Originally published 3/2/17
On Ash Wednesday, seminary students and their companions are invited to participate in a quiet day. For you Baptists, Ash Wednesday is the first day of Lent, the 40 days before Easter in which we acknowledge and honor Jesus' suffering, and when some of us give up things to imitate and feel deeply that suffering (we gave up sugar, BTW). We go to church, and get a cross of ash smudged on our forehead, too. You know, "By the sweat of your brow will you have food to eat until you return to the ground from which you were made. For you were made from dust, and to dust you shall return." Genesis 3: 19. A quiet day is just that, sort of. We gather at a retreat center in Monteagle, the next town over (still no red light in sight), and say morning prayer, (yes, we spoke it during quiet day), listen to a guest speaker, (still speaking, I know) be quiet for an hour, sing a hymn, listen again, be quiet for another hour, eat lunch in silence (weird), sign another hymn, listen again, be quiet for another hour. It sounded kinda cool. To be unplugged for a day (until 2:30 p.m .anyway), and to just sit in silence and think about God. What Michael does all day!! There's been a lot of noise and stress in my life lately, and I thought a day of quiet meditation would be luxurious. I mean, I'm sure God has so much to say to me if I could just be quiet. I'm sure I would have some major revelation about how we're living, or what we need to do, or where we need to go. I just knew life would be clearer after Quiet Day. We were supposed to be contemplating the message of penitence, reconciliation, worldliness, spirituality, and God. Here's what I thought about: Will Jackson pee on the carpet while I'm gone? If it rains, will the basement flood? At what point should I go home and check? Why does that man have on shorts? Should I open a B&B? I already miss sugar. It's everywhere. I hope a lot of people email me today. This coffee is bad. Why am I drinking it? Dammit. Can I say that while attempting to think about God? How does Michael do this all day? There is so much going on in just my world that I have difficulty stopping the flow of everyday worry to even be quiet on this Quiet Day. I'm supposed to be listening for God. I try. It's amazing how noisy it is when everyone's trying to be quiet. Instead of God, I hear: Patter of footsteps. Swish of raincoats. Groan of the bathroom door. Drip of the coffee dispenser. Squeak of the chair. Crack of the threshold. The crow outside. The turn of a page. A cough. Click of a pen. Clearing of a throat. All of sudden, the quiet has a cacophony of sound. Is everyone else as restless as me? The seminary students looked bored as they read books, made notes, read their phones (does God reach you there?), or walked around the campus. I thought about work, thanked God for a good bit to do this week. We figured something out, and slow work has moved into a busy season. I am appreciative. The bell rings. First period over. I was just getting used to the quiet. The speaker talks about unity. I don't absorb theological talks very well. Episcopalians call them sermons. The way Episcopalians give them, they're like poetry, meditations, or, as they say in school, an exegesis. That means you examine a short bit of scripture by reading other sources and interpreting what's happening there. Or, a sermon. They're different for Baptists and other protestants, where sermons are really like a teaching tool. Episcopalians don't view them that way. We more or less meditate on the scripture, or, in my case, make a grocery list. Is that bad? My mind wanders to the everydayness of life, and what I have to do tomorrow, or Saturday, or April 29. I thought of a great thing to say on April 29. Seriously. We have a thing that day, to honor graduating companions, and during the talk, I thought of what to say to them. That's how my mind works. Love came to mind. I prayed. Lord, you have given me so many people in my life to love, that I am overwhelmed and I feel inadequate in my ability to love and care for them all. And then I listed them all. I'm not going to list them here, but trust me, if you're reading this, your name is probably on my list. It was long. #blessed. I feel driven to provide for and show all these people and more how much I love them, and how much God loves them. But I feel so inadequate in my response. Lord, what can I do? What are you calling me to do? I try to be still. To listen. It is a luxury. My butt is asleep. I don't have laundry to turn over, the dog to let out, a plant to water, coffee to refresh (it was really bad). I add some more people to my love list. I thought listening to/for God would be easier. It looks easy. But it's not. It's kind of frustrating. I listen again for a bit. I decide to serve curried fruit on Saturday because winter fruit sucks. I'll add cranberries to the muffin recipe. I tried to listen. I think it's ok, this inability to marinate in God. Maybe that is him speaking, about the curried fruit because it's winter and all. And that's how I love. Or maybe that was an excuse to try to leave early. I admitted to Michael I was uncomfortable in this silence and that I had a lot to do and maybe I should go home. "If you're uncomfortable, maybe you should stay then," he said. He's usually right about theological things. There is work to do, a dog who's probably peed on the carpet, and a family matter has popped up and needs tending. Sometimes, though, these things are the devil knocking at the door (though in Jackson's case, most people agree he literally is the devil at the door). Sometimes you have to recognize those things for what they are and not what they appear to be. The crisis is not a crisis, but a distraction. If the dog pees, he pees. It doesn't even smell that bad. Maybe God does have something to say to me today, and if I can ignore these distractions for long enough, I can hear it. So I sit for a bit longer in my antsy to see what happens. And then I grew weary, and angry. That kind of teenage impatience that makes your stomach turn and your eyes teary and instinctively and reactively want to stomp your foot, yes, like a child. It's hard to be still and quiet and patient. To wait for God to speak to you. To comfort you. To let you know it's ok. It's ok that it's raining. It's ok that the dog pees in the house. It's ok that the voicemails and emails are piling up. What's the worst that will happen? Still, I'm anxious to get out of the uncomfortable. Because stillness is uncomfortable to me. It feels unproductive. I could be cleaning up dog pee. I could get lost in the everydayness of life and not listen quietly for God. He does speak to me in the everydayness, I know. But I think sometimes it's good to be still, right?
I don't let anyone around me sit still, either. Our nieces visited this weekend, and I made them hike out to Piney Point. It was fun.
Be still and know that I am God, I am exalted among the nations, I am exalted in the earth. Ps. 46:10 The rain stopped. It was brief. Less than was forecast. There's likely no water in the basement. Still, we need a sump pump. Quiet day was a struggle. How does Michael do it everyday? Just sit around and think intentionally about God, and what all of our purposes might be here? I will admit, I have new respect for seminarians. I didn't make it to the end. I spent the last quiet period in the car, returning phone calls, checking emails, anxious to get to my next appointment at 3. God spoke clearly, though, and I heard it. I am not meant to be a seminarian.
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