alone seem to be a calm oasis plopped in a time of rapid-fire busyness. Our forebears, only a century ago, would not recognize our world of emails, cell phones, texts, Skype, Twitter, and Facebook. Satellite radio, GPS, home audio systems, even shower televisions have made it possible never to be alone, even when you are alone. It is possible to fill all twenty-four hours of every day with noise, activity, work.
The ancient world in which David would pen the above words had virtually no similarities to our own. Yet even then . . . yes, way back then . . . David beckoned the human heart to “be still.”
This book is an invitation to be still and to consider. Consider what can be learned in moments of leisure, rest—stillness. The former Archbishop of Canterbury, Donald Coggan, wrote, “I go through life as a transient on his way to eternity, made in the image of God, but with that image debased, needing to be taught how to meditate, to worship, to think.”
In our multifaceted, multitasking world, we tend to forget that we are actually pilgrims on a journey between two points—our beginning and our end, with another beginning at that end. In all our worked-up flurry of activity, do we take the time—the necessary time—to be still and consider? To consider who we are . . . in relation to ourselves, others, to our God?
“In contemporary society our Adversary,” wrote Quaker Richard Foster, “majors in three things: noise, hurry, and crowds. If he can keep us engaged in ‘muchness’ and ‘manyness,’ he will rest satisfied.”1 Indeed, as psychiatrist Carl Jung noted, “Hurry is not of the devil; it is the devil.”2
For many, the summer months are the slower ones. Of course, we can easily pack them pretty solidly as well—chores that were put off during the cold winter and rainy spring; if we are fortunate to have time off, travel; if we are blessed with children, day camps and summer sports. The possibilities to flee from stillness are endless. But summertime whispers to us to hit the pause button.
As an Episcopalian, my spirituality is, by practice and nature, seasonal.3 The seasons, whether they be the traditional four offered by Mother Nature, or the liturgical seasons offered by Mother Church, give us a chance to change gears. What follows are forty devotional pieces that are borne out of the call to be still.
This work is not intended to be complex or heady. It is intentionally put together to be a companion at morning coffee, afternoon tea or wine, or before the lights go out with a nightcap or cup of cocoa. Portions may brush on deeper issues of our faith and its theology, but I have written more in-depth about those in other books. This work, instead, is simply to invite you toward that stillness that, in a particular way, reveals not only the nature of God, but our own nature and God’s calling to us.
In the mid-1800s, one of the most notable voices of the Christian faith was George MacDonald. In one sermon, he preached to his congregation,
You know many of you are so busy, and you are not able to think two things at once, and so suddenly you come to be aware that you have been forgetting God, and that life has not been in you, and that you have been wandering this way and that way, trying to make money or doing your duty in the world. . . . But then, when you wake up, did it ever occur to you, or does it occur to you, that it is He that is calling you? . . .
Oh, make yourselves glad with this thought, that when you have been forgetting Him, and have thought of Him, it is He that is calling you, “Come unto Me and have life.” So we have just to lift up our hearts to Him for more life, and brace ourselves to the thing He tells us to do, whatever it be, even the duty that has been making us forget Him—we have to do it with Him instead of without Him.4
I hope that your summer months are, in fact, slower than all the others, and that you carry this companion along to help you probe into deeper, more meaningful, more restful adventures; and, as MacDonald suggests, put the work you do when you are not at rest in its proper place—at God’s disposal.
I have been fortunate to have had many extraordinary and, for lack of a better word, simple but poignant experiences in my five-plus decades of life—many of them are connected to moments “away” from regular day-to-day life. Most of the experiences are peppered by shared memories with friends, family, my wife and children.
My grandmother, whom we called “Grantzy,” was a spirited adventurer. She lived in the country; we lived in the city—and she always wanted to make sure we knew there was more to life than afternoon television and weekend shopping malls. It was not uncommon at all for us to be driving along in her little VW station wagon and for her to pull off the road. When she did, her grandchildren always knew we were about to experience something completely different than our day-to-day lives . . . something, frankly, completely new.
She felt free to walk up to the door of a stranger who might have owned a chicken farm so that her grands could “take a tour.” We did that several times, and each time we did, we always left with a gift . . . a small chick for each kid. One with which we would play, and even cuddle at night, during those grandmother visits; ones that would eventually end up in the growing menagerie in her backyard, and, of course, at times, on her dinner table!
Because summer is longer than forty days, I invite you not to hurry—to “pull off the road.” Perhaps you will read one devotional every few days, perhaps more than one a day. However you choose to read, do so without feeling rushed, at your leisure, in your own time. Each meditation includes a brief piece of scripture, an initial reflection question, the core meditation, another more probing question or thought, and a closing prayer.
I offer this work as a gift, and I do so with the help of my wife, Laura, who has carefully helped me edit and review these meditations, and who has authored a few of them as well. It will become obvious, quickly, that we sometimes, with gratitude, borrow the thoughts and stories of others; when possible we have offered the appropriate citations. I also offer my thanks for life experiences that have allowed me a broader view of a world I otherwise would not have known.
I also do this knowing that not everyone has the privilege of slower times, vacation days, or resources that allow for travel. I realize, all too well, in the words of a wonderful prayer that there are many who “work while others sleep.”5 However, being still does not have to involve anything more than finding a little bit of heaven wherever you are; maybe through a prayer said in the midst of five o’clock traffic, a deep breath before a busy day, an afternoon nap, a happy memory, a song that slips through your lips.
C. S. Lewis noted that these kinds of activities seem out of place in our day-to-day lives because, well, they really are. We do not always dance and play, eat and make merry; but when we do, it brings us authentic joy; when we do, we indeed are getting snapshots of heaven indeed. As he puts it:
It is thus in our “hours off,” only in our moments of permitted festivity, that we get glimpses of heaven—dance and laughter, play and momentary ecstasy—which seem frivolous, so temporary, perhaps even unimportant down here, for “down here” is not their natural place. Here, they are but a moment’s rest from the life we were placed here to live. But in this world everything is upside down . . . that which, if it could be prolonged here would be a truancy, is likest that which in a better country is the End of Ends. . . . joy is the serious business of Heaven!6
So, then, let us begin, especially to consider those bits of heaven that are more clearly revealed in our hours off—our
