I open the newspaper in the morning and I find myself holding my breath.

A friend goes in for a COVID test and I find myself holding my breath. 

The “ping” of a news alert lights up my phone and I find myself holding my breath. 

I turn in my ballot and I find myself holding my breath. 

George Floyd doesn’t know justice, neither does Breonna, Elijah, Tony, and too many others and I find myself holding my breath. 

I see the pain in a loved one’s eyes and I find myself holding my breath. 

And then, like in the beginning when the wind of the spirit of God swept over the face of the waters, I breathe out, remembering the words, “Thus says God, the Lord, who created the heavens and stretched them out, who spread out the earth and what comes from it, who gives breath to the people upon it and spirit to those who walk in it: I am the Lord, I have called you in righteousness, I have taken you by the hand and kept you; I have given you as a covenant to the people, a light to the nations, to open the eyes that are blind, to bring out the prisoners from the dungeon, from the prison those who sit in darkness.”

I breathe because it comes from God.

I breathe because it is holy, light, and life giving to those in need.  

I breathe because the Holy Spirit is living within me, as close as my very breath. 

I breathe so that I don’t limit the in and out movement of the Spirit through me as I listen, tend, act, rest, and love. 

I breathe because God needs the deep inhales and exhales to continue the work of restoration in me and in the world.  

I breathe because the resurrected Christ breathed on the disciples when they were scared and locked behind closed doors to make them agents of forgiveness through the spirit. 

I breathe because it is a radical act in the face of fear. 

I breathe because the giving of the Holy Spirit of God is wildly reckless, blown over the good and bad and everyone in between. 

I breathe, and release all that I’ve been holding and return to God. 

(Isaiah 42:5-7)

As I was cleaning out my email inbox, I got distracted by an email that promised “The 26 greatest decluttering tips of all time.”  Yes, the irony is not lost on me that my email inbox was cluttered with things like articles about decluttering. As I spent an embarrassingly long time cleaning out my emails, I got to thinking about other things that we hang on to, or think that we need, that turn out to be unimportant in the grand scheme of things. 

What are the stories we tell ourselves that are just cluttering up our minds or that actually harm us?

What images of God do we hold on to that don’t serve us or God?

What are the things that we thought were important or needed but that simply don't hold up in times of crisis? 

What are the things that we do just because we have always done them that way?

I think about the theological and institutional pickles we get ourselves into about things like who can receive communion, who can preach or not and why, or even the color of the carpet as we remodel buildings, and I think that in this time of pandemic we might take the opportunity to declutter our institutional in-boxes. We get our own minds and hearts cluttered up with worry as we believe the messages that tell us to compare and compete, and so these days of anxiety give us the opportunity to declutter our hearts, too. 

What is really important and what might we let go of? What serves us and others about our faith? Is it a rigorous and deep understanding of grace? Do we believe heaven is “up there somewhere” or are we participating in the in-breaking of the kingdom of heaven here? Is our faith just what we grew up with and never really took out of the box and wrestled with and examined?  How are we leaning into our faith in ways that help us grow in compassion for the world? At some point the Sunday school faith of our childhood needs to give way to something bigger, a faith that can live into and speak into the tensions of our lives, something that feeds not only us but also our neighbors. We need a faith that lives and breathes with us whether we are in crisis or in calm.  In Paul’s letter to the Romans he writes, “Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your minds, so that you may discern what is the will of God—what is good and acceptable and perfect.” (Romans 12:2 NRSV).  If Paul were into organizing, I think he would be one to recommend periodic decluttering. As we declutter our thoughts we can return to who we were created to be: beloved children of God. Times of change can serve to open us to new ways of being, to declutter what might be hindering us from hearing the Holy Spirit. 

Today I invite you to do some decluttering of your mind, your heart, or even that junk drawer you have putting off cleaning. And in your transforming may you have new space inside and out to listen to the voice of God in you. 

Peace, Ruth

Sabbath. Summer often offers multiple ways of taking Sabbath: from enjoying creation, to exploring new places, to shifting gears.  Usually our summers include time up north, time at a Shakespeare festival, and sometimes even the joy of going to Holden Village in the Cascade Mountains. This summer all of those “usuals” are off the table. But still, time off is necessary, as necessary as regular sabbath. John Calvin wrote that,“On the Sabbath we cease from our work, so that God can do God’s work in us.” Sabbath is even a part of the Ten Commandments (Exodus 20).

I need to confess something to you: I’ve never really been “good” at taking sabbath. I understand the concept, I AGREE with the concept, I encourage others to take sabbath, and yet, when I took some time off recently I found myself cleaning the house and working ahead on projects. I knew sabbath offered way more than that. I knew that I needed to cease from my work so I could hear God’s work a little better. 

But what does sabbath look like in these days of pandemic? What does it look like when one day rolls into another already? What does sabbath look like when you are retired? Or a kid? Or out of work? What does sabbath look like when we can’t escape the reality of living in such a time of crisis? How do we shift gears when most of our options for a change of pace are not available to us? 

One way that I shift gears is to read. In her memoir of faith called, “Leaving Church,” Barbara Brown Taylor writes about leaving active parish ministry as an Episcopal Priest to teach in higher education. As she began her first Sunday of not leading worship she reflects, 

“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….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 uncried tears over things you thought you had handled years ago. People you love 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 rough from here to there?” 

I reread this paragraph so many times and it still brings up a lot of feelings and thoughts for me. First, I laughed, because as I sat on my lawn chair reading this I did notice a bruise on my thigh I hadn’t seen before. Was it from a workout, landscaping, moving furniture, or a clumsy collision? All were possibilities. 

Then I started thinking about fires: God’s fire kindled in us and the fires we create by furiously rubbing sticks together. Both result in fire, but there is something magical about living by the fire that is made just for us to keep us warm, alive, “lit” by something bigger than ourselves. Sure, we can make fires, and we do. But when we are so busy building our own fires we lose track of the fire God provides for us. We lose track of inspiration, of awe, of knowing that we are not God, but we belong to God. 

And then she has this powerful image of loved ones showing up with their ghostly lawn chairs which has me thinking about one of the necessary gifts of sabbath: pondering. Expansive sabbath pondering.  If you were to really give yourself sabbath time - open time, open space, open mind - what would show up to plant a lawn chair next to yours and stay awhile? Maybe it would be a person, an experience, a conflict or dilemma. Maybe it would be a future hope, a joyful memory, or parts of yourself that you have abandoned? Maybe it would be wholeness, or grief, or peace, or all of those things mixed together. This image of setting up lawn chairs for expansive sabbath pondering might feel scary, or it might feel welcome. Either way, sabbath gives us the opportunity to let our spirits and feelings catch up with our racing minds and bodies. Sabbath allows us the time to process and heal what feels bruised or broken. Sabbath allows us to just be in the presence of God's spirit. 

I’m curious about your experience of Sabbath these days. How do you tend God’s fire within you? How do you keep from thinking your work holds up the world and stop to notice how God holds us up in love for the sake of the world? I invite you to be open to what pulls up a chair. I invite you to give yourself the gift of open time, open space, and an open mind for expansive sabbath pondering. May your sabbath be a blessing to your spirit. 

In Peace,  Ruth