Writings

Wayne Muller

Remember the Sabbath

In the relentless busyness of modern life, we have lost the rhythm between work

and rest.

 

All life requires a rhythm of rest. There is a rhythm in our waking activity and the

body’s need for sleep. There is a rhythm in the way day dissolves into night, and

night into morning. There is a rhythm as the active growth of spring and summer

is quieted by the necessary dormancy of fall and winter. There is a tidal rhythm,

a deep, eternal conversation between the land and the great sea. In our bodies,

the heart perceptibly rests after each life-giving beat; the lungs rest between the

exhale and the inhale.

 

We have lost this essential rhythm. Our culture invariably supposes that action and

accomplishment are better that rest, that doing something—anything—is better than

doing nothing. Because of our desire to succeed, to meet these ever-growing

expectations, we do not rest. Because we do not rest, we lose our way. We miss the

compass points that would show us where to go, we bypass the nourishment that

would give us succor. We miss the quiet that would give us wisdom. We miss the joy

and love born of effortless delight. Poisoned by this hypnotic belief that good things

come only through unceasing determination and tireless effort, we can never truly

rest. And for want of rest, our lives are in danger.

 

In our drive for success we are seduced by the promises of more: more money, more

recognition, more satisfaction, more love, more information, more influence, more

possessions, more security. Even when our intentions are noble and our efforts

sincere—even when we dedicate our lives to the service of others—the corrosive

pressure of frantic overactivity can nonetheless cause suffering in ourselves and others.

 

A "successful" life has become a violent enterprise. We make war on our own bodies,

pushing them beyond their limits; war on our children, because we cannot find enough

time to be with them when they are hurt and afraid, and need our company; war on

our spirit, because we are too preoccupied to listen to the quiet voices that seek to

nourish and refresh us; war on our communities, because we are fearfully protecting

what we have, and do not feel safe enough to be kind and generous; war on the earth,

because we cannot take the time to place our feet on the ground and allow it to feed us,

to taste its blessings and give thanks.

 

As the founder of a public charity, I visit the large offices of wealthy donors, the

crowded rooms of social service agencies, and the small houses of the poorest families.

Remarkably, within this mosaic there is a universal refrain: I am so busy. It does not

seem to matter if the people I speak with are doctors and day-care workers,

shopkeepers and social workers, parents or teachers, nurses and lawyers, students

or therapists, community activists or cooks.

 

Whether they are Hispanic or Native American, Caucasian or Black, the more their lives

speed up, the more they feel hurt, frightened, and isolated. Despite their good hearts

and equally good intentions, their work in the world rarely feels light, pleasant, or healing.

Instead, as it all piles endlessly upon itself, the whole experience of being alive begins to

melt into one enormous obligation. It becomes the standard greeting everywhere:

I am so busy.

  

We say this to one another with no small degree of pride, as if our exhaustion were a

trophy, our ability to withstand stress a mark of real character. The busier we are, the

more important we seem to ourselves and, we imagine, to others. To be unavailable

to our friends and family, to be unable to find time for the sunset (or even to know

that the sun has set at all), to whiz through our obligations without time for a single,

mindful breath, this has become the model of a successful life.

 

Our lack of rest and reflection is not just a personal affliction. It colors the way we

build and sustain community, it dictates the way we respond to suffering, and it

shapes the ways in which we seek peace and healing in the world. I have worked

for twenty-five years in the fields of community development, public health, mental

health, and criminal justice. With a few notable exceptions, the way problems are

solved is frantically, desperately, reactively, and badly. Despite their well-meaning

and generous souls, community and corporate leaders are infected with a fearful

desperation that is corrosive to genuine helpfulness, justice, or healing. As Brother

David Steidl-Rast reminds us, the Chinese pictograph for "busy" is composed of two

characters: heart and killing.

 

THOMAS MERTON:

 

        There is a pervasive form of contemporary violence.....

        [and that is] activism and overwork. The rush and pressure of modern life

        are a form, perhaps the most common form, of its innate violence.

 

        To allow oneself to be carried away by a multitude of conflicting concerns,

        to surrender to too many demands, to commit oneself to too many projects,

        to want to help everyone in everything, is to succumb to violence.

 

        The frenzy of our activism neutralizes our work for peace. It destroys our

        own inner capacity for peace. It destroys the fruitfulness of our own work,

        because it kills the root of inner wisdom which make work fruitful.

 

Thank You to Wayne Muller for permission to post this writing from his new book

Sabbath: Restoring the Sacred Rhythm of Rest.

Check out the Wayne Muller, Spiritwalk Teacher page

Also, thanks to Spiritwalker Carolyn for volunteering to type this text.

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