Following on from my two previous posts, I knew I wanted to write something about, in the midst of all of the stuff, how we, or at least I, strive to look after myself too.
My refrain to others around me the last few weeks has been "marathon, not sprint": I have been repeating it as much for myself as anyone else. I know I need to still be standing tomorrow, and next week, and next year. I know I have more to do, give, be that I can't if I get broken at this stage. And yes, of course I have my moments of feeling utterly overwhelmed and there are occasional tears: I don't ever want to get to the stage where I can remain entirely impassive and unaffected; but on balance, I'm doing ok. Even if it doesn't always seem like it from the outside, I think I am in fact reasonably good at looking after and out for myself. I live life to the full and often stretch myself to my limits: but I do also know where those limits lie and generally don't cross them more often than I can cope with.
I wrote in my previous post of the many things community looks like, and the many beautiful expressions of it I have seen and been part of in recent weeks. On a personal level it has also looked like a whole lot of people looking out for me too: people who have checked in, people who I know care and worry about me. People who have been there with supportive messages and conversations, with cups of tea and glasses of wine, with invitations to relax and have fun and with hugs on demand. I am very grateful to them / you all.
So I was all set to write a post, about how, individually and collectively, resilience and rest matter, and the different ways in which I try to build them into my life and create rhythms and realities that work for me but what I planned to say has now been slightly derailed / reconfigured.
This week, we re-enter ordinary time in the church, the coming Sunday's gospel reading is Mark 2:23 - 3:6 and it has fallen as my turn to prepare something to say for our Tuesday bible discussion group. It has proved to be a reminder, should I need one, that the lenses through which we read these texts are so often strongly influenced by our current context and experience.
In the story, the disciples pick and eat corn from the fields as they walk and then Jesus heals a man's withered hand. Both take place on the sabbath, and Jesus uses them to challenge the rules of what is and isn't allowed. I am sure there have been, and will be, times when I would read this text as a comfortably reassuring reminder that we are not called to a blind following of restrictive rules and that faith is something mor active and dynamic than that.
That is not, at least initially how I read it this week. I'm never afraid to sound mildly heretical, and on first reading this time around I was, frankly, a bit irritated with Jesus. In the story he asks the question, what is lawful to do on the sabbath: to do good or to do evil, to save life or to kill?"
I aspire for my life and my work to be about doing good and bringing life. I am not pretending I do so perfectly or consistently, but I am trying to do my little bit. In many ways, these things are the very hardest from which to 'take a sabbath', to recognise the need for rest and recuperation. I have had to learn that it is ok to stop, even when the stopping means that good and important thing may not get done. I have had to learn to switch off, even while acknowledging it is a luxury those I support don't have. These have been hard learned lessons, and continue to be something which takes conscious discipline. I definitely do not need Jesus to tell me that I can give up my sabbath as long as it is to do good. I need to hear that it is ok to stop doing good, too. Fortunately, my inner voice, which may or may not be of God, continues to say exactly that, even if it is a whisper I have to consciously make space to hear.
And no, I don't want a strict set of rules: either external or self-imposed, by which to live the sabbath, but I do also recognise the value of doing sabbath well; and while Jesus may have had a point, in our current context and culture, I wonder if he'd have been trying to convey a different message to his audience.
We (I) live in a society that has made a virtue of being constantly busy: where having something else on is considered a valid reason to not accept another commitment but just wanting time off isn't. We may have made a joke of the idea of turning down invites because "I'm washing my hair" but it does play into a deeper reality that just stopping and doing nothing isn't considered reason enough. While there have been certain positive steps in recent years, with looking after ones own wellbeing being increasingly recognised as valid, there is still a deeply embedded culture of 'busier is best'. I have no doubt that this culture contributes to my own struggle with building in 'sabbath time'. But it is not the only thing.
My life, like many peoples, is made up of many, many blurred boundaries: of space and time and people. In many, even most, ways this suits me exceptionally well. I know I would hate (and know I would be spectacularly unproductive) in an office job with set hours. I like being able to choose what I do, and when I do it, but it mans there are no hard and fast lines drawn around what counts as work time. Technology, and the communication it facilitates, is both blessing and curse. The people I work with are also my community: they are the people I socialise and celebrate with. I enjoy their company and some have become people I count among my closest friends; but in many of these relationships I still fulfil a role of offering support where it is needed. I would not change any of this: but I acknowledge that it means working harder to identify the best ways to find sabbath in its midst.
And then there is this question, straight out of the gospel "is it lawful to do good, or to do evil?" One doesn't have to look far to find the suggestion that, where evil exists, and when we look around us it is ever-present, that to fail to do good is already to do evil. So wherein lies our right to pause and look after ourselves too? A couple of weeks ago I found myself responding to a friend who said "I should have been there" by trying to reassure her that no, she shouldn't. It was ok, right even, that she had not been there, even if that meant the situation didn't have as satisfactory a resolution as it might have done if she had been. On another day, those words, said out loud to someone else, could just have easily been the ones I told myself. When it comes to mundane admin tasks or replying to emails, anyone who has ever had to chase me will know very well that I don't find it so difficult to stop and not get them done! But when it comes to those things which feel like they will genuinely effect other people's lives and with which they need help, the things where I ask myself, 'yes, but if I don't ...': those are definitely the times it is harder to switch off. The resilience part of the blogpost title at least partly relates to this: the gradual learning to find ways to manage doing what I can, while also dealing healthily with what I can't or don't. The learning to know that other people can and will pick up the pieces too, and that even if they can't or won't or don't ... that I am still not called to do it all.
Despite these challenges, I have learned to build sabbath time into my life in lots of different ways. My frequently lapsed and frequently reinstituted routine of prayer; days out and weekends away; time spent with friends and time spent alone; creative interludes, cooking nice food, and sitting on the sofa doing very little at all; not (or not always) feeling I have to explain or justify why something might have taken longer to complete or reply to than it 'should'; days, including work days, where I make a decision not to set an alarm, ... the list goes on.
My version of sabbath probably looks very different to anyone else's, as well as looking different to what mine has looked like in the past, or will in the future. And that is ok. Maybe, now that I am past my mild irritation at what I read as Jesus' slightly unhelpful intervention, that's the point he too was trying to make. He does go on to say that the sabbath was made for us, not we for the sabbath ... he does not actually question the reality or value of the existence or principle of it. Maybe the point is that we can be the "Lord of our own sabbath" too. I am doing my best to find ways to do exactly that.
And so here we are. Bank holiday Monday. And I refuse to feel guilty that I am sitting in my pyjamas as I write.
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