"Hands to work [or rest or play...], hearts to God"

Throughout my life, I have consistently struggled with two things: rest and play. For whatever reason, I am plagued with guilt whenever I attempt either. What is it that makes me feel I always ought to be working? Perhaps a Puritanical streak from my paternal grandmother's side, or that Midwestern farmer's work ethic from my paternal grandfather's side, or maybe that relentless perfectionism from my Thai Buddhist heritage... Or, maybe it's just me. Regardless of the source, the pressure to be productive is always there. And I suspect it's the same for many of you.

I don't know how many times I've either heard or read that Americans are just plain terrible at relaxing. Entertaining ourselves is one thing. But really resting - simply sitting, spending time doing (seemingly) nothing, watching the world go by, allowing ourselves to be quiet and still... this is less familiar territory. Similarly, we often have difficulty letting ourselves play, as in taking delight in life just because. It's almost as if the only legitimate activities are those that make money, save time, or otherwise serve some useful function in society. And if we are encouraged to rest or play, it's so that we can in turn be more useful after we rest and recharge. The end goal is still productivity.

But what if we moved away from "guilty pleasures" toward deep joy? What if, instead of simply putting in required face-time with friends and family, we relearned how to delight in each other's company? What if our rest enabled us not only to get by, but to feel truly restored and in touch with our core passions? Let us take our cue from biblical examples of feasting, from Jesus' call to come away and find rest, from the "uselessness" of art, from the centrality of silence in monastic life. Believe it or not, our Christian tradition is richly endowed with a spiritual joie de vivre. I encourage you (as much as I encourage myself) to make rest and play an integral part of your schedule, your self-care, your spirituality.

A Theology of (my fear of) Jazz

I imagine we can all think of situations that push us to the edge of our comfort zones, those challenging experiences that we try to avoid out of fear, or even just plain laziness.  One such activity that always tops my list is... performing jazz music.  I'm a completely classical, on-the-page sort of musician, in the same way that I'm a straight-laced manuscript preacher.  The thought of open space, the absence of page, the lack of visual prompt... the need to create on the spot... to respond artistically (whether verbally or musically) with just a second's notice... this terrifies me.  And the theological implications of this fear only pile on more guilt (shouldn't I welcome these opportunities for spontaneous inspiration?  shouldn't I be more open to the mysterious workings of God?  what does this lack of trust say about my ability to be in any sort of relationship?  am I really such an incurable control freak?  ahhh...)  But in my more sane moments, when I am able to rationally reflect on this fantastic opportunity for personal growth, I understand that for me, jazz is clearly symbolic of not only my innate fears, but also my profound hopes and longings.  Humor me for a moment:

• Jazz is forgiving.  In jazz, two wrong notes make a right note.  There's lots of space and freedom to make "mistakes."  They're easier to cover, harder to hear, and quite frankly, rather difficult to make in the first place.  The only true sin in jazz is hesitation.
• Jazz is flexible.  It's entirely permissible, and even encouraged, to deviate from the plan.  This means that you can change your mind mid-thought, that you can respond instantly to your own emotions and the overall vibe from those around you.  This can make the experience more relevant, more authentic, more meaningful.
• Jazz is empowering.  A jazz musician (in my opinion) has significantly more artistic license than a classical player.  You not only get to take some liberties - rather, you are required to make use of this creative freedom. 

I won't spoil this reflection by imposing some weak metaphor about society or the church.  I think I'll just let you finish the song on your own...