Vacation

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Vacation, all I ever wanted

Vacation, had to get away

Vacation, meant to be spent alone.

-The Go-Go’s, Vacation (1982)

Did you know that the Hebrew word “sabbath” means “vacation”? Okay, not really. It actually means “cease, rest, complete rest, or desist,” according to the Lexham Bible Dictionary. That ought to be a good definition for vacation, though, shouldn’t it? Unfortunately, it’s not. Too often when Americans go on vacation, we really GO on vacation, seldom stopping – ceasing, resting, desisting. (How often have you gotten back home after vacation, only to flop on the couch and bemoan, “I need a vacation to recover from my vacation”?!)

I’m on vacation this week and it’s been good so far. Definitely not all rest – there’s a lot I need to think about and process through, and that takes energy; I’m not turning my mind off. But I’m being intentional about not going too much or too fast, not doing too much, and getting that thinking time in. Still, this is one of those “vacations” that, in hindsight, won’t have seemed particularly restful. Enjoyable, yes; restful, no.

I had lunch with a good friend and mentor the other day. He’s a police chaplain and gave me a couple books he uses in his work: Emotional Survival for Law Enforcement and Spiritual Survival for Law Enforcement. He talked with me about “The Hypervigilance Biological Rollercoaster”® that cops experience: in essence, it’s a cycle that swings from a hypervigilance that views everything as a threat or potential threat – and keeps cops alive on the streets – to the complete opposite when they’re at home, the essence of detached couch potato. Neither state (hypervigilance or couch potato) is biologically normal, and it takes 18-24 hours to move from one state into the normal range where we live like a normal human being. (I have a lot of friends in law enforcement; if any of you are reading this and haven’t seen these books, then I recommend you get your hands on them. Come on, you can read 250 pages – that’s both books combined – that might save your marriage and even your life, right?)

So what do vacation, hypervigilance, and couch potatoes all have in common? Sabbath. Or rather, the need for sabbath. God said we need a sabbath day each week; one day out of seven when we “cease, rest, complete rest, or desist,” – when we “shall not do any work” (Exodus 20:10). God even says the land needs a sabbath (see Leviticus 25:4) every seventh year (ask any good farmer if this makes sense!). My friend says we need sabbath every day; time to unwind, relax, put the concerns of the day behind us.

So there you have it: Sabbath. Rest. Vacation. Daily. Weekly. Annually. Sept-annually (I just made up that word; it means “every seven years”!).

“Vacation, all I ever wanted; vacation, had to get away; vacation, meant to be spent alone.” Maybe those Go-Go’s were pretty smart.

Permission to Cry

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I’d lost my job in mid-November but within just three weeks was talking with a young, growing Christian organization that needed a Chief Operating Officer. The timing, the role, the vision – everything seemed to be moving in the right direction. I was excited, Eiley was excited; there was hope. Then, just two weeks before I was to start, I got a call from the President: “We’re going to stop the process. We don’t think you’re the right fit.” I was crushed. Hope shattered into despair.
I lay in the dark on my living room floor. For two hours I cried out desperately to God. “Why? Am I not good enough? Why? Why? Why?!” Sometimes words were washed away in a flood of tears and groans. I wept for God’s presence as much as his answers. He seemed silent, distant, uncaring. And I found myself in an unfamiliar place, standing on the precipice of a monumental choice: to abandon the God I’d known my whole life, or to cling ever more tightly to One who seemed to have abandoned me.
A familiar passage of Scripture floated into my mind, blown by an unseen gust over the edge of my despair. It was Exodus 32, when Jacob spends a sleepless night grappling with a strange man. Hours pass in exhausting, nocturnal combat. Jacob’s hip is dislocated but neither man prevails. As day breaks, the stranger says to let him go, but Jacob wants something out of the match: “I will not let you go until you bless me.” In the newborn light he is blessed with a new name—Israel—and discovers that his wrestling was with God. In my own struggle on the cliff’s edge, Jacob’s cry became my mantra: “I will not let you go, I will not let you go, I will not let you go.”
A second passage blew into my thoughts: John 6. There, the hard sayings of Jesus proved too much for many of his followers, who “turned back and no longer walked with him.” Jesus said to the twelve who remained, “Do you want to leave as well?” Faithful Peter’s response caught me: “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life….”
For someone who has grown up believing in God and seeking to follow him, standing on the precipice of faith, facing a choice between abandoning God or clinging to him…it’s frightening. No, it’s almost terrifying. Choosing to cling to a God who seems deaf and blind—or, worse, uncaring or even absent—seems foolhardy at best.
King David felt that many times in his life. He’d grown up alone among seven brothers, a shepherd boy not old enough for the soldiering of his siblings. Over the twenty years between his anointing as king and his accession to the throne, he felt the solitude of King Saul’s murderous jealousy. Under the crown, he knew the loneliness of leadership and the fear of enemies both foreign and domestic. And as a poet, he felt the aloneness deeply, pouring out his heart in verse and song.
The Bible is filled with laments—grieving hearts baring their pain in words flowing with both anguish and anger. But there is hope in Biblical lament; almost without exception, the anguish and anger turn to hope and trust, clinging to confidence in a God who, even in silence, is there. The laments of Scripture give us permission to bare our own hearts before a God whose silent presence is unnervingly powerful and comfortingly real. 
Spend some time reading, re-reading, and reflecting on Psalm 22.

