Wrestling with Rest Inviting Youth to Discover the Gift of Sabbath
Nathan T. Stucky
William B. Eerdmans Publishing Company Grand Rapids, Michigan
Wm. B. Eerdmans Publishing Co. 4035 Park East Court SE, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49546 www.eerdmans.com © 2019 Nathan T. Stucky All rights reserved Published 2019 Printed in the United States of America 25 24 23 22 21 20 19 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 ISBN 978-0-8028-7626-3
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress.
Unless otherwise noted, Scripture quotations are from the New Revised Standard Version of the Bible, copyright © 1989 by the Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the U.S.A. and used by permission.
Contents
Foreword by Kenda Creasy Dean
ix
Acknowledgments
xv
Introduction 1. Wrestling with Rest: Whoever Said This Was Easy?
1 4
2. Rest Is for the Weak . . . and You’ll Die without It
25
3. Anxious for Rest . . . Anxious at Rest
62
4. On the Seventh Day, God Rested
99
5. Jesus and Sabbath
129
6. What Do We Do Now?
152
Appendix: What Is Practical Theology?
179
Notes
185
Bibliography
221
Index
228
vii
Foreword
To keep the Sabbath is a radical act of resistance to a culture that has lost track of the meaning of life. —Rebecca Parker
You are about to read an unexpectedly bewitching book. It sings of young people you know, whose lives are familiar. Its prose is winsome, clear, and truthful. The stories in this volume could come from my ministry with young people, or from yours. And then, just as you put down your coffee, maybe around page 10, you realize you’ve been spellbound. This book is not about youth. This book is about us. For all his Mennonite niceness—which is as genuine and sweet as a summer tomato on the vine—Nate Stucky is a committed contrarian. He giddily traffics in the anathemas of our culture. He delights in dirt and worms and lost causes, seeing in them possibilities for redemption. As the director of Princeton Theological Seminary’s Farminary Project, Stucky teaches his students to turn the anathema of waste into an elixir of life, compost that transforms depleted dirt into life-giving soil. He celebrates the anathema of limits—nightfall, seasons, human frailty—as opportunities to trust God. In Wrestling with Rest, he dives headlong into the anathema of rest, daring us to stop—just stop—to let God be God. He is maddeningly non-anxious, and rivetingly on-point. Wrestling with Rest will restore your hope in youth ministry by wresting it from the tyranny of “youth activities.” This is no simple diatribe against overscheduled youth (in fact, Stucky refuses to rubber-stamp the “overschedix
Foreword uled youth” hypothesis, countering with a refreshingly nuanced, well-researched understanding of the role extracurricular activities play in young people’s growing sense of self). But while this is very much a book about caring for young people, it is also a book about caring for the adults who love them: you, me, anyone who wants to reflect the love and care God has for the teenagers in our midst, but who find ourselves exhausted by our “always on” society. Here be dragons: Heaven knows, at our particular moment in history—a moment when young people feel rising levels of anxiety, racism, violence, abuse, opioids, and countless other crushing problems closing in—they desperately need people to witness to God’s love and care for them. Surely this is why we’ve been called “for such a time as this” (Esther 4:14). There is so much need and so few hours; so many young people struggling to grow up, and so few of us to help them do it. Surely this warrants our busyness, doesn’t it? Busyness keeps kids out of trouble. It reminds us that we’re important. But . . . it’s killing us. Of course, young people know how to rest—they have to learn not to do it. They have to learn to ignore the limits of their bodies, to learn to prolong day into night in defiance of darkness, to constantly feed the twin mongrels of consumption and production nipping ceaselessly at their heels. They must learn, as Stucky puts it, to be “busy being busy.” It turns out that we adults have been their impeccable teachers. In contrast to Europe, the United States has no federal law guaranteeing paid time off, sick leave, or breaks for national holidays.1 The average American employee leaves almost a week of paid vacation days on the table each year.2 But it’s not just physical time off that matters. Social and intellectual “mental congestion”—the sensory overload made possible by the screens and cellphones that feed our addiction to information and connection—uses up precious brain bandwidth and energy as well. Churches offer little sanctuary here; most youth ministry resources are brimming with recipes for anxiety, ideas for more things we could do with, for, and to youth than we will ever have time to implement, no matter how many lock-ins, service projects, or x
