Rest, renew and reconnect--Leviticus 26 and our need for a Sabbath

 “…Then the country will indeed observe its Sabbath,
all the while it lies deserted…”
(Leviticus 26::34)

 Leviticus 26 tells of blessings and curses.  If Israel lives according to God’s commandments, they will be blessed and fruitful and live in peace, “go to sleep with no one to frighten you.” (Lev 26:6).  But if they don’t listen to God, if they turn from His path, reject God’s laws and “detest My customs…” they will be subjected to terror, sickness and infirmity. (26:14-16)  And, they will become so desperate that they will even eat the flesh of their own children and be so filled with fear they will take flight at the “sound of a falling leaf” and flee even when no one is pursuing them (26:29-37).  But in the midst of all this horror, flight and destruction, something that stood out to me was this strange statement about the land being given its Sabbath.  That observation is strange.  Why would God refer to the land observing its Sabbath?

 

To my ear, I hear an affirmation of God’s love and of His truthfulness. I hear the message that the Sabbath isn’t something we are to treat as optional.  Regardless of how we feel about it or choose to react to it, there will be a Sabbath for the land.  It isn’t just a recommendation or even a regulation; it is a fact.  Because God says it, it is an actuality. God’s Word isn’t an opinion or a preference, it is truth.  We need the Sabbath, because we were made that way. And our creator is simply reminding us that even if we don’t choose to honor the necessity of a Sabbath, it will come; whether we like it or not.

 

And, of course, science and nature have repeatedly shown us the importance of a “Sabbath,” of a period of rest.  Land that is over worked and exhausted becomes barren and useless. People who are overworked and exhausted become anxious and fearful, unfocused and fruitless. Rest, renewal, these are necessities, non-negotiables.

 

Yes, we can reject it, treat it as something to be avoided, as an imposition to be ignored, overcome, defeated even. Which is the path our world seems to have chosen, especially the Western world.  But look what this approach has brought us: anxiety, exhaustion and insatiable appetites.  And 24/7 work weeks…

 

Not respecting the importance and the truth of who and what we are, of our need for rest, we have made ourselves into creatures bent on constant consumption, seeking always more and more, another cup of coffee (black and bitter like my heart), another handful of popcorn, one more gluten free chocolate chip cookie to help me stay awake while I watch one more episode of Agatha Raisin before I change over to some 30 Rock re-runs; always more money, more pleasure, more food, more treasure, and always needing more and more energy to feed our endless activity, to run our bigger and better cars and homes and offices and technologies.  We hunger constantly for more, treating rest as something for the weak, the underachiever. And this hunger quite literally has us eating our children, not their flesh but their lives, their futures. We use up and pollute the water supplies, the farmland, even the air we breathe.  We fill up every inch of land with concrete and buildings, bigger houses to store all the stuff we have, so much that it can’t even fit it all in our rooms or on our shelves. We rent storage units so we can hold onto the stuff we can’t even remember we own.  All the while acquiring and acquiring more….

It seems to me that God isn’t saying to Israel: Be good, or I will slap your hand.  Instead, I think God is telling them (and us) that this is how the world works: all of creation needs rest. Needs a Sabbath. If we live by His statutes and laws, we find peace and harmony—because we are living in harmony with our very being, with the world. That is reality.

 

And, if we don’t live in the real world, then we will live in a fantasy where even the sound of a falling leaf will send us running in terror. And where we find ourselves so anxious and desperate and afraid, that we might do anything to escape from it, and from what it does to us.

 

Living a fantasy means having no real security, no firm foundation. Nothing you can depend upon. It is like building a house on sand. Every new breeze, every whim that passes, shakes your very foundation.  Every leaf that falls starts you running…

 

We were made vulnerable and insufficient. We need rest and we need each other.

Today, make time for rest and renewal. Take a nap. Play a game. Drink a cup of tea and tell someone your dreams.  Call up a friend or a family member and tell them you love them. Or ask them about their week, and really listen.  Rest in the sound of their voice, and the telling of their tale.

Rest, renew… and reconnect

And…Love without borders.

