Dear Friends,
These last few weeks have been physically intensive. It’s hot (at least for New England), and we’re in the midst of yet another move. But when I say that we’re in the midst of a move, I have a habit of feeling – at least in moments – inadequate. My wife and I have moved so many times over the last decade, often handling large parts of the process our selves. We’ve hauled furniture from our apartment into a Pod. We’ve packed up the cats (I even flew with one, once, by myself). Once, in order to buy an assortment of secondhand furniture, my wife even drove a U-Haul.
My point in telling you all this is that we’re quite competent. While she only works with cats in her current practice such that large animal lifting tops out with a chunky Maine Coon, my wife’ s job has long required substantial strength and heavy lifting is par for the course, whether it’s a dog, part of a large dissection specimen, or a few cases of cat food. And I used to share in this sort of strength. I trained in dance forms that taught me a lot about how to lift effectively. I took a certain pride in being strong. But I’m not especially strong anymore. Or rather, I can’t use my strength without substantial consequences.
For a few weeks, then, as we have packed boxes and begun hauling them in our car to our new apartment, I’ve been limited in many cases to holding the doors. Occasionally I help with something unwieldy or lift something a bit over the cusp of what I should be managing, but it’s a matter of habit. I am used to carrying my share of a very literal burden. This is our seventh address in a decade. Moving things is what I do and, as many of you surely know, carrying things all over (and occasionally scooping up a child) is often a job requirement in children’s ministry. My impulses lead me to lift things, and then I go back to physical therapy a day or two later and complain about how one of my complex, chronic injuries isn’t getting any better.
Unfortunately, though in this week’s Gospel, Jesus calls on us to hand off our burdens, to let him carry them so that we can rest a while, Jesus doesn’t offer packing and relocation services. When it comes to our literal burdens, I can hire movers or use a hand truck, but Jesus isn’t going to help me with this particular issue – at least not the physical component.
Beyond Restlessness
This week’s Gospel from Matthew is one of those deeply familiar texts. Yes, it includes one of Jesus’s classic declarations about being like children and about how God is revealed to us, but it also ends with these comforting words:
“Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”
The idea that we can rest in God is in favorite children’s songs like “Fishers of Men,” and it is a central part of the Eucharistic prayer that reminds us that this feast is not just for our forgiveness but for our renewal. There is something about the way we cup our hands in preparation to receive the bread that is like a hammock, a soft place to land. As the priest places the bread into our hands, we are united with Jesus and held so gently, even as we hold those sacred elements.
Unsurprisingly, given the nature of moving, I am exhausted. I have been disproportionately tired for a while now, but with everything we are doing these days, that fatigue is even greater. But what can I do with rest for my soul? Rest for my soul can’t carry the boxes. But perhaps rest for my soul can be an antidote for my restless desire to do more, to be a concretely equal partner in this project (as though I’m not the one with an actual logistical plan, who knows whether we have a pot and strainer or brought the cats’ favorite toy. In a culture that eschews rest, rest is countercultural – and God has always been a big fan of rest. Just turn to the practices of Sabbath and of Jubilee. Still rest isn’t uncomplicated.
In the Creation story we say that we each have our own special place that we like to go to rest and reflect on the great gifts God has given us. It can be our church or other religious space, but it can also be out in nature, curled up on the couch with a book, or so many other places. Sometimes that favorite place changes. Sometimes we find ourselves in deep rest by surprise, having stumbled upon a fragment of peace.
An Invitation to Rest
July is Disability Pride Month and I know that this year I am hearing the deep conflicts around this from my compatriots within this community. We continue to live with a mass disabling event. Many feel left behind. Many are newly disabled by long COVID and grappling with what that means. (Many are also, of course, newly disabled by unrelated conditions.) And many of us have been here for a long time, doing our best to make a way out of no way in a world that isn’t meant for us.
Whenever I think about how scripture can help us think about disability, particularly for those of us living in disabled bodyminds, I think of hearing Tanya Marlow speak at Evolving Faith in 2020. In an all-online conference, Tanya spoke from her home in the U.K. about being bed bound and struggling to make sense of her experience of God, and she offered us the idea of subjunctive grief: “my life wasn’t supposed to be this way.”
