Rest, Holy Desperation, and Joy
A Sermon by the Reverend Mother Crystal J. Hardin on the Eighth Sunday after Pentecost (B), July 18, 2021.
Psalm 23; Mark 6:30-34, 53-56
This week’s Gospel is a study in both the necessity of rest and the promise inherent in Holy desperation.
Rest. And Holy Desperation. Perhaps these seem a strange pairing, and yet they have much in common.
Consider first Rest, and the position of the apostles.
Jesus, seeing their good work, requests that they, “Come away.” Come away with me, he invites. Yes, there is plenty more to do. But for a moment, be at rest. Be well. Be loved.
I imagine that the disciples were confused, perhaps even frustrated. There is so much work still be done. So many people still to help.
And they were riding high on the waves of success. Excited. Motivated. In the zone. So much so that they had gathered around Jesus, clamoring to share their triumph! All that they had done and taught! Like proud children, back from summer camp, unpacking their trunks and telling the story of every single trinket, card, stain, drawing, and present tucked inside.
They are energized, equipped, and, as it turns out, effective, and they are ready to get back out there. The crowds are waiting and in need. And the apostles are already turning towards them when over the energetic web of their raised and excited voices Jesus speaks: Come away. Rest.
Consider now holy desperation and the position of the crowds.
They run towards Jesus, hungry for his compassion and desperate for healing. They know that if they can just keep running, just catch up, just touch even the fringe of his cloak, that they will be made well. And so they are in hot pursuit, stalking Jesus no matter the cost. Always turning, turning, turning towards the only one that can heal them, that can give their life meaning, and that can make them whole.
Theirs is a study in holy desperation.
And we are them, of course. The crowds and the apostles, two different points on a spectrum of human need.
We are born seekers, seekers after purpose, hope, meaning, wholeness, life, and life abundant. We begin as wondering children, fascinated with the brave, new world around us. Still so very close to God. And, over time, we begin to make meaning in a myriad of ways, as things outside of our control begin to speak words to us about who we are and why we matter, or not.
Sometimes, it is achievement. It is what we can provide to others. It is the product of our labors that brings us a sense of meaning. That forms our identity.
Sometimes, it is our physical bodies. Our wellness, or lack thereof. Our health and abilities that bring us a sense of worth. That form our identity.
And so on and so forth.
None of this is inherently wrong, until it is. Because, as Flannery O’Connor puts so clearly, “Always you renounce a lesser good for a greater,” until you don’t. Until lesser goods become as good as we can imagine. As good as we can hope for. As good as we can get.
The apostles, energized, equipped, effective, turn away, ready to head back out into the world, and Jesus says, “Come away. Rest.”
Why? Why stop your best people from doing what they are so obviously best at?
In the words of Debie Thomas, “I hear both wisdom and love in these words. Jesus wants to provide a time of rest and recuperation for his friends. He wants to make sure that their zeal for ministry –for success in ministry—doesn’t become an idol. A drug. He wants to make sure that they value being more than doing.” [1]
Too often, our inherent, holy desperation for the purpose, hope, meaning, wholeness, and abundant life that only Jesus can provide takes a turn, submits to the world’s ideas about who we are, whose we are, and how our holy desperation might be momentarily placated by the trappings of this world.
What will happen to those stalking Jesus in hope of healing? What will happen when he has compassion for them? Will they, from that point forward, rest in God? Or will they soon take off? Healed, hopeful, eager to get to work and to share the Good News of what Christ Jesus has done for them? Will they be met with success? Will their work be good, holy work? Will they soon become proud of that work, as is natural and understandable? Will they look forward to telling Jesus all about it? Will their success turn idolatrous, convincing them that it is what they can do, are doing, that makes them valuable? Will Jesus, sensing that risk, soon whisper to them, “Come away with me. Rest.”
That’s where my moneys at.
How do we break out of this cycle?
The apostles had Jesus right there with them, to remind them of who they are and whose they are. The crowds had Jesus with them, or at least in sight, to remind them of who they are and whose they are. What are we to do –we who are so far from the days of Jesus who walked among us?
The New York Times recently published an article by an organizational psychologist who identified the dominant emotion of 2021 as “languishing.” A sense of emptiness, despondency, hopelessness, lack, joylessness. A “dulling of delight” and a “dwindling of desire.” [2]
As we return to some measure of normal life, our natural flight-or-fight response to the global pandemic has, in the words of Debie Thomas, turned shapeless and sinister. [3] We are desperate for Rest, and yet aimless like sheep without a shepherd. From where is our help to come?
And, of course, our help is in the name of the Lord, the wellspring of life abundant; known by another name too: Joy.
It has been claimed that “joy is the infallible sign of the presence of God.”
Could this be an antidote, a touchstone, a reminder of Jesus’ presence with us and God’s faithfulness to us? Of our very identities as children of God, beloved, invited always to Rest in the only one who sees us, knows us, and loves us without condition? Joy.
God wants to give us joy. Joy that is eternal. Joy that is restful. The joy of being seen, known, and loved. The joy of letting go of who the world thinks we are so that we might honor who God promises we are.
This is the joy of green pastures. The joy of plenty. The joy of restorative love. The joy of God’s comfort. The joy of an anointed head and an overflowing cup. The joy of God with us.
These are the joys named and promised in the 23rd Psalm, none of them as critical as God with us. Did you know that with is the centerpiece, the literal middle-man, in the 23rd Psalm? That’s not an accident. God with us is what we seek in holy desperation and God with us is what we find in Holy Rest. And God with us is what we encounter, brush up against, in moments of unadulterated Joy.
It’s that simple. And, it isn’t. Because we are made for joy; and yet too often settle for something less.
In a letter to her friend, Flannery O’Connor imagines that the quest for joy in Jesus is like the long, hot hunt of an animal, which may very well lead the stalker into harsh territory.
She writes:
“Picture me with my ground teeth stalking joy –fully armed too, as it’s a highly dangerous quest.”
All too often, we equate joy with ease, passivity. We instinctively think that joy cannot exist where there is struggle or suffering. And yet, those who have been through the worst often report the deepest joys. The saints of the Bible know this well: Jeremiah, Paul, and, of course, Jesus himself:
Who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame.
In the words of one commentator:
“Jesus, Paul, and Jeremiah were not closing their eyes or watching sitcoms or scrolling through Instagram to help themselves forget the danger and suffering in front of them. Theirs were joy-at-all-costs quests. And their quests were costly and dangerous — and worth it all.” [4]
Yes, we must stalk joy, always, fully armed with this eternal promise, the only one we really need: thou art with me and in that, I am enough. You are enough. We are enough.
Joyful, joyful. We adore thee.
God of glory, Lord of love.
Teach us how to love each other,
Lift us to the joy divine. [5]
Amen.
[1] “The Gift of Rest,” Journey With Jesus, https://www.journeywithjesus.net/essays/3076-the-gift-of-rest.
[2] https://www.nytimes.com/2021/04/19/well/mind/covid-mental-health-languishing.html.
[3] “The Gift of Rest”
[4] Samuel James, “What Netflix Cannot Give - And Death Cannot Take,” https://www.desiringgod.org/articles/what-netflix-cannot-give-and-death-cannot-take.
[5] The Hymnal 1982, #376.