Playing & Resting
Read excerpts from the next two chapters of Gracing, and join us for a group discussion on Friday July 18
Chapter 9: Playing
What if we’ve figured God all wrong? We die and hesitantly head up the cloud escalator with a pit in our stomachs. We expect to greet the keeper of points, the tallier of wrongs, the rule giver and taskmaster of the sky. All solemn and serious. Loving, sure, but in the way of a gray-suited, sallow-faced elderly relative who is glad you came but was also slightly disappointed you haven’t brought cake.
What if the whole tone was different? Upbeat. A hearty clap on the back and a bear hug. What if He told you a joke? What if the expected He was a She—a Mother in Heaven when you thought you’d be meeting a Father? And what if She laughed with you—one of those minutes-long belly laughs where you can hardly breathe and you snort a little, and when you try to talk it comes out in high-pitched squeaks and tears ooze out of the corners of your eyes?
The God who weeps must also be the God who laughs, or what kind of heaven would it be?
I imagine that when you got to heaven, you’d run around the gardens picking flowers that sported colors you’d never seen before. And there’d be music—not just peaceful harp playing, but also jazz, and dare we suppose, something entirely new? Because surely there’d have been some collaboration for over a decade now between Ella Fitzgerald, Johnny Cash, Johann Sebastian Bach, a Peruvian pan flute player, and an African djembe star.
Likely there’d be a party waiting, a quinceañera of sorts where you were the tiara-wearing guest of honor, thrown by God and all your past relatives and friends. Like the prodigal son, you’d be welcomed with a ring for your hand, shoes for your feet, and a fatted calf (though maybe the fatted calf would be vegetarian because do you eat meat in heaven?). You’d get to dive into the misty clouds, do a little teleporting and flying—yes, flying for sure! It would all be a breath of rainforest-fresh air, and you’d feel more awake and alive than you’d ever felt before.
Does this all feel a bit absurd? Blasphemous? Perhaps.
But the prodigal son returning to his father did return to a party, not a somber evaluation. And there are far more New Testament references to the kingdom of God as a feast, a wedding, or a party than there are to a courtroom or judgment. How did we miss that? If we envision God with one range of emotion, one way of being, our relationship is limited. In exploring the idea of God, playing with mystery and the unknown, we find space to expand our relationship. These imaginative, creative roamings seem to constitute a kind of theology.
Some approaches to religion feel more doctrinally grounded, telling us the tenets, creeds, boundaries, and limits of our faith. There’s an important place for coloring inside the lines this way. By excluding what our faith is not, having clear doctrine helps us understand what it is.
In contrast, an imaginative theology opens us to the possibilities—it’s exploratory rather than defined. It takes the unknown of our faith and imagines what it might look like. My attempt, anyway, involves playing with ideas rather than nailing down definitions. And while there is a place for scripts and clearly lit covenant paths, this theology points to something more like open-ended canvases and covenant gardens, just waiting for our imaginative creativity.
In the context of science, the astronomer Carl Sagan once asked,
How is it that hardly any major religion has looked at science and concluded, “This is better than we thought! The Universe is much bigger than our prophets said, grander, more subtle, more elegant. God must be even greater than we dreamed”? Instead they say, “No, no, no! My god is a little god, and I want him to stay that way.”
Sagan was on to something. When I look at science, culture, other perspectives, and other life experiences, alongside my own, I conclude that God must be big. God creates, is surprised, weeps, laughs, and has found endless ways to love. God meets us in houses of worship, in dark alleys, universities, prisons, mountains, hospitals, offices, and playgrounds. We shrink God when we insist on never coloring outside the lines. In the words of the genie in Disney’s Aladdin: “Phenomenal cosmic powers! . . . itty bitty living space.”
In expanding our view of God, we can remember that Jesus said we should become like little children. I don’t think this is just because children are often humble, teachable, and forgiving—though of course, those are critical attributes. They also play; they engage with the world without an agenda. Rather than fixating on the past or planning for the future, they interact with the present just as it is. They show us a form of mindful grace that’s creative, open-ended, and free.
