Back to Sabbath (again)

There seem to be 5 or 6 lessons that I must learn again and again in life. Lessons like, "when you're angry, you're probably just avoiding grief." Lessons like "the disavowal of feminine power is toxic." Lessons like, "don't ever ever ever stop working out or spending time in vast expanses of green/nature." And the one I learned again this week: "there is a rhythm to life and it's all about the steady flows and steady steps of giving and receiving; both/and--not one or the other." 

Real talk: I know all this stuff in my bones. But I forget. Lose touch. 

Usually these lessons are reborn (again and again) because I find myself out of whack. That's a nice way of putting it. Crazy as hell is more like it. For instance, this week, I forgot about the rhythms of giving and receiving. Seems that the steady flow of institutional religious production--preaching every week (sometimes more than once a week), pastoral care, planning events, managing crisis--had gone into overdrive and I hadn't even noticed. I should have noticed. It'd been months since I'd read a novel or poetry, or lifted weights. I haven't been walking outside (I do live in Michigan; and it's winter, to my credit) and don't have enough money to pay for therapy. These are the things that make me sane, the stuff that fills my cup. So on Tuesday when someone said something irritating to me, first thing in the morning at my place of employment, I snapped. Thank God I have a loving, wise boss who knows an empty cup when he sees one. He sent me home and told me to do the things I need to do to be restored. 

I actually listened to him. I know, right? This is progress...

For three days I've been listening to the cello and oboe non-stop. Dancing with my daughter on the kitchen floor. Writing letters to people in my family (living and dead). Reading Junot Diaz and Allison Bechdel like my life depend on it. Consuming, devouring--the music, literature and writing processes that place me right into the stream of life where cup and water become one. And suddenly the God I yearn to serve is apparent to me again. 

Here's what gets me: I was running on fumes, seriously. Empty. Depleted. Without resource or energy. Out of touch. Forgetful. Here's what scares me: I didn't know. That rage I felt about the stupid comment in the office Tuesday morning--it felt totally rational to me. It never occurred to me that I was lacking inspiration. The idea of being on the receiving end of deep thinking, wise, hilarious, truth-filled writers, artists and creative projects never crossed my mind. I just wanted to slap that snarky woman in the face and get on with it. And yet, when I stepped away, when I took time out and apart and allowed myself to be the recipient of beauty: it became crystal clear where the problem was. 

If you want to be seduced into thinking that working/serving all the time is the "right" life, become a pastor. Was there EVER a more out-of-rhythm institution than the white mainline protestant church? Help me, Jesus. For real. It's insiduous yall. Seriously. It's not biblical or faithful. But its insidious and every one will thank you every step of the way. Until you do something crazy, like slap an auditor or cheat on your spouse or kill yourself one day because it just got to be too much. And then everyone will say, "I don't know what happened; s/he was such a wonderful person." 

And so I'm back to this Sabbath law. This literal commandment to rest. To STOP PRODUCING. To STOP WORKING. To stop DOING ALL THE TIME. It's not an archaic law. It's wisdom, the truest spiritual precept for those of us needing meaning and value and love. For those of us honest enough with ourselves, our community, and our God to admit that though serving others is a necessary and faithful part of spiritual life, it's not all there is. There "is a time to break down and a time to build up." Yes, in(non)deed. 

Lesson learned. Again.