbi Moline whose wife Anne cooked a delicious Sabbath dinner. I had read Abraham Heschel’s book The Sabbath. I had even read Deuteronomy. That practically made me an expert.
After church on Sunday I would come home and sit down and ‘not’ do things. It was work to refrain from work! To ‘not’ do chores and ‘not’ fuss over responsibilities until sunset on Monday night when I would prepare for work again on Tuesday. In the meantime I would read. I would sew quilt squares together by hand with meditative needle strokes. I felt so proud of myself. I was my own Lord of my own Sabbath. Then I became a parent. And I became Lord of laundry.
Sabbath sounds like a such a wonderful ambition. I relish the idea of it. The experience of Sabbath rest has only come to me recently. Sabbath disregarded both my calendar and my inclination.
The best I can describe Sabbath is that it came and snatched my arrogant Lordliness and silenced me when I most wanted to speak. It was during a recent life transition when I sat in my friend’s backyard, explaining to her the pickle I was in. The consignment store truck was scheduled to take the furniture. I wasn’t sure my paycheck alone was gonna stretch an entire month. My friends had invited me to live in their basement. I mean, really. What kind of successful person surrenders like that. But after a series of losses all I was left holding was a handful of white flags to wave. Starla made me look her in the eye and said, “It’s your turn.”
“It’s your turn.” She said as if she were Pharoah standing in the sandbox silencing me. “You’ve been there for others. Now it’s your turn for others to be there for you.”
Thing is, I didn’t want my turn. I wanted to be the one who was there for others. I wanted to be the reassuring friend. I wanted to not be in want. That transformative conversation is the moment I understood how lost I was. How much I lost. The traditional inventory by which relationships are defined was decimated: sofas and tables, jobs and addresses, dependable relationships all dissolved. Lost. I lost.
Starla ushered me from loss into rest. She brought the Sabbath to me when I neither wanted it nor had the strength to wrestle away from it. She made me to lie down beside still waters. There I was made want-less and in her trust compelled to rest. And rest I did. I rested from home ownership and management. From work. From shopping and buying Christmas presents for family members. From even buying my own groceries. All those things were wrested from me.
At first I felt shame. There are few moments more humbling that when the family whose name is on the Christmas Giving Tree brings you Christmas gifts they personally bought for you. That’s when the message of today’s scriptures shook me loose from my shame.
In Deuteronomy Moses ensures rest time reminds Israel of the Lord of freedom who freed Israel from the need for freedom.
And in Mark’s gospel Jesus reminds the Pharisees that God provides rest from hunger to the hungry and rest from hurting to those who need healing on the day they need it. Jesus gets to decide where Sabbath will go. Clearly he prefers to give it to people like me: arrogant, hungry, hurting.
For years I believed that Sabbath was a decision I could make about scheduling my time and observing my habits as holy. I repent of that. Sabbath came to me when I needed it most and wanted it least. It pinned me to the ground until I said “uncle.” And it freed from the slavery of scheduling and accomplishment and being the one who is always there for others.
Yes, I still recommend the book Abraham Heschel wrote about the love affair Israel has with the Sabbath. I can sum up both his book and my experience in this sentiment: Only when relishing the Sabbath can I relish eternity.
[Notion attributed to Abraham Heschel: “Unless one learns how to relish the taste of Sabbath … one will be unable to enjoy the taste of eternity in the world to come.”
― Abraham Joshua Heschel, The Sabbath]
Rest in in the midst of loss is the scandal of our faith. How the Eternal Lord of Life lays down his Life on the cross at Calvary is a mystery which is easy to reject not relish.
Most of us have been trained and feel inclined to pursue, achieve, dominate. Until we are met by Jesus, who, holding the power of all creation in his hands, surrenders to Sabbath in a tomb. In the silence of death God ushers the lifeless body of His Son to a new life of grace. That new life of grace is what I feel every day when I wake up grateful for the Sabbath freedom imposed upon the slavery of my arrogant striving.
I don’t know what all is going in the sandbox of your soul. Maybe you’ve been confronted by Pharoah or maybe you are standing up to some bully. I do know that when you need it most, the Sabbath will be there for you. Like a loving parent or a good friend the Sabbath will gently usher you to a place where you can rest all your hopes and dreams in God’s hopes and dreams. Jesus ushers those he loves to perfect freedom in the midst of loss. You and I abide as ushers of His love to one another. Amen.