Is Forgiveness Enough?

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In Mark 2:1-13, four men bring a paralyzed man to Jesus to be healed. It was hard work (have you ever tried to carry a man on a litter?) and when they got to the house where Jesus was staying, their work got even harder because the crowd wouldn’t let them in. So they did what any desperate, loving, enterprising friends would do: climbed the home’s outside steps, dug through the thatch-and-earth roof, and lowered their friend down on the mat. 
Picture yourself in the house while this is going on: it’s small (let’s say 25′ square) and cramped with people sitting all around – on benches, a table, the floor. It’s hot, with the warm stench of sweaty bodies permeating the still air. What cooling breeze might otherwise come through the open window and door is being blocked by the bodies crowding both openings, straining to hear the words of the itinerant preacher/healer. You strain to hear his words over the din of voices outside as they repeat short phrases to be passed backward to the growing visitors. A commotion distracts you briefly, then settles back down. Moments later the sound of footsteps on the stairs…then on the roof.
Dust begins to float down and you, like others in the room, find yourself looking up to the ceiling as the dust turns to bits of thatch, then small chunks of dirt, then larger chunks. You can’t look up anymore without getting dirt in your eyes and mouth. Before too long, a stick breaks through, followed by a streak of sunlight. By now, all attention in the room has been directed upward; even the preacher has stopped. Chunks of roof begin to fall as those sitting below the growing hole struggle to stand and move out of the way. Soon there is a gaping hole and the four intruders are seen, their faces smeared with sweat and dirt, their hands scratched and bleeding. Finally, they step to one side of the hole, bend over, and in a moment a burden-laden mat is being lowered through the hole – a man. A murmer works its way through the crowd as men and women squeeze to make room for this new stranger.
The words of the preacher have been all but forgotten as the mat is lowered gently to the bare earth floor of the house. The bewildered murmurs of the crowd still as ears strain to hear what he will say.
“Son, your sins are forgiven.”
=Pause=
Wait. Let’s stop the story right here. Here’s a guy who’s been paralyzed for – we don’t know how long. His friends have struggled to get him in front of this Jesus, whose reputation for healing diseases and casting out demons has already won him widespread acclaim and hosts of groupies. The paralytic is laying helpless and limp on the floor while his friends, still wiping sweat from their brows, are looking down through the skylight they just made, waiting…for a miracle, for their friend to stand and walk out with them. 
And the preacher says something about forgiveness?! Their minds spin, myriad thoughts colliding with each other, expectations unmet, hopes dashed. 
How would you feel? You come to Jesus with needs. Real needs: unemployment has pushed you to the brink of homelessness; a brain tumor has taken your wife to the edge of the grave; the desperate search for your missing son has turned up no clues. Faint with weeping, you collapse at Jesus’ feet in desperate hope. And all you hear is, “you’re forgiven.”
Is that enough? Was that enough for the paralytic? While the religious leaders argued theology with Jesus, the man on the mat is left to wonder if a clean soul outweighs his lifeless legs. Will forgiveness satisfy? Can forgiveness satisfy?
=Unpause=
Jesus has turned his attention from the paralytic to the scribes (they’re the really smart religious people who knew the Scriptures really well). They’re aghast at his claim to forgive sins – that’s a job for God and God alone, so this wandering healer/preacher ought to be stoned for blasphemy! But Jesus challenges them: “What’s easier, to say ‘your sins are forgiven’ or to say, ‘get up and walk’?” 
Okay, really, just saying one is as easy as saying the other. But Jesus, still talking to the scribes, says, “let me prove that I have the authority to forgive sins.” Then he turns his attention back to the man and says, “get up, take your bed, and go home.” And he does; gasps fill the air as the man sits for the first time in who-knows-how-long; shock and surprise murmur through the crowd as he bends knees that haven’t bent in years, puts bare feet on the dirt and, with the untested strength of a desperate hope, slowly rises. Muscles, tendons, ligaments…and faith work together seamlessly as he bends over, picks up the mat, and slowly steps from the house.
Eight jubilant feet rush down the stairs outside and run to their friend. But he – like the scribes still in the house – is silent, bewildered, wondering. 
Forgiven? Healed? Is it enough?

