Shabbat. To cease.

In my Bible, it’s intoduced on page two. It has been observed by millions around the globe and through the centuries both religiously and half-heartedly. I think it’s the key to something that I’m only just now beginning to glimpse–something that can only be unlocked by truly observing it with intent and discipline. Yet, the benefits are powerful and rewarding enough for even the then solitary Being, the God of the universe to partake–no, initiate.

“Then God blessed the seventh day and sanctified it, because in it He rested from all His work which God had created and made.” (genesis 2:3)

The fact that the Sabbath Day is a worthwhile, relevant and necessary habit is evidenced most powerfully by God’s own action–or inaction, by definition. Shabbat is translated throughout the Bible as “rest.” However, since God has never, nor will ever require rest, the more inspiring translation I found in my google/wikipedia-supplemented pondering is this:  “to cease.” I can’t help but believe that this stopping holds key principles for maintaining a life in true harmony of spirit, harmony within and with God. In fact, there’s a deep breath rising up in my spirit while I’m only thinking and writing about Shabbat. The simple thought of a designated ceasing brings an inexplicable sense of “this is as it should be.” The Jewish tradition of Shabbat observance may have gotten somewhat legalistic and removed from purpose over the centuries since Moses’ day, but I can’t help but think they got something right in their utterly thorough preparation and observance of this holy convocation.

“For six days work may be done, but on the seventh day there is a sabbath of complete rest, a holy convocation. You shall not do any work; it is a sabbath to the LORD in all your dwellings.” (leviticus 23:3)

Shabbat is God’s own divine and perfect project management system, His omniscient, omnipotent scheduling method. It is a command he demonstrated in His own “work” of creating all that exists. The sentiment, and yes, the words are clear. Shabbat, the holy convocation, should be complete. It summons all my spirit, all my desires, all my actions, all my loves, all my hates, all the places where I truly dwell into the same assembled stop. The same assembled deep inhale and slow exhale that was God’s choice. To cease on the Sabbath was God’s choice to release Himself from the constraints of doing. The joy of Shabbat is to bring my spirit into harmony with His example by choosing to stop, to put down the schedule, to put down the constant pull to do something on my ever-increasing list. Even things that I love to do. Even things that I’m excited about or things that bring me joy. Shabbat is not just about stopping the mundane things or the things that tire me out or the things that distract me. It calls me to put down the need to do something, to put down the need to move along to the next. It forces me to bring everything into focus for this moment–not what needs to happen in the next one or what should have happened in the last one. What freedom!

“You shall remember that you were a slave in the land of Egypt, and the LORD your God brought you out of there by a mighty hand and by an outstretched arm; therefore the LORD your God commanded you to observe the Sabbath day.” (deuteronomy 5:15)

At it’s core, Shabbat boils down to freedom. God commanded the people to use Shabbat to remember how He brought them out of slavery in Egypt. Their liberation brought the freedom to stop, to rest. They were no longer beholden to task-masters to toil at the whim of another. Thus, the freedom of Shabbat is demonstrated, the freedom to allow the moment to take me where it wants, or the Spirit to take me where He wants. The freedom from ought tos, from should haves, from need tos. The freedom to fully, without reservation or guilt or sacrifice or multitasking, make a conscious choice about what I will do (or cease doing) in this moment.

“For in six days the LORD made the heavens and the earth, the sea and all that is in them, and rested on the seventh day; therefore the LORD blessed the sabbath day and made it holy.” (exodus 20:11)

Shabbat is a ceasing God, Himself, infused with meaning.  Although it is most often used for “church” in modern Christianity, Shabbat was not set aside for worship in its origin. It was set apart for ceasing. A fast from working, from doing. Shabbat is a God-given holy day in every week where time set apart for stopping is elevated to celebration status. A time to cease. It was the first holy day mentioned in the Bible, and God, Himself, was the first to observe it by example. If God can set aside His work, can’t I? If God saw value in incorporating the holy into the daily grind, shouldn’t I?

Yet, what is the inevitable outcome of this holy convocation? Yes, it is worship. It is delight. In the Lord. It is freedom, riding on heights. It is satisfaction, fed with God’s heritage.

“If because of the sabbath, you turn your foot From doing your pleasure on My holy day, And call the sabbath a delight, the holy day of the LORD honorable, and honor it, desisting from your ways, from seeking your own pleasure and speaking your own word,then you will take delight in the LORD, and I will make you ride on the heights of the earth; and I will feed you with the heritage of Jacob your father, for the mouth of the LORD has spoken.” (isaiah 58:13-14)

May you feed on the heritage of ceasing this Shabbat.