Following Jesus into the

“My heart is moved with pity…”

--Mark 8:2

 

I have been thinking about this gospel passage quite a bit lately.  It has woven itself into everything else I am reading: scripture, novels, poetry, everything. This little nugget is found in Mark’s version of the feeding of the 4000 (Mk 8:1-10).  In the past, I have always focused on the 7 loaves and the few fish, or the sudden miraculous abundance, baskets full of leftovers; but I don’t think I had ever stopped to consider that important detail revealed by Jesus.  I guess I mostly just glossed over it, as I rushed headlong into the familiarity of the miracle.

 

But, for some reason this time I was stopped by that phrase: My heart is moved with pity.  Jesus looks out at the crowd that has followed him, a mass of people who have followed him for three days.  They have come with Him so far that they cannot go back home without risk of collapsing. And, as the disciples point out: they are in a deserted place. There is no where to send for supplies, no Uber-Eats to call for take-out (for 4000).

 

In my prayer, I looked out at that crowd, hungry, tired, and yet still clinging to this strange Rabbi who spoke with such authority, and love.  The first person I saw in my mind was a woman with three children. They were huddled together.  One of the children was pulling at her robe, wanting only to be held, to be comforted, perhaps to be nursed. The other two sat at her feet drawing in the dirt, trying to entertain each other.  The mother looked at the children and back at Jesus.  She was beginning to wonder what she would do. They were too far from home to go back, but her small supply of food (perhaps bread and cheese and olives) was gone. She was beginning to doubt herself, to wonder if she’d made a horrible mistake. Why hadn’t she brought more food? Why hadn’t she just stayed home where they would be safe and secure?

 

And then I looked again and saw an old man sitting by himself on a rock.  No one spoke to him. He was staring at the ground, feeling lost, out of place.  He too was growing hungry and beginning to doubt his choice.  Always alone, ignored, even avoided by others, the old man had heard in the young preacher an invitation to come and follow; to become part of a community—he thought. But even here no one seemed to notice him. And he felt foolish, and out of place. The others were families, friends, seemed to all know someone here. But he was still alone.

 

And then I looked at Jesus and I saw him speaking to one of the disciples, telling them: My heart is moved with pity for the people.

 

And in those words I sensed something new, sensed the tenderness of God’s care for His creation.  He looks at us and feels pity for us, for our struggles, our hungers, our fears, our failings. He doesn’t look at us with judgment or even sighs of exasperation.  Even in our most desperate and dreadful moments He looks at us with love, and with mercy, and with pity.

 

But there was something else that I sensed in this passage from Mark, something from the broader context of the story.  Jesus has lead the people out into the wilderness, far from their homes and their neighbors, from their family and friends, from all their support groups (so to speak).  And I remembered the call to Abram:

“The Lord said to Abram:

Leave your country, your kindred and your father’s house,

and go to the land I will show you… And I shall bless you…

And make of you a blessing…” (Genesis 12:1-2)

 

It is a call to leave behind all those things of the world that seem to make us safe and secure and to let God lead us to a place where we may feel like strangers, but in that place, that may feel so deserted and desolate, so lonely even, we are promised that we will become a blessing. 

 

But, the key is, we have to let God lead.  In Mark’s Gospel, the people have followed Jesus for 3 days.  They have come to a place of vulnerability, a place where many of them may have looked around and felt—helpless, lost. Uncertain even which direction would take them home.  But by remaining with Jesus, they found themselves blessed, and found themselves becoming a blessing.

 

I like to imagine that the old man in my meditation was handed a basket and began walking among the people passing out bread. And that at some point he came to the woman with three children and seeing she needed help, set down his basket and took one of the children in his arms. Holding the child, he watched as the woman took bread and broke it and fed her littlest. And as he stood there, the other child took his hand and pulled him down to show him a picture she’d drawn in the dirt.And the old man smiled, because he felt needed.

 

“My heart is moved with pity…” I hear in Jesus's words a reassurance that we are never alone.  Even when we feel most vulnerable, most lost, most hungry for whatever it is we lack, we are never alone.  God is right there with us, watching over us, tenderly, and with such love, such care.  He knows our needs even before we ask, and longs to fill us with good things, blessing, even to overflowing, that we might overflow with blessings to those around us.