Jesus in the Waiting Room

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Waiting rooms, I’ve found, can be awkward places to start up conversations. The occupants are usually in the midst of something difficult, so the typical small talk seems out of place. Even casual questions like, what are you here for? can be too prying, or bring painful emotions to the surface. And the waiting room at a jail may be even more awkward than others; I wonder if perhaps there is more of a sense of personal humiliation or failure felt by those waiting to visit a son or daughter, husband or mother.
Yesterday afternoon I went to the jail to meet with an inmate who, I’m told, wants to make some changes in his life. I was late, and the staffer at the desk said I might not make it before visiting hours were over, but I decided to wait and see. Something—or Someone—inside me was gently nudging me to put down my book about how to read the Bible and talk to the woman two seats down from me. She’d already told me that she’d been allowed in this late before, but the staffer had warned that she might not have time today. Trying to bring a little relaxation into the discomforting wait, I made some goofy joke about the awkwardness of starting a conversation in jail: “so, come here often?” That seemed to break the ice, and she began to open up.

Life’s been hard, especially the past several weeks. The person she was visiting she loved, but he was hurting her deeply. With him in jail, his friends helped themselves to the tools in her garden shed. Her closest, lifelong friend had just died. Bills kept piling up and things kept breaking down, and she seemed very alone. Life wasn’t turning out the way I’m sure she’d dreamed it would.

Half a lifetime ago I probably would have spouted off with some nice-sounding Bible words—all true, of course, but empty sounding in the present context. Today I could only say, “I’m sorry,” and, “I wish I had easy answers.” Then she got called to go visit; she’d have maybe five minutes with her loved one. I wouldn’t get called, but I decided to wait for her.

I learned before she did that she wouldn’t get the chance she’d waited for, and for a reason that had to sound as stupid as it did frustrating (he’d gone to get his haircut!). When she came back into the waiting room, I commiserated with her about the missed opportunity. “He’s bald!,” she said with a frustrated laugh. I handed her my card and asked her to call me. Our church might be able to help with bills, or maybe there was something we could do around her home. That evoked another story of things breaking! I asked if I could pray for her, which I did, asking God for peace and for a community to wrap its arms around her. I asked God to truly transform her loved one, and through that to draw her near Him. Then she left.

I don’t know if I’ll ever hear from her or see her again. I hope so. I hope she’ll give me…our church…my God…a chance. Frankly, I hope He will give her a chance. I hope we’ll have the chance to serve her, to fix some of the broken things in her shed…and in her heart.

Several years ago my wife asked, in a moment of painful honesty, “how can God put back together a cup that’s been shattered into pieces? I know he’s the Potter, but even potters can’t repair a cup once it’s been fired.” I didn’t know then and I don’t know now…but I’ve seen God restore my wife, so I know that—somehow—he can restore what is shattered. That is my prayer for my new, nameless, jailhouse friend.


[Author’s Note: I never imagined myself hanging around a jail, but thanks to the incredible love and gracious persistence of a wonderful 80-plus year old saint, here I am. I’ve spent more time in the jail in the past two years than ever before in my life. (I suppose I could even say that the thirty minutes I spent there today was more than I’d spent there until two years ago!) But it doesn’t compare to the quarter-century of Friday nights she has selflessly devoted to the men and women inside. She’s told me more than once that, but for the grace of God, it could be her in there. I don’t particularly enjoy it; I don’t think I’m particularly good at serving or encouraging or mentoring the inmates. But the opportunities keep coming and there’s something inside me that says I need to keep going.]

