These words are adapted from a chapel reflection I gave at AMBS in February.

In 1951, Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel published a slim volume on the observance of the Sabbath. Heschel was a prominent rabbi and Jewish public intellectual, and was deeply involved in the civil rights movement, including participating in the march from Selma to Montgomery. His book on the Jewish Sabbath talks about sabbath as the gift of time. As Fannie Bialek reflects in the essay linked below, to Heschel sabbath is “a realm of time, distinct from the realm of space, where we live the other six days of the week. In the realm of space our aspirations are competitive: You and I can never occupy precisely the same space, so our projects in the realm of space are defined by jostling for possession, security and control. But time can be spent together — we can share time, fully, in a way we can never fully share space. That defines the aspirations of time differently: not to have, but to be; not to own, but to give; not to control, but to share; not to subdue, but to be in accord…” See Bialek’s full piece at https://humanities.wustl.edu/features/fannie-bialek-politics-time-lessons-sabbath-justice

My primary goals for sabbatical were to receive spiritual direction twice per month, to work on some musical projects, and to spend time sorting, reading and reflecting on a sizable collection of written material by my parents who each passed away in the last two years. I did all these things, and tried to remind myself that none of these projects would or should come to a place of completion. My spiritual director helped by introducing me to Rabbi Heschel’s view of sabbath. She described sabbatical as rooted seed, and that when we allow ourselves to rest, what is rooted in that rest can now flower. This idea of sabbath as the root of something allows us to think about what was started and what will continue rather than what we got done. 

As I pursued my three primary projects, I noticed three stages that I was moving through in both linear and circular ways: Emptying, Inviting, and Creating. 

About Emptying

I was quite tired as sabbatical began. It was a good tired, the kind you feel after working hard to make something happen and then getting the opportunity to rest after that something has happened. What I was resting from included a rush of activity as I prepared to be absent from AMBS for three months, which meant lots of meetings and preparation of documents and resources for colleagues who would be responsible for my usual work. 

I was also resting, in a sense, from five fairly intense years at AMBS and the unexpected losses of both of my parents 13 months apart. There were a lot of experiences that I wanted to reflect on. 

I also felt overwhelmed with details. My brain felt too full and cluttered. While I felt I could manage ok without a sabbatical, I also recognized that my brain needed some rest from details. One of the first books I read was Ten % Happier by Dan Harris, a book about meditation and mindfulness written by someone who was very skeptical about meditation. I have only just begun a meditation practice, but one way I’ve learned to think about mindfulness is that it is an emptying, creating space for the Spirit to speak and lead. We can practice this in many ways. We can close our eyes and slow down our breathing…and then focus our minds only on the sounds we hear in a quiet room. As we do this we may notice various thoughts getting in the way…the meeting or class we need to prepare for, a conflict we are worried about, wondering what we will eat for lunch. We do our best to put aside those thoughts and only notice the pace of our breathing and any sounds breaking through the silence of the room. If the thoughts break through again, we try not to judge ourselves. We try to simply notice that it happened and gently put them aside once more. 

One of the most profound mindfulness experiences I had on sabbatical was in mid-November. It took place during a live performance by the Philadelphia Orchestra in center city Philadelphia. Hearing a professional orchestra is a great joy for me, and I was excited about this concert. As I settled in to hear the opening numbers, I was reminded that these players are so good that it’s a real shame to let my mind wander while sitting in their presence. The second half of the program was the epic 1st symphony by Gustov Mahler and as it began I tried to focus only on the musical lines and trajectory, without any other thoughts breaking through. This seems obvious and basic but is incredibly hard for my wandering mind. I had some good stretches of focus, perhaps better than I’ve ever managed. It was so satisfying that I would have loved for the orchestra to announce that they were going to do the whole hour-long work again. 

I cannot fully convey how rewarding it is for me to listen or play music with this level of mindfulness, and how strange it is to realize that with three degrees in music, I’m still a beginner at it.

