Leaving Church - Barbara Brown Taylor [52]
Glorify the Lord, O beasts of the wild,
and all you flocks and herds.
O men and women everywhere, glorify the Lord,
praise him and highly exalt him forever.
Sitting there on my porch that first Sabbath morning, I understood what Native Americans mean when they speak of “medicine.” In the strictest sense, they are speaking of how a little yellow root can help with indigestion or a tea brewed with chamomile can help you sleep. In the broadest sense, they are speaking of the curative power of creation. Sitting there in the healing presence of the mountains, the waters, the birds, and the beasts, I could not recall why I had so often neglected this medicine, though it was lying all around me. What had led me to choose aspirin over purple flowers or Tums over wood ducks? Was it because I could chew them on the go, without having to sit down so they could minister to me? Or was it because I feared what might bubble up if I sat down?
Anyone who practices Sabbath for even an afternoon usually suffers a little spell of Sabbath sickness. Once you have finished the paper and the second pot of tea, you can start feeling a little jumpy, a little ready to get back to work. You can discover the true meaning of rationalization, which is what your mind does when it wants to do something that you have decided you will not do. Is yard work really work if you enjoy it? Is flipping through a mail-order catalog really shopping? Yes, it is.
If you decide to live on the fire that God has kindled inside of you instead of rushing out to find some sticks to rub together, then it does not take long for all sorts of feelings to come out of hiding. You can find yourself crying buckets of un-cried tears over things you thought you had handled years ago. People you have loved and lost can show up with their ghostly lawn chairs, announcing they have nowhere else they have to be all day. While you are talking with them, you may gradually become aware of an aching leg and look down to see a bruise on your thigh that you did not know you had. How many other collisions did you ignore in your rush from here to there?
That first Sunday, I had time to press all kinds of bruises, both real and imagined, but for once I did not crash into anything that made a new one. I also discovered the freedom of the Sabbath. Released from bondage to the clock, I ate when I was hungry instead of when I had to. I found out that I was far less hungry for groceries than for the bread I could not buy. When I slowed down, I could feel my pulse beating under my chin, like a small bird nestled against my neck. The girdle of my diaphragm loosened, causing great sighs too deep for words to pour from my body. In their wake, I discovered more room around my heart, a greater capacity for fresh air.
Sabbath sickness turned out to be a lot like other sicknesses, which until then had been the only way I could justify more than one night’s rest. I had never been any good at saying no. No, I won’t. No, not today. Phrases like these struck me as the antithesis of the gospel. When did Jesus ever say no to anyone who needed something from him? To follow his example meant skipping meals in order to tend the people lined up at the door. It meant abandoning your plans to get away and rest for a while when you saw how many people had followed you to your resting place. It meant giving to everyone who begged from you, going the extra mile, and handing your cloak to someone who had only asked you for your shirt. Didn’t Jesus get in trouble for doing things on the Sabbath that he was not supposed to do?
I decided to take a rest from trying to be Jesus too. No, I won’t. No, not today. Today I will consent to be an extra in God’s drama, someone off to the side watching the scenery unfold with self-forgetfulness that is not available to me at center stage. Today I will bear the narcissistic wound of knowing