The Rest We Need

Mark 6:30-34, 53-56; 2 Samuel 7:1-14a

Imagine it this way:

You’ve just finished a massive project – in which you had harrowing adventures, arguments, triumphs, late nights, working through the weekend.  You finally land the thing – the report is in, the construction done, the new venture launched, whatever. You’re ready to celebrate, to tell the stories, laugh, cry, finally get a solid night’s sleep. And as you come up for air into “normal” life it turns out that normal is actually so busy, and so full of people who want your attention, that you can’t even eat.

 

And Jesus says “Come away to a deserted place all by yourselves and rest a while.”
Oh, yeah, I’m ready for a rest, Jesus. (Personally, I don’t like camping, but) a place with no cell reception, and no people grabbing for my time and attention – sounds like a wonderful idea.

I need a vacation.
A retreat.
A real rest.

 

So you get in the boat with Jesus, you sail or row together to the quiet and undiscovered place where you can pause, and breathe, and be still.

 

And you get out of the boat, and land right back in maybe even more chaos than you left.

 

It’s not just that your phone dings with emails and texts; your whole office is right there, with all the clutter from your desk, the printer that only works right one time out of four, and every person who’s sent you a meeting request in the last two months right there in person.
Every single family responsibility, the camp paperwork, the lab tests to schedule, the meal planning you don’t have time for, the fixture that keeps burning out lightbulbs, and every neighbor or friend-of-a-friend who has been trying to sign you up for their cause or project or group is right there, too.

 

And they are all screaming for Jesus’ attention as well as yours.
And you look at Jesus.

Who gets out of the boat; looks at the clamor all around that has run to get in front of you – and you watch his eyes fill with overwhelming love, and his shoulders and his mouth get that spark he gets when people want to listen to him, and he just goes up to the biggest rock on shore and sits down and starts to preach.

And you know you’re never getting that peaceful wilderness retreat, or even a nap.

 

I’m so tired right now, thinking about it.

 

This isn’t exactly what happens to the disciples and Jesus in Mark’s story today, but it’s exactly how I feel every time I read this story.

So tired.

And so disappointed that this one time when Jesus says “Let’s go away for a bit, and rest,” the very next thing Jesus does is plunge himself and us into another busy, needy, demanding crowd. So the “getaway” looks just like the chaos of work and home.

(Except that the snacks and restrooms are now endless miles away.)

 

I know that’s not the only way to read this story.

But I can’t be the only one who sometimes turns to Jesus in need of a little spiritual rest and renewal only to find Jesus or the church jumping right into Doing More Good Work Right Now.

So that residual tiredness itches at me every time I read this story. And makes it harder for me to see what else is right there: the joy of a crowd of people who will go anywhere and do anything to spend time with Jesus, with God.

Makes it harder for me to rejoice in the way Jesus is ready for anything, all the time.

 

Until I read this morning’s David story.

The one where David is finally settled and resting at home after a bunch of conquering and consolidating and claiming a city of triumph for himself and God. And David gets the idea that maybe he should help God get all settled and resting in that same city. And God says, “Heck no. Not a chance, buddy.”

 

God gets Nathan the prophet (who also thought building a settled house for God sounded like a great idea) to tell David “No. God is God on the move.”

My home is where my people go, God says. I belong on the move, flexible. I make a safe place for my people to settle, not the other way around, because I belong, I am at home, wherever my people need me.

 

This speech, this vision, is about God’s freedom, God’s liberty and flexibility and accessibility – God’s access to everywhere, and everyone’s access to God.

God chooses, sometimes, a physical place or object to convey God’s presence to God’s people, but it is always about God’s ability to be close to us, not our need to settle God down. It’s about God’s insistent desire to be wherever God’s people are, go wherever God’s people go.

 

It’s an implied promise we have to love, because it’s a promise about God’s insistence on being there wherever we find ourselves in need of God. It’s why the stories of God and God’s people are full of those moments when God absolutely shows up when one or more of God’s people is in the wilderness – anywhere where we are separated from our resources, our friends, our security, our comfort, our choices.

This rejection of David’s plan to build a nice house for God is about God’s freedom to be where we need God to be – and to be with us wherever we happen to go, to keep us company in all the ordinary places (and daily tasks).

 

And I think that’s what Mark’s Jesus story is about, too.

That story about the overwhelming crowds of people rushing out to a wilderness to get ahead of Jesus, and of Jesus immediately responding to them (no matter how tired you and I are at that point in the story), is a story about Jesus’ freedom. About God’s inexhaustible, unlimitable liberty. About God’s deep desire to be wherever we are, without walls or boundaries or delay. And – importantly – about God’s delight in exactly that. In being with us.

 

And maybe – maybe – there’s the rest I’m looking for, the refreshment and renewal I’m longing for, when I read this story and shrivel up at the notion of eager and demanding crowds finding me on retreat.

 

Maybe in that wilderness, those weary, overworked apostles of Jesus found themselves resting in the delight of God. Renewed by the tide of God’s own freedom, sweeping them into the vibrant life-giving, renewing presence of the Holy because of the chaos of people there, not in spite of it.

Maybe their hearts were refreshed and fed by that powerful presence of God that comes over people when Jesus preaches. Maybe their souls were soothed and revived by the endless waves of healing that Jesus poured over the crowds who come to him, a restorative power so abundant that merely briefly touching a fringe of cloak is enough to pour out all the healing power you might need.

 

Maybe this crowd scene is exactly the rest, the renewal, the restoration Jesus intends for those early apostles,

 the renewal, rest, and restoration God intends for you and me when we pour ourselves into God’s work.

Maybe God’s delight in being with us is what our hearts and souls and minds and bodies need, when all our own tasks clamor around us.

 

Maybe we need a vacation, yes.

And maybe at the peak of our need for rest – and maybe every day – we need even more the refreshment of God’s joy in the whole of humanity; God’s delight in being with us. Always.