This type of listening, this type of mindfulness, requires an emptying. I began to listen to more music during the sabbatical, especially instrumental music without words. I pushed myself, reluctantly, to go on walks without a podcast or music to listen to, with the challenge of focusing as much as possible on what I saw or heard during my walk. With the help of a meditation app, I tried moments of centering stillness and breathing. These practices of mindfulness helped me engage in emptying and to get outside of my head.

About Inviting

The second stage I experienced was Inviting. I spent a lot of time reading my parents’ written materials. As I reflected with my spiritual director on what I was finding, it was hard to stop crying. At one point my director gently said, “I think your mother and father may be your guides through this season of your life.” This idea of still being mothered by the singular Helen Longenecker Lapp and fathered by the inimitable Sam Lapp, helped with the gift of boxes and boxes of their writing, was a profoundly comforting invitation. 

When he was 21 years old, my Dad moved to Honduras for two years where he worked as an agricultural and construction volunteer, as an alternative to military service. Dad wrote these words to his parents in January 1960. 

Dear Folks, 

I just moved my chair in from outside. It’s a beautiful evening outside and I simply had to go out to enjoy it. It’s one of those evenings when the people are outside instead of locked in their houses. There are a million stars visible to the eye and the moon is the size of one of the Honduran bananas. I didn’t feel one bit like coming inside cause the scenery and music of the out-of-doors is too wonderful to be missed. God’s creation in Tocoa is perfect like all over. The tall trees in the moonlight, the mountains and their peaks – overshadowed with dark fluffy clouds, and the thatched roof houses and their points jotting up all over is really a sight to see. There are frogs croaking and crickets cricketing and I can even hear the stars twinkling, all of which make up the best orchestry I ever heard. Fifty yards up our street are a couple of men singing to the accompaniment of a guitar…about the sun, moon and stars – that’s about all I can understand. Life is so different here. Really I feel like a million bucks and I like everything here more each day. I learn a little more Spanish each day and that makes it a little easier to learn a little more so that I guess at the end of another six months I’ll be ready to understand and say what I want to. 

My Dad’s words are inviting me to pay attention, and so much more. 

In 1968 my mother wrote a short article for a church magazine. It was called “With Confidence”. Here are a few excerpts. 

A New Year named 1968! A year when election promises will hammer at us from radio and TV. When my country wages war in the name of duty and sells guns to bickering nations. When those with too much will want more gadgets, while millions call for bread. When church  members will go and do with impressive busy-ness, while postponing love and involvement. 

But it will also be a year full of personal, individual dreams and fears. For me it is a year to become a new mother. Although I have observed hundreds of mother-baby combinations, I wonder what it will be like for me. As fascinating questions crowd out my fears, I sense the universality of my new role. 

Later in the article she wrote:

God, I come to You concerning this new year. I do want to be a good mother, but I fear my tendency to concentrate on my own small world. Let me see and know my neighbor this year. 

As I hope to spread Your love, teach me how to humbly admit and share my own needs. Forgive and take away my compulsion to give all the answers. Remind me to pause constantly for a refreshing view of Your love. 

What a gift, to receive wisdom from others, whether from antiquity, from the distant or recent past, or from the people next to us today. 

About Creating

The third theme I experienced and learned more about during sabbatical was Creating. I mostly did this at the piano, and with some writing. But perhaps the most surprising act of Creation was finding myself in a peace school on Martin Luther King Jr. Day in January in Washington DC, and then in the rotunda of the Cannon House Building, singing and leading hymns with 135 other people as an act of civil disobedience to call attention to the devastation happening in Gaza. I was arrested with about 135 other people that day, and the experience was a profound time of learning, trust, and creation.  This event was organized by a new entity called Mennonite Action, which has two primary goals: 1) for an immediate ceasefire and return of all hostages and 2) for a political solution that results in sustained peace for the people of Israel and Palestine. I have written more about this experience in another blog post. 

As sabbatical came to a close, it was important to return to the idea of sabbatical as a time to focus on what will continue rather than dwelling on what was or was not completed. I am eager to continue emptying, inviting, and creating as I return to regular routines, and grateful for the extra practice that times of rest, whether small or substantial, allow.