Foreword mystery rambles we plan. Even darkness, “the only power that has ever put the human agenda on hold,”3 has been banished by the LEDs of our omnipresent technological gadgetry. As Clark Strand, author of Waking Up to the Dark: Ancient Wisdom for a Sleepless Age, points out: “No wonder we have trouble sleeping. The lights are always on.” At this point I owe you a confession: I read the section of this book on adolescent sleep deprivation at three o’clock in the morning. (I know.) It occurred to me then, and many times since then, that maybe God sent Nate Stucky into the world to convict us (just me?) of our soul-killing addiction to productivity. People who know Nate in person concur that he is one of those people whose very goodness makes the rest of us want to be good as well. But eventually that requires some Real Talk, because goodness comes at a cost. As Aslan reminds us, only God is good. So becoming like God means relinquishing the flotsam—the accomplishments, the finished projects, the “conspicuous busyness”4—that we thought would carry us to shore. And relinquishing even these flimsy security blankets feels like anathema. Throughout this book, Stucky urges us—with significant backing from biblical narratives, Karl Barth, and other theological heavyweights—to do one radical thing: stop. Just stop. If stepping off the merry-go-round of consumption and production feels like death to us, it’s because it is: Sabbath is a practice of dying, of not doing the very thing that our survival depends upon, in order to depend upon God instead. In so doing, we loosen our identities from their tether to work, just as the practice of Sabbath liberated the Hebrew people from being defined by their slave-identities. Instead, we become people defined by our trust and dependence on God. Treating Sabbath as a day of leisure is quite different from the more challenging position on rest that Stucky urges us to consider. Sabbath is neither an earned vacation nor a chance to lounge around sipping lemonade while we catch our second wind before heading into the Monday morning frenzy. Sabbath is more fundamental: it challenges that frenzy’s power to begin with. Rest declares to the frenzy that it is anathema. Rest reveals our frenzied busyness for what it is: fear. What if we don’t use every waking moment to work and produce? How will we survive? Who will take notice? Who will we be? xi
Foreword In the Bible, the word “anathema” is typically translated from the Hebrew word herem, which, unhelpfully, can mean either “to consecrate or devote to God”—or “to exterminate.” The Greek version meant “to offer up” and referred to any sacrifice or offering to a divinity. But since anathema often referred to idols, consecrated objects that were so wholly devoted to the gods that you couldn’t sell them (if you wanted to be rid of them, you had to destroy them), the word became associated with destruction. By the time the early church used the term, it meant excommunication from the community of believers.5 Today we use it to mean something unthinkable, something so detestable that we shun it. Rest is such a concept. Stucky calls it “disorienting grace” with cause: this holy rest is pure gift, but most of us shun it, preferring instead our familiar forms of captivity. We have become attached to our lesser identities, as Stucky calls them, selves we know through our work, based on the illusion of limitless lives. Surrendering those selves—trusting God’s work instead of our own—is an incalculable risk. Time and time again, God delivers God’s people from captivity to work, in Egypt, in Babylon, in Gethsemane. Time and time again, God shuns the idol of productivity. And time and time again, we welcome it back, binding ourselves to our production value, choosing yield over grace, work over rest, anxious busyness over joyful deliverance. It’s interesting that the thirty-nine categories of activities that Talmudic law forbids on Shabbat all have to do with material production: farming, weaving, slaughtering, writing, kneading, building, and so on. As Abraham Joshua Heschel wrote, “Six days a week we live under the tyranny of things of space; on the Sabbath we try to become attuned to the holiness of time.”6 The twist, made explicit in the Christian Scriptures, is that while death may be our ultimate limit, it is not God’s. For Barth, the seventh day of creation points beyond time—to a way of being with God that upends our view of rest, limitation, and death by making them conditions for life. As Stucky points out, in Genesis, the seventh day, a day of rest, is humankind’s first full day of life. In Jesus’s ministry, anything that stifled life—legalism, narrow-mindedness, faithlessness—was put to death on the Sabbath, while xii
Foreword Jesus’s teachings and renegade healings on the Sabbath were gifts of liberation and wholeness. Centuries later, Karaite Jews declared the seventh day the most joyous day of the week, a day of blessing and celebration. Despite pockets of legalism, over the centuries the practice of Sabbath consistently released people from their various captivities, so they could experience the liberation of trusting God instead of themselves, even if just for a day. Nate’s first teaching on the research presented in this book was as a teaching assistant in my youth ministry classes. He would come into class with a flotilla of rubber ducks in tow, which he passed out to students when they arrived. It was a nod to a famous Sesame Street vignette in which Ernie asks Mr. Hoots, a jazz-loving owl, to teach him to play the saxophone. Noticing that Ernie was still clutching his beloved rubber duckie, Mr. Hoots tells Ernie that if he wants to play the saxophone, “ya gotta put down the duckie.” In class, Nate would exegete Scripture, quote Karl Barth, and round up the usual theological suspects to make his case on the importance of Sabbath in youth ministry. But his trump card was Mr. Hoots. If they were serious about wanting to practice Sabbath, Nate told students, first they had to die to their ideals of productivity. First they had to put down their duckies. I remain Nate Stucky’s biggest fan and most noncompliant student. That’s how it works, isn’t it? Those whom God sends you to teach, teach you. I still struggle with Sabbath-keeping. But somehow putting down the duckie is a doable first step. So before you turn the page . . . Stop. Just stop. Now put down the duckie. Now begin. Kenda Creasy Dean Princeton, NJ
