Written on June 27, 2008

[For the JULY 6, 2008 lectionary: Matthew 11:16-19, 25-30]

"WIDE AWAKE AND IN MOTION" by Larry Patten

Come to me, all you that are weary and carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.

Rest? Was Jesus kidding?

My jaws tighten and teeth clench with that verse. The tightening and clenching are physical preparations for muttering, “Really?” Really, with cynicism. Really, with sarcasm. Really, with disbelief.

Was the “I will give you rest” guy the same guy who said:

Blessed are the peacemakers . . .

If someone strikes you on the right cheek, also offer the other . . .

Go make disciples of all the nations . . .

Peace-wise, making peace is considerably more difficult, and complicated, than being full of peace. Where’s rest in reconciliation?

When someone strikes me—and not just physical (sticks and stones break bones, but lies can deeply wound)—not retaliating is difficult. I want revenge, an eye-for-eye, lie-for-a-lie. Where’s rest in restraint?

Going into the world to “share good news” about Jesus? About God’s blessings? How ‘bout if I just upload clever words on my web page and maybe someone will be wowed by my nouns? But to actually engage others and share my faith? Where’s rest in revelation?

And I could come up with so many other examples of Jesus calling his disciples to talk, lead, pray, heal, and give . . . and all of those other four or more letter words that don’t match well with r-e-s-t.

Work! Rest? How? And yet twice yesterday, wide awake and in motion, I experienced rest.

I write these words in my nation’s capital. Here, at a workshop for writers, I am at Washington D.C.’s National Cathedral, in the heart of a frantic, unfamiliar city. I am surrounded by busses grinding along streets, scents wafting from fresh bread bakeries and fermenting dumpsters, and three-piece clad professionals scurrying along as they talk or text message or both on their fruitless BlackBerries.

Please, give me rest!

And so I walked. And amazingly, I found a forest glade. Or maybe it found me. Like many “great cities,” green space has been set aside. Winding through this metropolis designed in 1791 by Pierre L’Enfant, Rock Creek still, barely, survives. On a map’s thin-to-thick black, crisscrossing lines for streets and freeways, Rock Creek National Park is a meandering green splash. Curvy. Fat. Narrow. But I tramped along the streets till I found the green. Though I still saw and heard traffic, I entered a stream-side forest trail. Trees filtered sunlight. Earth, not asphalt or concrete, supported my feet. Morning dew splattered me from leaves when the trail narrowed. And I felt rested.

And so I cried. I have seen photos of the Vietnam Veteran’s Memorial (or The Wall). Countless movies have used it as a backdrop. But I had never been; yesterday I went. I am a “baby boomer,” weaned on John Wayne conquering the world, in two hours, and with credits following. Then, Vietnam. My generation’s war. I had my student deferment. I never served. But before high school began and through college’s end, killing haunted my life: bloodied soldiers on the nightly news, headlines every morning. Vietnam was a travesty, a shameful moment—no, not moment, but decade times two—in my nation’s history. By the time I arrived at the mid-point of the 246.75 foot-long Wall, where the listed names rose above my head on granite as dark as a starless night, I couldn’t not weep. To see names, one after the other, from ground to sky, staggered me.

Those sons and daughters are forever at rest. What an awful war. All wars are. There are so few peacemakers to memorialize.

And yet, with sadness as heavy as if each name I read was another brick tossed in the wheelbarrow of my soul, I rested. I needed to have a place for tears.

In this faith I proclaim, where there is always so much work to be done, I search for ways to leave the asphalt and feel dirt and smell trees alive and growing. And I attempt to remember the places of anguish—some personal, some national.

Jesus’ rest is truthful about the burdens we all carry.

Even rest is holy work.

in Peace,

Larry