Sitting

I’ve been sitting for the past five hours. During those hours I’ve incorporated a variety of busy work to convince myself I really haven’t been sitting. I read half of a book, prayed, walked to a different chair, sat down, ate lunch, walked to the library, sat down, read some more, got out my lap top, and started typing my journal entry, still seated. I’m not accustomed to sitting; the stillness grinds on my mind and my thoughts disappear into fragmentary laments and ponderings over irrelevant concerns. I desire action.

I met with Dr. Jo Bailey Wells a little over a week ago. I came into her office, sat down, and in her disarming British accent she proceeded to inform me on how to productively sit and wait, in this case on the timing of God. Since my recent interest in the Anglican Church I’ve begun to remedy my ignorance of that centuries-old tradition. While simultaneously facing doubts over ordination, my usual thirst for action became a quest for meaning and a future. I wanted to fix the problem, read a book, study Anglican history, smoke English tobacco, and talk theology with my ecumenical pals; Dr. Wells told me to sit.

“Just push the boat out, Brad; test the waters. Even row a little if you like…but just enjoy where you are.” So I am. For some reason I can imagine sitting in a boat (where at least I’m moving, or rocking, to and fro in imaginary symbolism) as more fruitful than sitting in class chairs, church pews, or my home recliner. At this point the shore lies a meter off my bow with my back turned to the horizon, but I’m sitting. From time to time I reach out to grab the oars, pretending as if a quick pull or stroke will yank the horizon into view and cast the shoreline into memory. I know it won’t, however, so I sit.

Perhaps it’s my Baptist background, but so much in me cries out to reach out and do. It’s my job, my life, my soul, my call, my career, my family, my wife, my purpose. All these realities compound my inability to let God take me where God wills. I want to offer my own sacrament of exhaustion and hard work alongside the body of the Christ. Just sit, God seems to whisper. Wait. These whispers sometimes seem less than a whisper, like a hollow breeze that mimics a whisper. Before you’ve heard the voice the breeze is gone and the trees are still again, sitting on their roots and looking down at you walking along in such an awful, worried hurry.

It’s time to get up for now; I’ll walk about a hundred meters then sit down in my Hebrew class. But I’m not worried for now. I’m going to sit, and listen, and write out this journey. The word of God comes and goes, leaving us with impressions of the Spirit, while we sit and wonder if in these tarnished images God still sees Himself.