xiii
Introduction
The stories we hear when we’re young stay with us. They define us, tell us who we are. For good, and sometimes for ill, they inform the ways we live our lives. Sometimes we realize it. Sometimes we don’t. In order to understand this book and the stories it contains, you need to know a bit about my story. When I was sixteen years old, my youth group from First Mennonite Church, Pretty Prairie, Kansas, went on a service trip to Appalachia. (If the term “Mennonite” makes you think horses, buggies, and straw hats, just stop. Those are either Amish or a more conservative group of Mennonites than the ones I grew up with.) We were a bunch of farm kids who knew our way around a hammer and a circular saw, and when we got to Harlan County, we did what we knew how to do best. We worked. We also knew how to eat. At one point during the week, the people who ran the ministry in Kentucky had to make a choice. Our appetites were throwing off their budget. We were eating more than any other youth group they had seen. Should they try to make us eat less? Ultimately, they decided not to attempt to curb our appetites. Why? As the story was told to me, the director of the whole ministry said something
1
Introduction like, “I don’t care how much they eat. They’re getting more work done than any other group I’ve ever seen.” We didn’t hear that story until after the fact, but when we did, we couldn’t have been prouder. You may have heard of the Protestant work ethic. I suppose it’s a thing, but I need to tell you a secret about Mennonites. Though most would never admit it, in their heart of hearts, many a Mennonite thinks the Mennonite work ethic puts the run-of-the-mill Protestant work ethic to shame. This is a story I’ve been told. This is a story I’ve told. This is a story I’ve tried to live. This story shapes my deepest understanding of who I am. In other words, it shapes my identity. Who am I? I am a hard-working, Mennonite farm-kid from Kansas who knows how to get stuff done. Most of the time, this sense of identity seems like a great gift. But not always. Look again at the story of our trip to Appalachia. It follows the contours of countless stories that play out in the lives of countless young people in countless places for countless reasons. Youth work hard; they do something special; and then they receive encouragement and affirmation. They feel the love. Work hard. Receive reward. Repeat. What could be wrong with this story? We love this story. It empowers us. It defines us. But there’s a problem with this story. It begins with us; it depends on our effort; and it leaves virtually no room for failure. In other words, it is a story devoid of grace. It is also a story devoid of rest. Rest actually cuts against the cycle of work, reward, repeat. If I think about all of this in relation to my children, it shakes me to the core. It disorients me completely. Sure, I want my children to grow up and know how to work hard. I also want them to know beyond the shadow of a doubt that grace is real. 2
Introduction I want my children to know that who they are cannot be reduced to any work they can or cannot do. I want them to know that they were loved before they existed. I want them to know they will always be loved, and I want them to know that love and grace are just part of who they are. I want them to know that love and grace are just part of who God is. I need a different story, a story that plays out differently than work, reward, repeat. I need a story that makes room for work, but insists that love and grace belong to me and my children no matter what work we can or cannot do. In my work as a teacher, youth pastor, and parent, I’ve come to believe that I am not alone in my need for another story. Our world is short on grace. We’re also short on rest. In the last decade or so, I’ve come to believe that the Sabbath provides us with just such a story. Through the Sabbath, God tells us another story. It’s a story that doesn’t do away with our work. It’s a story that puts our work in perspective. It’s a story of rest and grace, but it’s not always an easy story to hear. Think about this. If you’ve been living your life by the work-reward- repeat cycle, and if that has gone relatively well for you, then rest and grace may upset the cart. Remember the story of the laborers that Jesus told. The ones who started working at the end of the day received the same wages as the laborers who worked the entire day. Why? Because of grace. That’s not fair. And that’s the point. Grace messes with us, especially if we’re hard-working types from anywhere who know how to get stuff done. Grace disorients us. But grace also provides us with an extraordinary promise. Before we existed, before we could do anything to earn it, we were loved. Sabbath tells this story. Let’s see if we can learn it . . . and live it. Our young people desperately need to hear it.
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