Tag Archives: tired

Vacation’s End

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Last week, more than one person asked me about my vacation. Some wondered aloud if it had been sufficiently refreshing, asking if I felt rejuvenated. In most instances, I gave the same answer. It was usually something like, “Vacation is always nice, of course, but the first week back in the office is like drinking from a firehose.” That is a less descriptive but congenial way of saying two things I’m really thinking.

The first of my two thoughts, if fully extrapolated, would probably sound like, “To understand what I mean by firehose, imagine you’re getting a cool drink from a water fountain when, suddenly, the water pressure explodes into your mouth with such force that it knocks you to the floor. Imagine further, after managing to get back to your feet, you lean into the Niagara-like stream, intent on reaching the valve to lessen the pressure, but you can only slip and slide backward, unable to make any progress.”

That’s what the first week back from vacation is like. Last week, I described the allure of “home.” It seems almost bi-polar to admit there’s a dread that palls the return, too. It rides in on the realization that summer’s pace is still only a fraction of the forthcoming autumn’s pace. In other words, it’s tough now, and in a few weeks, it’s only going to get worse.

My second thought is a newly realized but somewhat altered version of something I heard Jennifer say. The night we returned, I overheard from the closet Jennifer comforting Madeline in her post-vacation blues, saying, “I’ve never heard anyone say with glee after vacation, ‘Well, I feel fully rejuvenated and ready to get back to work.’” I realized she was right. I’ve never heard anyone say that, either. If I did, I don’t think I believed them. When I return from vacation, while I may feel partially rested, I do discover wondering thoughts like, ‘Why can’t life remain at this pace all the time?”

I’ve confessed here before to self-diagnosing Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD), which is a depression that sets in during certain seasons of the year. Autumn and winter are very hard on me. Shorter days mean leaving home and returning home in the darkness, with barely a hello from the sun along the way. I don’t enjoy those seasons. I endure them. If there’s something called Vacation Affective Disorder (VAD), I probably have it, too. In fact, the day before returning home from vacation is so powerfully threatening for me that I’ve noticed I don’t feel much like eating. I have to make myself do it. It’s a bizarre sensation. It’s also very real.

Relative to these burdens, I do have two things going for me. First, I don’t like to lose. This means that once I conceptualize SAD and VAD as the imposing specters they are, I begin laboring toward their defeat. It’s then I stop wondering if I can make it through and start thinking about how I’ll make it through and what it’ll be like on the other side. Second, I’m not a quitter. Whatever I start, I finish. I’ve always been that way, especially when facing adversity. In a strictly human sense, it’s probably one of the only reasons I’m still a pastor. The harder Satan (and certain people) push to drive me out, the more I find myself leaning into the attempts with a concrete-like unwillingness to budge. Of course, as I do this, I remain in constant prayer that the instinct is not pride-driven. It certainly has that potential. Looking backward with humble honesty, I can see times when I stood my ground for foolish reasons. Conversely, I can also see plenty of times when God weaponized these personality traits, ultimately using them for His glory and the good of His people.

I’m not a subscriber to the weird world of psychophysiology (sometimes called biopsychology), which is the field of study devoted to the interconnectedness of the mind and body. I don’t dig all that deeply into it because its two-fold perspective excludes the spiritual dimension. Still, I had a conversation this past week with someone I care about, and it got me thinking about the basic premise. Truly, there’s something to be said in a cursory sense about the mind/body connection. For example, I mentioned during the conversation General George Patton’s insistence that “to win any battle, you have to do one thing. You have to make the mind run the body. Never let the body tell the mind what to do.” His wartime record proved his words true. But regardless, the Bible speaks on occasion about the connection. Saint Paul writes in Colossians 3:2, “Set your minds on things that are above, not on things that are on earth.” In Romans 12:2, he writes, “Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind, that by testing you may discern what is the will of God, what is good and acceptable and perfect.”