This is not the Easter story I was trying to write.  I wanted to write something befitting the joy and triumph of redemption, something extolling the glory of the work God did through Christ on my behalf that early morning long ago. But, I was interrupted by a sharp look at myself.  And, given my previously unscribed commitment to stay real, this is the Easter story I must write before I write anything else.

In case there are any of you out there who are living under an assumption that Christians do not intentionally do wrong sometimes, stand corrected.  Even those of us who try to navigate the waters of sincerely following Jesus in this world do sin.  And, sometimes we do it knowing full well what we are doing.  It’s an ugly story.

I offended someone last week–actually two people.  I would love to say that it was an accident, that I didn’t mean to do it.  But, it wasn’t, and I knew that my actions probably would offend.  Chalk it up to a difficult week or an incorrect assumption.  Excuse it as not thinking before speaking or using poor judgement.  Whatever my justification flavor of the moment, the fact is that I knew what I was doing.  I even rejected the voice of my better angel telling me not to do it.  At the moment, I just didn’t care. And so, I offended two people.

One forgave me.  One didn’t, and I suppose it may have cost me whatever friendship we had.  And while I was disappointed that our relationship wasn’t worth an act of forgiveness, I can’t begrudge the choice God gave her to make.  I can only wish she had chosen differently.  I wish  I had chosen differently.  Yes, because my actions hurt other people.  But, more than that, because my actions showed who I still am.

When I peek into the reflection, I’m so disappointed.  In myself.  In the blackness I see in my own heart. Deep in the corners and crevices are places ugly and dark with the need for light and redemption and reform.  Those places weigh my head down in sorrow and shame at how little I seem to have learned. Those places drive me to the scarred feet of that Man.  The One who was laid in the tomb, bloodied. They drive me to view the absence of that Man at the resting place of death. They drive me to seek Him elsewhere. To take comfort in a renewed redemption. To once again seek the separation. As far as the East is from the West. To live in that space. Between. And to get up.

This is not the washed Easter story I would have written.  No, only more so. In this story, the gently folded shroud is still bloodied by pain inflicted.  The cloths left in piles are still soiled and stinking with recent sin. The rough-hewn rocky room is still dark with the self-sightedness of poor judgement, still jagged with the blows of carving out redemption.  But, at the end of the day, the story is the same. At the end of the day–the second day–that Man was dead. And, just before daybreak on day three, He got up. Just like the sun, He established His trek westward reserving the space between, the distance from my sin that allows me to get up.  And, that’s my Easter story.

it still sheds rough-hewn splinters
shining with the blood
of human prejudice,
turned and bent,
painted in black
on a red and white banner.

it still heats an angry mob
clad in pure
white hoods
standing in a yard,
set ablaze by the fire
of fear and hate.

it still holds a man stretched,
now in burnished bronze
or polished marble,
hung on our walls
and kept frozen
in dead faith.

yet, it still bears life,
a bloody, skin-shredded back pressed
against dirty beams, His bones
and veins ruptured with rusted spikes
driven by the exchange
of pain for healing, death for life.

“…by His wounds we are healed.” (isaiah 53:5)

One month ago today, my dad had his stroke.  Although he doesn’t have some of the same skills he did (yet), Dad is still the same dad he was one month ago plus a day.  And, God is still the same God he was on February 7.

My dad and my family are in a season of change–again.  He’s been in the hospital for the last month undergoing physical and occupational therapy to regain movement in his left leg and arm which were primarily affected.  We and the doctors are very hopeful that in time he will be able to do many of the things he’s always done.  Each day he is making improvements and becoming more like “himself”, shifting again the reality of what his daily life is like.  Regardless of how close he gets to his full potential with additional therapy and sheer will of character, life has inevitably changed.  Dad’s can dos have changed.  His schedule has changed.  His independence has changed.  Both Dad and Mom’s jobs have changed.  How they spend their time has changed.  Where they can go has changed.  The scale of their lives has changed, time and energy focused on more basic tasks.  The appearance of their home has changed.  Their ability to visit in my home has changed.  The ease of holding my children has changed.  Their presence in our lives has changed.

Throughout this month, two thoughts have persisted in rising above the din of confusion and adjustment, of sickness and care-giving, of schedules and sleeplessness.  Despite the changes, a family is a family regardless of time, abilities, presence and the space between.  And, we will remain a family.  We will adjust, and life and love will continue.

And this:
“I, the Lord, do not change; therefore, you, O sons of Jacob, are not consumed.” (malachi 3:6)

Right now, Dad can’t move as he once did.  But, God is still moving in strong support of His own. Therefore, we are not consumed by helplessness.

Though we are beginning to see movement in his shoulder, Dad’s arm has been greatly weakened.  But, the same outstretched arm of God that made the heavens and the earth is still reaching.  Therefore, we are not consumed by impossibilities.