I think we’ve all had that feeling about something in our lives. Marlow describes this mournful grammas as sadness combined with anger. And, she says, it can only be addressed through opening ourselves up to multiple stories. One of the stories she points to is God’s encounter with Ezekiel in Babylon. Ezekiel is struggling greatly. ‘I wasn’t supposed to be here,’ he declares to the void, God seemingly absent. But God is there – and God agrees. ‘No, you weren’t supposed to be here, but I am here with you.’
We are allowed to be angry and to object to the story we are writing as co-creators with God. In fact, being angry can be a lot more healing than believing our pain is a punishment or other intentional slight of the creator. Be angry. Call on God to accompany your anger. And be joyful (when you can) of the great creativity God has blessed you with to navigate this life you didn’t think you’d ever have.
In fact, when we work with children and teens, I think one of the most valuable things we can teach them is to share their anger or disappointment with God. God can take it. Being angry with God doesn’t mean we’re doing it wrong. If anything, it means we have a full and complex relationship with God that allows us to show up as our complete selves, with all of our feelings.
Sometimes, after we’ve spoken our anger, we can finally rest. Holding on to it is agitating, activating. Speaking anger need not be aggression, but a release valve for the ways we feel we have been wronged. When it opens, when we let those feelings out, we can finally let ourselves rest and be held in those feelings. When God invites us into rest, this is part of that process.
Rage, Rest, Celebrate
At the Godly Play North America Conference last month, when I spoke about disability and inclusion, I did so using Jerome Berryman’s idea of playful orthodoxy. Playful orthodoxy helps us to navigate times of trouble and celebrate moments of survival. This framework struck me as being precisely how much disability scholarship and community is framed. So much about our lives, our bodies, our world act as sources of trouble. But we use our creative capacity – and often our rage – to navigate that trouble. And then, we celebrate. We create a Way out of no Way and we name it Good. And God celebrates with us.
We have an entire month to rage, to rest, to celebrate our own remarkable disabled lives or those of our family, friends, and community. And, in doing so, I hope to offer us space to imagine how God offers us rest when survival itself feels like a challenge. And to offer opportunities to help those close to us and those we do not know thrive in a world that does not celebrate us as God created us to be.
A few different sorts of offerings to begin with:
Saint Dymphna is the patron saint of those with mental illnesses – and she is also the inspiration for a radical approach to mental healthcare. Long a site of pilgrimage for those with psychiatric conditions, Geel, Belgium, the site of her martrydom is a small town transformed by Saint Dymphna’s life and death. It demonstrates the enormous power of community care, charity, and structures that support access and inclusion. Though it may seem far beyond our reach, such a model could transform countless lives and relationships.
Several denominations have particularly strong Disability Advocacy Ministries. Presbyterians for Disability Concerns is a fantastic resource, as is the Disability Ministries of the United Methodist Church (I particularly commend their Facebook page, which regularly shares valuable resources).
I am constantly awed by churches that have found within themselves the call to release people from medical debt. Because of the convoluted nature of debt collections, small financial investments made by churches are exponentially multiplied in their impact. Sojourners has shared how this works and how our churches can join in such ministries.
Finally for this week, I offer a connection to direct action. GoFundMe and similar sites are overrun with people struggling to make ends meet due to disability, but one organization that specializes in this work is HelpHopeLive, which has helped people fund their medical care and access needs through its nonprofit structure since 1983. Though no disabled person should have to enumerate and justify their vulnerabilities to have their needs met, sometimes that approach is the only thing that helps us to access things we critically need. I am familiar with HelpHopeLive because of my friend Karrie’s campaign, but their site can also help you find campaigns that speak to causes close to your heart.
It is important to rest, and I hope you will attune yourself to those moments of Sabbath, wherever you may find them. Maybe you’re trying to find the quiet in summer vacation amidst clamoring children or maybe you’re still stuck in your office. Sometimes rest is just that brief pause of wonder. Personally, I’ve seen a lot of bunnies lately and that is good for my heart. Sometimes joy feels like rest. Open yourself to whatever it is that refills your cup. Relinquish the weight, even just a little.
And, if anyone knows, drop me a line if Jesus does start offering a moving service. I’ll be first in line.
Peace,
Bird