In both texts, Paul pits the mind against what’s physical. It isn’t a Gnostic thing he’s doing. Instead, he’s simply acknowledging the importance of what Christians know by faith to be the better rudder for navigating what we experience with our physical senses. Digging deeper, that’s more or less epicentral to his words in 2 Corinthians 4:7-9, where he writes:

“But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed.”

In other words, even as we see and experience the world churning around and against us, there’s something else we know: we are not inheritors of this world but of the world to come. And so, Paul continues:

“We know that the one who raised the Lord Jesus from the dead will also raise us with Jesus…. Therefore, we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So, we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal” (vv. 14, 16-18).

I mentioned before that psychophysiology does not calculate for the spirit. It certainly doesn’t account for the work of the Holy Spirit. The Bible doesn’t make that mistake. It makes sure we understand each facet of body, mind, and spirit relative to the Holy Spirit’s work to instill faith. Chapter 8 in Paul’s Epistle to the Romans is a great place to see this. It’s there Paul refers to believers as those “who walk not according to the flesh but according to the Spirit” (v. 4). In other words, the Holy Spirit empowers Christians to yield their fleshly bodies to God in faith. Paul describes the Christian mind in the same way, reminding the reader that “those who live according to the flesh set their minds on the things of the flesh, but those who live according to the Spirit set their minds on the things of the Spirit” (v. 5). Following some elaboration, he eventually brings the body and mind together with the spirit—all beneath the banner of the Holy Spirit’s work. He writes:

“You, however, are not in the flesh but in the Spirit if, in fact, the Spirit of God dwells in you. Anyone who does not have the Spirit of Christ does not belong to him. But if Christ is in you, although the body is dead because of sin, the Spirit is life because of righteousness. If the Spirit of him who raised Jesus from the dead dwells in you, he who raised Christ Jesus from the dead will also give life to your mortal bodies through his Spirit who dwells in you” (vv. 9-11).

The first few weeks after returning from vacation are hard on me. They’re an existential wrestling match between body and mind, presence and purpose. I’m guessing it’s the same for many of you. But there’s something else happening there, too. The Holy Spirit is at work. By His might, I can shift my perspective away from these things toward the Gospel of Christ’s life, death, and resurrection. It’s by this Gospel I am thoroughly sustained. This isn’t to say that the challenges suddenly disappear or that the frustration is magically lifted. But I do discover I have the bodily strength to endure and the mental clarity to sort through and eventually understand beyond the immediate discomforts.

So, even as the first week back may feel like drinking from a firehose, and life’s pace may continue to increase, I am reminded that my truest rejuvenation doesn’t come from a vacation. Only by the Holy Spirit at work through the Gospel am I renewed and sustained, not only for whatever this life might send my way but for the life to come. Such knowledge makes even the busiest seasons bearable and ultimately purposeful.

One more thing. While I may take vacations, God doesn’t. He’s ever-vigilant and always working, ready to give what we need the most. As a result, His life-sustaining Gospel remains here at Our Savior in Hartland, Michigan, season after season.

A Good Kind of Tired

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Holy Week begins today with Palm Sunday. Like any other week, Holy Week has seven days. And yet, it seems exceptionally longer than the others. By the time we get from Palm Sunday to Easter, a lot will have happened. For perspective, here at Our Savior, we will have packed at least ten weeks of sacred worship into these seven days. For our Kantor, musicians, and choirs, that’s an abundance of preparation and rehearsals. For the pastors, among so many other things, that’s a lot of sermon writing. I suppose that’s why you might hear me say in jest that the Lord and His pastors trade places on Easter morning. I often get very sick the week after Easter, usually from over-exertion. Although, I think it hit me early this year. I was terribly sick this past week.

Getting sick this time every year is one of many proofs that I could not do what the Lord did. He endured cosmic suffering. And yet, I count myself blessed if I can think through and preach a relatively coherent Easter sermon after Lent and Holy Week’s busyness has concluded.

