“The Gift of Stopping”
1 Kings 19:4-15
Mark 6:45-46
We don’t have to be running for our very lives, as the prophet Elijah was, to feel so utterly exhausted and afraid that we’re ready to give up on life.
We don’t have to have corrupt rulers put a bounty on our head, as Elijah did, to ask where all our faithful living and hard work has gotten us, to begin to wonder if it was all worth it.
We don’t have to be alone and endangered in the harsh wilderness, as Elijah was, to hit rock bottom emotionally and spiritually.
We don’t have to have to be at rock bottom, as Elijah was, to come to understand that if we don’t change our ways and accept some holy help, this journey of life will be too much for us.
Truth is, we don’t have to be having a hard time at all to wake up one morning to the harsh realization that we’re living our lives on autopilot. Or to go to bed at night unsure of what our day was all about and whether it held any meaning or was guided by any purpose.
The good news is that we don’t have to be at rock bottom or in any kind of crisis to benefit from the gift of stopping, the practice of reflecting, the empowering discipline of spiritual grounding.
But if we don’t make at least a little room in our lives for these gracious gifts and grounding practices, we, like Elijah, may forget that God is with us and, as a result, lose all hope when times get hard. Like Elijah, we may forget what we’re doing here, and why.
In this fourth and probably final installment of my somewhat unplanned sabbatical sermon series, I want to consider Elijah and Jesus as a study in contrasting spiritual practices and real-life results. I want to encourage us all to consider how we might practice regular stopping—the better to encounter the Holy One, to hear God’s tender voice, and to live abundant lives of meaning and purpose.
And I want to begin by sharing with you my own recent experience—not of choosing to stop, mind you, but of being forced to stop.
Not only was I not in crisis, but I was on sabbatical—the opposite of crisis. A time when, much like vacation, it’s easier than usual to see every day as a gift and to let our hearts overflow with gratitude.
I had been on sabbatical for just over three weeks, and I was having a grand time. Travel, you see, is one of my happy places—not only for the discovery and enjoyment of new and beautiful corners of the world but also, if not especially, for how it so widely opens my heart to beauty and joy and, especially, to the Holy. I travel not only for the scenery and new experiences but also for the almost ridiculously routine encounters I have with the love, glory, grace, and presence of God.
I had spent a few days exploring mainland Scotland, had had a deeply enriching and soul-filling time at Iona Abbey, and then gone on to London, where, in my eagerness to see the sites for the first time, (and despite taking regular rides on the Tube and city buses,) I had managed to walk 60 miles in five and a half days. From there, I made a stop-over in Iceland where, giddy with awe and governed by a somewhat unreasonable schedule of driving the Ring Road in five days, I did my best to see all the waterfalls, glaciers, icebergs, beaches, lupines, mountains, puffins, sheep, reindeer, and adorable little churches I could.
There were a couple days where I felt a little under the weather, but I continued to do all the things. Almost non-stop.
And then, as my time in Iceland was drawing to a close, I had to take an official Covid test, as required (at the time) by the United States government.
Well, you can guess where this is going: I, who had been so careful and conscientious about Covid for more than two years, tested positive.
This meant that I could not get on a plane the next day. This meant that I would have to isolate—in Iceland—for five days, an official clock that didn’t start running until the following day.
To say that I was humbled and devastated would be to put it mildly; the delay would mean cancelling or at least rescheduling cherished elements of the rest of my sabbatical. To say that I was inconvenienced and somewhat desperate would also be an understatement; I had to insure that my dog would be cared for and I had to find somewhere to stay, in isolation, for five nights.
The point of this story—unlike the one I told you my first Sunday back with you—is not all the grace I experienced along the way, though there was plenty of that.
The point, as I came to discover, was that being stranded in a foreign country with Covid forced me to a complete, extended stop, the first true stop I had had in months. There was nowhere I could go and almost nothing I could do. While texts, emails, phone calls, and other expressions of support from family and friends were an important lifeline for me during those days, the time was mostly just me and God.
I won’t pretend to have seen God in this situation right away; the first couple of days I alternated between feeling ashamed, grateful I wasn’t sicker, and sorry for myself. But then I began to experience what I am calling the gift—or the gifts (plural)—of stopping (or being forced to stop).
When I was no longer able to do all the things, I had time to rest, reflect, pray, and integrate my experiences. When I didn’t need to spend time planning what I was going to do the next day, I was able to more fully experience the present moment. When I wasn’t rushing from one great experience to the next stunning sight, I could spend valuable time considering what it was all for, why I was doing it, and where God was in it.
It was almost as if, while I was hunkered down in a surprisingly spacious hotel room in a strange neighborhood near the Keflavik International Airport, subsisting on peanut butter sandwiches, protein bars, blueberries, and tea, an angel of the Lord appeared beside me and said, “Wake up and feed your soul.”
It was almost as if, while I fretted over whether I would actually be approved to fly into the United States in a few days, an angel of the Lord said, “Be not afraid of the U.S. government or the mysterious Icelandic Ministry of Health. God is with you. Rest in God’s care and let your body and soul be renewed.”
And so it was that I came to see my Covid isolation in Iceland as an unwanted but needed gift.
And thank God that there are much better, more enjoyable, and easily attainable ways of walking with God.
The gospels tell us that Jesus was forever stepping away from the demands of his ministry to be alone with God in prayer. He did it immediately after his baptism and commissioning; he did it regularly during the course of his ministry; he did it the night before his crucifixion; and in the gospel passage we heard this morning, immediately after feeding the five thousand, he went up on the mountain to pray.
Now, I can’t promise you that after you take time to be alone with the Holy One you’ll be able to walk on water, as Jesus did. I can’t promise that when you stop doing all the things and make time for contemplation and communion, you’ll be filled with peace and all your troubles will disappear.
Spiritual practices are not magic, and the point of spending time with God is not to protect ourselves from life’s difficulties.
But I can assure you that when you embrace the gift of stopping, when you make time to sit in the presence of the Holy, you will become less vulnerable to life’s inevitable ups and downs. You will become grounded and rooted in the unfailing love of God and, like a mighty tree, you will stand strong even when buffeted by the strongest winds. The more time you intentionally spend with God—however you do that—the more your heart and spirit will be opened to healing transformation. The more regularly you step back to reflect and consider, the more conscious you will become of your life’s meaning and purpose.
I hope that our Sunday morning worship service is, among other things, an opportunity for you to discover the gift of stopping—to put down your responsibilities and all you need to do, and to allow yourself to be fed and nurtured by the Holy One. I hope there are other aspects of our life together that feed you and support you on the journey, and I am committed to have us provide more of them.
Beloveds, let us learn to stop—so that we might allow God’s loving grace to wash over us, so that we might be fed and we might nurture one another. And let us trust that when we do truly stop—alone or together, for a few minutes or several days—the word of God will come to us and the God of love will be with us.
