Mark 6:30-34
February 7, 2021
Today’s gospel lesson is easily overlooked. Often we read it as the set-up for the much more dramatic feeding of the 5000. Today, we separate it from the miracle and ask what wisdom this deeply human story has for us.
Throughout Mark’s gospel, Jesus goes away by himself—or with his disciples—to rest and pray. Sometimes he finds the rejuvenation he is seeking; often, though, he is interrupted by people who need him. His rest is cut short.
In this passage, Jesus seeks to model self-care for his disciples, who have just returned from their own healing missions. He takes them to a deserted place for a mini-retreat. Even before they get there, the throngs of seekers figure out where they are heading. They are waiting, desperate for Jesus’ message of hope.
Jesus’ heart breaks. He is so deeply connected with the people that he feels their suffering in his body. In spite of his need for rest, he starts to teach them.
I love this passage. I love that even Jesus needs to rest. I love the acknowledgement that it is really hard to find the right balance of rest and work, of being and doing, of caring for ourselves and caring for others. I love that Jesus doesn’t have it all figured out. I love that he keeps trying.
So….if you are caring for aging parents and struggling to care for yourself as well, Jesus understands. If you are a parent juggling virtual school and too many people in your home, Jesus understands. If you are a social justice advocate or a climate activist who feels such urgency you can’t seem to let yourself rest, Jesus understands.
Jesus understands how hard it is to find that elusive balance, and Jesus, by his example, urges us to keep trying.
This past year has offered an opportunity to pay attention to how we care for ourselves. Our routines were disrupted, and we had to created new rhythms for our lives. What have we learned from that process? What wisdom might we carry with us as we begin to imagine life post-pandemic?
For several of my sermons in this “Home by another way” epiphany series, I have asked members of the community about their insights. This morning, I will share some of my own learnings from this year about caring for body, mind and spirit. I will lift up four insights I hope to carry with me. Just for fun, I will share them from four different locations here on Sanibel Island.
Meditating on the Beach
When the shutdown happened last March, I was worried how I would do being stuck at home for two weeks. I love our home, but I like to be out and about. I associate staying home all day with being sick….and I don’t like to be sick. I knew I was in danger of falling into frantic-busyness mode to try to counter that feeling. I also knew that would make me miserable.
So I rearranged my morning routine. Instead of thumbing through a magazine as I ate my cereal and drank my tea, I remembered a colleague who defines prayer as “having a cup of tea with God.” I put away the magazines, reminded myself I was not alone, enjoyed the taste of my cereal and tea. Then I spent ten minutes with my eyes closed, just breathing, centering on my mantra, “Be still.” It’s a shortened version of a line from Psalm 46: Be still and know that I am God.
That twenty minutes of simply being present allowed me to feel my feelings—my grief about all the good things we were having to cancel, my worry about safety and health, my distress at the state of the nation. In choosing not to be busy for a few minutes, I felt my sense of powerlessness. There was so much that was not in my control: that was true whether or not I tried to fool myself with frantic activity. Facing my powerlessness was an invitation to choose to trust that God is God. God is at work through all the losses and disappointments—not causing them, not fixing them, but planting seeds of new life we can nurture.
I was amazed at the power of that twenty minutes every morning—to honor my feelings without being overwhelmed by them, to take the edge off the inclination to prove my worth with productiveness, to remind me I am never alone.
“Be still and know that I am God.” It is a lesson that has helped me care for my body, mind and spirit in this last year; it is a lesson I hope will stay with me for many years.
In the garden:
There has been so much in this past year that has been ugly. There is the ugliness of people desperate to breathe in overflowing ICU’s; the ugliness of injustice, racism and economic despair; the ugliness of hate and divisiveness, of sedition and hyper-partisan politics and outright lies.
The ugliness seeps into my being. How do I keep it from poisoning my spirit?
Just as I instinctively knew I needed to start each day with stillness, I also knew I needed to surround myself with beauty. Thank God spring was already coming when the shut-down happened. I went outdoors whenever I could. I noticed the buds coming out on the trees. I went on the hunt for flowers for the communion table. It took more effort this winter—to recognize the beauty of a gray day, and also to pay attention to indoor beauty. I began to appreciate the art on our walls.
Ugliness seeps in. In response, I choose to absorb beauty—not to hide or deny the ugliness but to remind me that it is not all there is. Ugliness is real….and so is beauty. The amazing—perhaps miraculous—thing is that it only takes a glimpse of beauty to put the world’s ugliness into perspective.
I have needed this lesson to keep ugliness from poisoning my spirit this year. I need this lesson for the well-being of my spirit every year: Find beauty. Absorb it. Let it seep into your being.
In the kitchen with the spices
I love to bake cookies for coffee hour. I love to make soup for Bible Study and spicy lentil salad for potlucks. I love to invite friends over and cook an elaborate meal that uses every pot and pan in the kitchen.
When all those things suddenly became unsafe, standing in our kitchen left me feeling bereft. All these fun spices, and only two of us to cook for! All these favorite cookie recipes—how could we possibly eat all the cookies I would like to bake?
It took me a little while to shift my perspective. One of the unexpected gifts of the pandemic is that suddenly Fran and I are home together for most of our meals. How could we celebrate that gift? How could we make the ordinary act of eating dinner together into something special?
We ended up sharing a Hanson’s Farm CSA share with some friends. Before long, we were texting each other recipes for tasty ways to cook kale. I found myself using the spice cabinet more than ever—so much so that I insisted on bringing an entire box full of spices with us to Florida. “What shall we have for dinner?” went from being an ordinary question to an invitation to be creative.
The lesson I learned in our kitchen this year is about so much more than spices. It’s about how, with just a little attentiveness and just a little creativity, something ordinary can be transformed into something special. A lesson I hope to talk with me into the future.
On my bike with the birds
It didn’t take a pandemic for me to realize how important it is to my well-being that I get regular exercise. I thrive on moving my body—hiking, walking the dog, biking, kayaking, cross-country skiing, yoga. Because I knew the danger of falling into a funk was greater than usual this last year, I found myself paying more attention than I normally do to exercising. I also paid more attention to making sure my exercise was fun. Open Spirit helped a lot—many yoga choices and a new strength training class that doubles as laughter yoga.
It lifts my spirits to move quickly—on a walk or a ski or a bike ride. This year has helped me recognize that it also lifts my spirits to move slowly—or not to move at all. After a few minutes of sitting still on our back deck at home, the birds start to come out—flitting around my head as though I wasn’t there, climbing up the tree in front of me, fighting for space at the feeder. As long as I was moving around, they stayed away. Once I slowed down, there was so much to notice—so much to fill me with delight.
Over the years, Fran has taught me this lesson. Slow down. Wait. The birds will come. It will be worth the wait. This year has been an opportunity to experience that truth ever more deeply. May I remember it next year, and the next, and the next.
Conclusion
Four lessons about what helps me care for my own body, mind, and spirit: Be still and let God be God. Find beauty and absorb it. Make ordinary things special. Slow down and notice life all around.
What have you learned this year about caring for your own body, mind and spirit? Perhaps, like Jesus, you have bumped up against overwhelming needs within and around you. Perhaps you have had the challenge and the opportunity of developing new practices and routines. What insights have you gained that you would like to carry forward in your life?
There is no magical formula for balancing caring for ourselves and caring for others. Instead, there is the promise that we are God’s beloved, worthy of rest and care. Instead, there is the Spirit’s guidance as we learn from our shared experience. Instead, there is the example of Jesus, who keeps trying.
May we honor God’s love for us by caring for ourselves. May we share our wisdom freely. May we keep trying. Amen.