I had an interesting conversation about these things last Sunday in the ER at Maclaren Hospital. A man sitting a few seats away from me in the waiting room started it. The worship pastor at his church, he endeavored to ask me how my church “does” Easter. I told him, even taking a chance at assuming between two clergy its exhausting nature. I assumed incorrectly. Along the way, he asked rather awkwardly why we continue doing it this way, especially when I almost always get sick year after year. At first, I took it as a reasonable observation and told him I had thought about cutting things back a little. But then he did something else. He took a passive-aggressive shot at what he believed was traditional worship’s tiredness. As he did, He explained worship shouldn’t be tiring, and he went out of his way to tell me that his church’s worship life could never be considered exhausting, that his church’s contemporary style was comfortable and easy—always fresh and new, always joyful, and always inspiring. He explained that worship is about praising God—about really feeling it, and blah blah blah.

Let me first say that’s not what worship is about. Praise is part of it (the lesser part, mind you) but that’s not its purpose. Worship begins with God. He serves us what we need—forgiveness. We respond with prayer, praise, and thanksgiving. Think Isaiah 55:11 and Ecclesiastes 5:1-3.

Next, I’ll ask, “Why?” What’s going on inside a person that would cause him to impose on a stranger in this way? I get that I’m easily identifiable in my clerical collar, and perhaps by it, I may represent a more traditional position. I’m no stranger to such interactions. But that alone doesn’t invite the imposition. I certainly didn’t ask for a critique of our worship style or life. As a normal human being confiding in someone I assumed might understand, I would never even think to steer into another church leader’s sphere in this way. I have no reason to criticize him. I’ve never been to his church.

Thankfully, few clergyfolk I meet are like this. Most just want to meet and visit—like normal humans. Also, thankfully, I didn’t have the time (nor the mood) to debate this particular guitar-slinger. I was seconds from being escorted to the bedside of one of my church members who’d been in a car accident. I was pondering my words to them and not to the worship pastor. Although, Blaise Pascal’s thoughts on reason would have been appropriate if the conversation had continued. Pascal once said something about how human reason’s final use is to admit there’s an infinite vastness beyond its capabilities.

What does this have to do with the interaction I just described? If I’d had the time and energy, I think it might have mattered in at least two ways.

First, Holy Week does sometimes feel unreasonably challenging. As I said, I’ve considered excluding some of the worship opportunities for this reason. And yet, as Pascal implied, even human reason admits to blessings that can only be reached by extending beyond what’s reasonable. No, the Lord doesn’t want us murdering ourselves with devotion. Still, we can (and often should) stretch ourselves past what we know is easier. This is the “no pain, no gain” principle. Still, even in an elementary sense, we also can’t remain infants, drinking only milk. We need solid food (1 Corinthians 3:1-13). The historic rites and ceremonies of the Church embody this opportunity, and if there’s ever a time to reach for solid food, it’s during this pinnacle time of the Church Year.

Some might refer to our worship style here at Our Savior as “high mass.” That description has various outside interpretations. Although, compared to other Lutheran churches, I can guess what it means. Still, I’m not interested in the other churches. I’m the pastor here. And no matter what is implied or who we’re being compared to, I’m convinced we’re enjoying solid food in this place—meat and potatoes, not frozen waffles and milk duds. It’s certainly far from being about the preacher or service meeting us right where we are, giving us what we like, and never demanding anything more. God does not call for us to remain forever where we are. We are to reach higher (Colossians 3:1-2).

By the way, a person should be able to tell when they’ve left the “where we are” of every day and entered into the new day of “higher.” Our regular worship is already wired for this. Stop by anytime. You’ll know you’ve stepped from the secular world onto holy ground. Holy Week is this on steroids, and for very good reasons.

