finding a sacred pace

Living in New York City has forced me to reflect upon pace. A city of hustlers and achievers, New York is full to the brim with constant streams of life and energy and chaos and productivity. At every turn, there is a new opportunity to experience, network, taste, see, do. This is, in part, what makes it so magical and exciting to me. I, too, am fuelled by the verve of urban life, the ever awakened streets and the fierce ardor of New Yorkers. 

New York is where many come to fulfill a dream, start over, or seek opportunity. With its myriad of things to offer, this city is an ideal place to do just these things. Like a granny spoiling her grandchildren on Christmas morning, New York is gregarious, inviting and generous. Yet, she can so swiftly become overwhelming- with overmuch coddling (taking the form of incessant opportunities and experiences to offer) or controlling (taking the form of the ruthlessness of city life- unforgivingly expensive, complex, inconvenient, etc. etc.). 

The promises of fulfillment, success and unending wonder in New York come at a cost. In navigating the veritable deluge of opportunities extended to them, New Yorkers live at a fatal pace (a term shared by my pastor in this recent sermon). In this massive, boisterious city, there is always another project to work on, another person to meet, another event to go to, another site to visit, another few pounds to lose, another promotion to aim for. And in the process of pursuing all these things, we dangerously abuse ourselves until the point of killing our souls. We are unable to be still. 

As I have taken note of these things in my new cultural milieu, I have made the forceful realization that the struggle for settledness is not specific to New York, but to humans in general. I, for instance, was by no means a stranger to this condition in my hometown of Montreal, before moving here. New York City certainly magnifies the realities of hustling and bustling (given that it is a twenty-mile radius grouping millions upon millions of beautiful yet broken people) -but I dare say this is far more than a cultural plague. 

Far beyond our contexts or personalities, the scourge of the fatal pace reveals a thing or two about the human heart -every human heart. The race to the top is ubiquitous and pervasive, and it exposes the way our nature so fatefully bends toward sin. Sin has, in some way, infected all aspects of the grace that is earthly life... and our schedules are no exception. Our pace, too, is marred by this reality. 

Since the Fall, we have been utterly restless -seeking redemption and favor and approval in all things but the truest thing. We are gluttonous creatures attracted to self-fulfillment, self-determination, self-aggrandizement. The fray of demands required to achieve such lofty goals as success, approval, control, wealth, popularity, fitness, comfort (and, and, and) is excessive -yet we labor tirelessly in their pursuit. In the process, we find ourselves utterly depleted and dismally unsatisfied. Ravenous, we want more. Invitations to slow down are spurned, perpetually dismissed as lowbrow uses of time. We keep going and going, hoping there will eventually come an end to the murderous path set before us by the powers that be.  

Thomas Merton, a beloved writer who walked the path of faith, wrote this: 

"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 the violence of our times." -Thomas Merton

The violence of our times. How often, brother and sister, have we willfully inflicted this violence upon our bodies and minds and souls? I am compelled by these words, as they conceptualize the fatal pace as far more than unwise conduct, but as unmitigated destruction of the self. 

The truth is this: we were not designed for endless busyness and action. We are made for rest. The physiological need for sleep attests to our humanness and holds weighty theological meaning: it reminds us of our limitations and of God's ceaselessness. While we are forced to slow down and slumber, the God of the universe continues to handle the world. While we are not sovereign, He is.  

As the psalmist wrote: 

"He will not let your foot slip -

He who watches over you will not slumber; 

indeed, He who watches over Israel 

will neither slumber nor sleep." (Psalm 121:4)

  

Rest and slowing down are thus profound acts of faith. While the ever-demanding pursuit of gain and validation is concomitant of our sinfulness, the mindful choice to cease is rooted in holiness. It is founded upon an acknowledgment of our identity as God's beloved, chosen, and redeemed. In resting, we accept the finished work of Jesus on the cross: eyes cast upward, we trust that it is He and He alone who has made us new, and that our constant striving is pointless. In resting, we embody the gospel which is an invitation to surrender, not do. It is finished, whispered our Lord upon the Cross, mouthing words for us to mull over day after day, as we go about spending our lives. 

I once heard it said that our study of the creation narrative -the way the world came to be- informs our ethics. The account read in Genesis is indeed often used in orthodox Christian circles as a reference for theological ethics of gender, sexuality, environmentalism, work, etc. etc. It also outlines an ethic of rest, of a sacred pace (the antithesis of the fatal pace), which we ought to consider. 

