Earlier this year the board of the ministry I direct, Mika, granted my proposal for a two month sabbatical.  According to Wikipedia and tradition, a sabbatical is a time of rest from work.  It comes from the Biblical concept of Sabbath and God’s own example of resting.  So after seven years of leading Mika and living in the neighborhood where we work, it seemed like a good idea to practice sabbatical.  I am grateful for the rest and beyond that we at Mika want to develop a culture with healthy, biblical rhythms and resting is clearly part of that.

Often sabbaticals are granted for different types of work, especially in academic circles, like research and writing.  While I plan to do some writing, the point of this time off is truly to rest and reflect.  I am staying with my sister and her family in Oregon.

In the past few months every time I mentioned to someone that I’m going on sabbatical they asked, “What are you going to do?”  “Nothing,” is my reply.  For two months I will do nothing.  I will be nothing.  I will have nothing- nothing to accomplish, nothing to offer, nothing to lead.  In his book on the search for happiness, The Geography of Bliss, author Eric Weiner says of Americans:

“Oddly, for a nation that so celebrates wanderlust, a nation practically founded on restlessness, we Americans take a dim view of those who embark on undirected travel.  Better living through geography strikes us as a cop-out.  Rootless souls, we suspect, must be running away from something.  Perhaps, but they might also be running to something.”

I felt this suspicion in others as I shared my plans (or lack thereof ) with them.  Or maybe it was me projecting my own suspicion onto them.  At any rate, being set adrift with no expectations has resulted in some anxiety.  What will I do in Madras, Oregon?  Even doing nothing, is something.  How do I do nothing?  Who will I be in this different place?  Who am I when there is no role and no title?  How do I be nothing?

As I write I look out on a hillside speckled with juniper trees.  I hear horses neighing next door and the cool breeze refreshes me.  The only disturbance is my small niece’s cry, which delights me.  It is peaceful here and my mind can wander.

I hear trucks and cars coming in and out constantly.  My mind wanders but from one “to do” item to the next, straining to keep on track.  Even relaxing in my garden I am reminded of all there is yet to do- neighbors to visit, bikes to be fixed, trash to be taken out.  Peace is harder to grasp.  My identity is deeply rooted there- neighbor, daughter, fixer of problems, director, fundraiser, leader.  My days are spent juggling those identities and living into them and up to my own high standards of what should be accomplished in each role.

Here in my new place, in Madras, Oregon, my identity is much less obvious.  I am Katie’s sister, Lea’s aunt.  That’s it.  They need nothing from me.  I do nothing.  I just am.  This is probably my greatest struggle.  The need to do something is the hardest shackle to loose. John Perkins says we should take our questions to the scriptures.  Bringing my identity questions, adrift in a new place, I find Jesus to be my anchor.  He, who being in very nature God, did not consider equality with God something to be grasped, but made himself nothing, taking the very nature of a servant, being made in human likeness (Phil. 2:5). Jesus became nothing- on purpose. 

The more I think about nothingness, the more I see that it is tied to my discipleship.  Perhaps it is in this empty place of having nothing that the Holy Spirit will fill me.  Maybe as I sit with nothing to do the truth of Isaiah’s words, “in repentance and rest is your salvation, in quietness and trust is your strength” will heal my mind of the sin of worry.  And maybe, just maybe, in being nothing, the Lord Jesus Christ Himself will shape and mold my identity in ways that declare His glory and display His beauty.