This stirs a second thought relative to what’s reasonable. Pascal admitted to an endless array of things beyond reason’s reach. Isn’t that more or less a nod toward the nature of faith? It’s the same kind of nod Saint Paul offers in the Epistle appointed for today’s Palm Sunday celebration. In Philippians 2:6, Paul admits Christ’s incarnation was an ungraspable truth existing far beyond reason’s borders. Very little about it makes sense. However, as challenging as it is, it’s utterly accessible to faith. This is where I might have pushed back on my conversation partner even further, crossing the border into his doctrines and sharing how I think it’s strange how someone like John Calvin could ever insist, “Finitum non capax infinitum,” which is to say, finite things cannot contain infinite things. Of course, Ulrich Zwingli assumed it years before when debating Luther at the Marburg Colloquy in 1529. But either way, to say the infinite cannot be located in the finite is to be trapped behind reason’s barrier. It certainly binds God to human premises.

Since I’ve already mentioned Christ’s incarnation, if Calvin’s words are valid, then we must dismiss Saint Paul’s reason-pummeling words in Colossians 1:19-20, where he writes, “For in [Christ] all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell, and through him to reconcile to himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven, making peace by the blood of his cross” (Colossians 1:19-20). Had the conversation gotten this far, I would have encouraged my new ER friend to reconsider what the finite containing the infinite means for things like Baptism and the Lord’s Supper. I’m guessing he thinks these are just symbols. I wouldn’t attack him on this. But I would at least ask, “Is it possible they could be more?”

In the meantime, yes, the fullness of the infinite God was located in a finite human man—an object occupying a limited location. That man was Jesus. No, it doesn’t make sense. And Paul knows it. But that doesn’t stop him from upping lunacy’s ante in the Palm Sunday epistle with the reminder that the God-man Christ actually died. You think the incarnation is unreasonable; how about God dying? Paul goes further into irrationality, adding, “even death on a cross!” (Philippians 2:8).

The historic rites and ceremonies dig deeply into this, especially during Holy Week. From Palm Sunday through to Holy Wednesday and then the Triduum—the holy three days of Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and the Great Vigil of Easter—it’s a week that carries us into these things and more. It isn’t just a day or two of our favorite and most syrupy worship songs, whatever Bible verses the preacher happens to prefer at the time, and an engaging sermon with some fetching slides. It’s several days of reaching further.

To be fair, I should come at this from another direction. As insulting as the worship pastor in the ER waiting room was with his passive aggression (most of which I didn’t share), I’ll admit some in my more traditional camp do the same things he did; not a lot, but a few. They take similar opportunities to impose their pretentiousness rather than enjoying the conversation and encouraging others toward Christian worship’s inherent beauty and benefit. For example, they can make a pastor shepherding a storefront church feel lesser for not having what they have or doing what they’re doing. Again, there aren’t a lot of them. But as the saying goes, there’s one in every bunch. Confessional Lutheranism is no exception.

In conclusion, let me just say this: For those out there who are moving in the better direction—who are reaching higher—whether or not you have the classically ornate worship space, vestments, smells, bells, or whatever, I encourage you to stay the course. You already likely know we’re in a dark time in worship history, days when almost anything goes, and as it does, the faith that worship is supposed to feed becomes shallow and weak among so many. Nevertheless, anyone who’s served as a pastor for any reasonable length of time will tell you that shepherding God’s people from point A to point B takes time. Building the muscle to reach higher takes exercise. Catechesis is key. Introduce. Teach. Stay the course. As you do, rest assured your labors are not in vain, no matter the pace or progress.

And some final advice: If a man in a waiting room scoots a few chairs closer to you to have a genuine conversation about differing worship styles, enjoy the discussion. Such conversation can be refreshing and interesting. But if a peacocking purpose becomes obvious, before the conversation goes any further, I recommend leaning toward him and asking with wide room-scanning eyes, “You can see me?” That’ll close the conversation shop’s doors. Of course, if you’re not comfortable doing that, first, compliment his retro tee, and next, tell him the hospital called you to perform an exorcism, asking if he’s the one they called about. That’ll probably work.