In Genesis 1, God breathes the world into existence. "And there was evening, and there was morning..." we read, almost staccato-like, after every day of creation. With that repeated thread of words, the author marks the way time was to be reckoned- from dusk to dawn- at the advent of the universe. This recurring sentence, woven within the creation story, creates an unmistakable rhythm -utterly impossible to miss. But one thing we so often miss is this: what happens on the seventh day. The obvious is this: as I wrote about here, God rested and the first humans, too, were called to rest at the beginning of their life story. But there is yet so much more to uncover about the seventh day. The first, second, third, fourth, fifth and sixth days all culminate with these echoed words - "and there was evening, and there was morning - the [1st-6th] day." -but the seventh day, found in Genesis 2, lacks this bridge: 

By the seventh day God had finished the work he had been doing; so on the seventh day He rested from all his work. Then God blessed the seventh day and made it holy, because on it he rested from all the work of creating that he had done.

Following these words, we don't read, "and there was evening, and there was morning - the seventh day." Such an insertion would suggest that the seventh day had ended. But God's heart of rest, depicted by the seventh day, was and is never to end. The absence of this phrase is thus by no means a mere coincidence or oversight. God, in His mercy, is speaking freedom to us through this carefully crafted prose. We are, to this day, invited to enter into His rest, to slow our step and adopt a sacred pace. And this is all grace. 

In Psalm 127:2, we find: "In vain you rise early and stay up late, toiling for food to eat-- for he grants sleep to those he loves." Do you, like me, need this tender reminder that lying still, replacing the fatal pace to the sacred pace, is a gift extended from heaven? 

This season in New York City, as I stand in an intensified nerve center of human behavior, has been an invitation for much contemplation and self-examination. As I see those around me, I see myself -in all her brokenness. Though I have known of my tendency to veer toward a fatal pace for some time now, I have increasingly sought to steady it through various liturgies and practices. I am nowhere near "arrived", nor do I think I ever will be, fully. But I thought it might be helpful to some if I closed with a few practices that have brought me hope in this endeavor to choose rest over hustle. 

• Carefully choose your commitments, and learn to say no. Committing to far too many things, as I am wont to do, is a pathway to exhaustion. In my case, it meant I was scurrying from engagement to engagement, unable to do things with enough care. Let your 'Yes' be 'yes' and your 'No' be 'no', said Christ. As I remind myself that I am finite, I can relinquish the fear of disappointing others or needing control. I thus can determine my commitments consequently, remembering the limitations of my mind, body and soul, and choosing where I sense God's invitation. 
• Put your phone away come evening (and buy an alarm clock). My addiction to my phone was but one of the millions of things distracting me from savoring rest. I kept it with me at all times, leaving it by my side all night, using it as my alarm clock, and reaching for it first thing every day. It lessened the quality and length of my sleep, and I was ultimately further exhausted than enlivened after scrolling through social media for hours. I now place my phone in the living room come bedtime, and read until it is time to sleep. 
• Carve out the time for slow mornings. I still have work to do on this one, as I am one to "snooze" my alarm clock more times than I care to admit. Yet, I perpetually find this to be true: a rushed morning sets the pace for a rushed day. A restful morning, on the other hand, has the power of aligning my heart with God's peace. By going to bed and rising a bit earlier, I am able to spend time in silence, praying and digging into Scripture, with a candle alight and a curl of steam from my warm coffee. Such is the way to cultivate calm at the beginning of the day. 
• Play. In a world that tells us that we ought to do all that it takes- to the point of depleting ourselves- in the name of achievement, we ought to make space in our schedules for liturgies of play. By slowing down to explore our city, delight in a good meal, create a craft or painting, enjoy a walk in God's creation, we are choosing thankfulness instead of the restless pursuit of gain and success. By enjoying the richness of beauty and good in this world, we worship the Giver of good gifts. 
• Wander for the sake of wandering. I have so often resisted doing things that do not have a distinct purpose, forsaking activities that won't further me in my aspirations. Learning to wander, with a complete absence of plan, has been so life-giving. One day, dedicate a morning or afternoon to simply stroll without a destination in mind. This is a beautiful, tangible way to remember that you are held by God. You don't always need a plan. He goes before you. 
• Read about pace. There is a wealth of wisdom available about countering the toxicity of busyness in a world which embraces it. Books I have read or have been encouraged to try include: Sacred Rhythms (Ruth Haley Barton), Present over Perfect (Shauna Niequist), The Ruthless Elimination of Hurry (John Mark Comer), The Rest of God (Mark Buchanan), Sabbath Keeping (Lynne M. Baab), Keeping the Sabbath Wholly (Marva J. Dawn), To Hell with the Hustle (Jefferson Bethke), Receiving the Day (Dorothy C. Bass). 
• Sabbath-keeping.  A day set aside to cease, rest, embrace and feast (I have written more about this foundation practice here and here). 

These practices are by no means revolutionary. Yet, such shifts truly hold the power to slowly lead our fatal pace to a sacred one. And lest we forget: even the smallest acts of faithfulness play a mighty role in revolutions.