Musings on Interruption I.

Why do we create? The atheist says to kill time. The philosopher says to imitate. But faith says because we must; because God deemed us stewards of the earth, and we just so happen to create beautiful things. To garden, then — to create — means to partake in a rhythm older than ourselves, one which compels us to awake before dawn, to crouch in darkness and split the earth open, to anoint atom-sized seedlings with water, and then pray for the fruition of a million, tiny miracles. 

But I think there is a reason God limited Sabbath to a mere twenty-four hours; any longer and our bodies begin to swell with compounded energy. We can’t help ourselves. In the same breath we were created in, we were ordained to create. If we come from dust, then of course our fingers itch to sink into clay.

Sabbath, rest, can feel like an interruption when we aren’t expecting it. Being forced to hang up our tools and agenda counters the achievement-oriented reality we live in — the one that tells us if we aren’t sweating, if we aren’t exhausted, then we simply aren’t living into our potential. This is a dangerous and pervasive lie because it distorts the truth of our identity; we aren’t simply creators — we are also harvesters. 

“Come to my table,” Jesus tells us. “Pull up a chair. Hike up your feet. Drink of this cup. Eat of this bread. Enjoy this feast. Be here with me. And invite anyone you see along the way.”

Interruptions are holy. Sacred. Like the sudden toll of bells that rip through a silent field to beckon us to prayer, interruptions jolt us from the lull of the ordinary to remind us of the extraordinary. How did we get here? Why are we here? And where do we go from here?

Maybe your interruption looks like an unhurried visitor. Or a sudden tragedy. Or an unexpected joy. Whatever it is, I urge you to wipe your hands clean of the dirt, to listen to the early morning birdsong, and trust in the coming sunrise — growth will come. 

Marlee Baker, Prose Editor