Take A Break

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One week. 400 miles. Seven schools. Eight assemblies. Three evening programs. Three morning services. One four-hour class. Back-to-school night. Date night. Whew!!
For the first time in too long, I took a breather this morning. I opened my Bible to the Psalms of Ascents—those psalms that ancient Israelites would sing on their pilgrimages to Jerusalem for the annual feasts; psalms that called reminded them of God’s presence, his power, his protection…even their unfaithfulness to him. I was drawn to Psalm 121, the second in this collection:

      I lift up my eyes to the hills.

From where does my help come?

      My help comes from the Lord,

who made heaven and earth.

This morning, I needed to lift up my eyes to the Lord, the source of my help and energy. I was reminded of Jesus’ habit of going off by himself, whether late at night or early in the morning, to spend time with his Father. I don’t do that enough—or well. Those times were not only rejuvenating for him, they also kept him focused on his priorities.

In the first chapter of the gospel according to Mark, we get a glimpse into what I expect was a typical day in Jesus’ life. He comes into a town (Capernaum, verse 21) on the Sabbath and goes into the synagogue to teach. While there, a man with an unclean spirit comes in, whom Jesus proceeds to heal. Afterward, Jesus goes over to his friend Simon’s (for lunch and a nap, perhaps?), where he finds Simon’s mother-in-law in bed with a fever. He heals her. By evening, Simon’s front porch is crowded with the town’s sick and demon-possessed—just the kind of folks you want hanging around the neighborhood, right?! In fact, Mark says, “the whole city was gathered together at the door.” (Mark 1:34) And Jesus, being Jesus, heals them. He casts out a bunch of demons. And then, presumably, he goes to bed.

Early the next morning, Jesus gets up, gets out of town, and prays. This is where it gets hard, particularly for those of us who are doers. The teaching, the healings—those aren’t the hard things; we thrive on the action and, yes, on the attention and affirmation they bring. And they’re good things, important things, even God-honoring things. But Jesus knows what is too easy for me to overlook: the power to do those good and important works comes from the Father, and the power comes through a relationship with him. Not from doing things for him, but from being with him. So Jesus gets alone and prays.

As if this isn’t hard enough, this getting quiet with God, what comes next is almost as amazing to me. Simon and some others track down Jesus and tell him, “Everyone is looking for you.” Undoubtedly, many of the previous evening’s healed patients had gone and told their friends, who gathered in the breaking dawn on Simon’s porch. Some undoubtedly wanted to be healed, but I suspect that many more just wanted to see a healing for themselves. And Jesus’ shocking response is, “Let us go on to the next towns, that I may preach there also, for that is why I came out.”

Did he really say that? Did Jesus—the loving, compassionate, healing son of God—just turn his back on sick people desperate to be made well? Yes. You see, Jesus knew what his mission was: to proclaim the kingdom of God. More than once, Jesus healed for the express purpose of glorifying God (see, for example, John 9). He healed out of compassion and in response to expressions of faith (see Mark 5:25-34). But Jesus’ primary purpose was not to heal; it was to proclaim. Even his great prophecy-fulfilling claim in Luke 4:16ff (cf. Isaiah 61) is not primarily about showing compassion; it is about proclaiming good news.

And so, after a hectic day of teaching and healing, woke early, got alone, and prayed. The time alone with his Father helped him focus on his mission and rejuvenated him for the days ahead: more healings, more people clamoring for a piece of him, more people wanting more from him than just the truth.

Our days are busy and hectic. Work, kids, school, chores, spouse…all clamor for a piece of us until we feel we need to run away screaming! But don’t wait that long. Get some time away where you can be quiet before God and just soak in his presence. It’s not always easy, especially if you’re not in the habit. You may need to start small: seven minutes in the car before you walk into work; or thirty minutes in a coffee shop once a week. Read Psalm 121 (or Psalm 131—it’s even shorter!) and reflect on God’s help. Lift your eyes and heart to God.

Then do it again. Tomorrow, the next day, next week (but don’t wait too long). Make it a habit. Get time alone, quietly, regularly, with God. Soon seven minutes will not be long enough; once a week will not be often enough. But I know that as you do this, you will become refreshed and will be able to refocus on what God has in store for you.