In the days after the stroke, Dad had a slight slurred speech that has thankfully subsided.  But, the words of God were and are crisp and sharp.  They stand forever.  Therefore, we are not consumed by the silent unknown.

Next week, Dad will come home sitting in a wheelchair, at least for a time.  But, God is still sitting on the same throne of righteousness He inhabited 29 days ago.  Therefore, we are not consumed by paralyzing fear.

It will be some time before Dad may be able to enjoy the same activities he once did.  But, the uncommon joy of God is our strength.  Therefore, we are not consumed by sorrow.

Dad may not be able to work again.  But, God has not stopped working in us for His good pleasure.  Therefore, we are not consumed by inactivity.

Dad is slowly relearning to put one foot in front of the other.  But, the rock of our God still enables sure footing.  Therefore, we are not consumed by dark stumbling.

The comfortable assumption of a parent I’ve relied upon to be strong has been weakened.  But, the God of comfort is still the abundant Father of mercies.  Therefore, we are not consumed by anxious unrest.

God has not changed. He remains. Our healer. Our protector. Our light. His love and His reach will continue as it always has.  In this, alone, are we steadied from the consuming tide of change.

When I first surfed across the idea of choosing a theme word for the year, I immediately knew it was something I wanted to do.  It was the one idea that inspired me to follow through with some sort of newness resolve for 2009.  I started my word search with a question: What do I want to be different about my life this year? In the space of about ten minutes, the theme word for my year fluttered into focus.

HARMONY

The last few years of our lives have been ones of unprecedented joy, springing largely from the birth of three glorious gifts that have so impacted my heart of hearts.  But, these last few years have also been ones of unprecedented change, and change is challenging.  I came into 2009 feeling tired and disjointed.  The fragments:  the push and pull of being a working mother, the ups and downs of starting a small business, the yeses and nos of raising toddlers, the outs and ins of ordering a bulging home, the gives and takes of nurturing relationships, the blacks and whites of growing a God-pleasing heart, and all the grays and middle grounds and maybes in between.  Like playing with one of Squiggle’s favorite shape sorters, I’ve found myself shuffling this handful of disjointed life parts, looking for ways to piece them all together–to make them all into a kinder, gentler, greater, better whole.

Don’t get me wrong.  All my wonderful “parts” continue to bring joy, and I’ve been able to maintain a fragile, but consistent peace.  But, if I’m honest, it’s not enough.  I want more than tenuous contentment.  I want more than sanity on the verge.  I want more than barely under control.  I want more than a fragile peace.  I want to give my family more than a fragile peace.

So, I started thinking about harmony.  And what kind of peace it brings.

My handy dictionary.com defines harmony in these ways:

1. agreement; accord; harmonious relations.
2. a consistent, orderly, or pleasing arrangement of parts; congruity.
3. in music
a. any simultaneous combination of tones.
b. the simultaneous combination of tones, esp. when blended into chords pleasing to the ear; chordal structure, as distinguished from melody and rhythm.
c. the science of the structure, relations, and practical combination of chords.
4. an arrangement of the contents of the Gospels, either of all four or of the first three, designed to show their parallelism, mutual relations, and differences.

In keeping with what I learned about my 252 approach, harmony is a noun–a state of being, not doing.  When I think of harmony in music, I think of a blending of beautiful sounds that creates an even more beautiful sound, a sound that is richer than the sum of its individual notes.  Hmmm. Harmony brings stability and strength and agreement and melody to my fragile peace.  It becomes peace plus.  Peace beyond.  Beyond just acceptance.  Beyond just contentment.  Beyond just existence.  Harmony is a peace that embraces.  A non-begrudging peace.  An open-hearted peace.  A peace that sings.

Sounds good.  So, how do I get it?  Where do I even start?  Dictionary.com’s quickie etymology lesson, gave me an idea.  The word harmony stems, in part, from a greek word for “joining” or a “joint” and “shoulder”–for me, a body analogy for fitting together in such a way that allows a full and productive range of motion.  A fit that can bear weight.  The greek word (harmos) shows up in this verse from Scripture:

“the Word of God is living and active and sharper than any two-edged sword, and piercing as far as the division of soul and spirit, of both joints and marrow, and able to judge the thoughts and intentions of the heart.” (hebrews 4:12)

So, that’s my starting place–God’s word, again.   The source of all truth and understanding.  The depths of where soul and spirit are divided, it can penetrate.  Where joints and marrow are disconnected, it can reach.  It can pierce the most disparate of dividing lines and weave clarity and unity.  It is the only foundation of a peace that sings, the starting place for Harmony.