Adults tend to have an end in mind—wash the dishes in order to have clean dishes to eat from the next day, instead of stretching the warm sudsy bubbles between your palms. Rake leaves to clear the lawn, instead of flinging leaves into the air to watch the bright yellow somersaulting in the sun. Get dressed in the morning because that is the socially acceptable thing to do, instead of dressing up with your fluffy tutu, alligator socks, and superhero cape because why on earth would you not?
Imagine a pot. Adults learn to put the pot on the stove, add some broth, vegetables, beans, and spices, then bring it all to a boil. They let it simmer to make a hearty soup. It’s useful and nourishing. It’s a very good use for a pot.
Now put that same pot into the hands of a three-year-old. Doing some open-ended exploratory play, suddenly the cooking utensil transforms into a knight’s helmet to defend against a fire-breathing dragon. Or it becomes a drum—the wooden spoon sending a tink, tink, tink throughout the house. Or the pot could be a bowl, used to collect dried leaves, potato bugs, dandelion heads, milkweed stems, and rocks from the backyard. Turned upside down, it could be a table for a Mr. Potato Head and Superman tea party. Or a stool for reaching high shelves. It could be a marble swirler, a Play-Doh flattener, a boat in the tub, a stuffed-bunny hiding place, a yelling echo chamber, or a frame for a rudimentary rubber band guitar.
There are so many possibilities!
REFLECT:
Do you ever feel guilty after relaxed and agenda-free play?
When have you played recently—in a relaxed, delightful, spontaneous, agenda-free way? What was that experience like?
Join us in our Substack chat on Friday at 12pm Mountain time to discuss—and if you can’t make it then, please feel welcome to share your thoughts and read the thoughts of others at any time.
Chapter 10: Resting
In addition to waking and sleeping, life is rhythms: working and resting, uphill and downhill, inhaling and exhaling, contracting and relaxing. It’s tempting to see the downhills simply as the recharge—as if we were a cell phone plugged into the wall at night, merely gearing up for the tasks ahead. But I believe there’s more to it than that.
Turning off allows other mechanisms to work in us than what we’d initiate from our very useful but sometimes stubborn, self-concerned, and imperceptive brains. There’s much that can be “accomplished” while detaching and emptying. In Annie Dillard’s words, “Experiencing the presence purely is being emptied and hollow; you catch grace as a man fills his cup under a waterfall.”
It can be tempting to see this kind of rest as laziness or inefficiency. And it’s true that within the Church much good is accomplished through service and busyness. But if we forget to inhale, it can quickly lead to burnout and a sense of meaningless nothings. Our work can feel hollow when the sound of our running feet drowns out the still, small voice that guides our steps.
Meditation as rest is one area I have been exploring. One form is contemplative prayer, which was foundational for early Christian saints. In many strains of Christianity, including within the Latter-day Saint faith, this practice has largely been forgotten. But those who recognize its value are increasingly reviving it and sharing it across boundaries of faith traditions.
The contrast between contemplative prayer and my own prayer practice reveals that the speaking part of my prayer often feels like a gallop: Thank-you-for-this-day. Please-bless-the-food-that-it-will-nourish-and-strengthen-our-bodies. Please-bless-us-to-get-home-safely. It’s lots of petitions, lots of to-dos, and lots of hurry.
Contemplative prayer instead feels like the inhaling breath that precedes each exhale—the listening to the speaking of prayer. Thomas Keating, a Trappist monk and prolific writer, teaches that when Jesus reminds us to go to our closets to pray, He is inviting us into that inner room of the contemplative heart where we commune with God. In prayer, thoughts will appear unbidden, our agendas and plans pulling us away from this sanctuary. Our busy brains have jobs to do. But these intrusions, he says, are like boats floating down a river.
Notice them, Keating invites. Let them float by. Then gently return. Consent to God’s presence and His work within you. Much like sleep, something happens when we’re in this restful state, apart from any work we initiate. Our only effort is simply a decision to participate.
As I understand it, the practice involves being completely receptive and embracing an intention to be open and present to human-divine relationship—a restful existence in communion. We stand with our empty cup ready to be filled. Rest in be-ing rather than do-ing. “Centering prayer,” writes Keating,
is a way of awakening to the reality in which we are immersed. We rarely think of the air we breathe, yet it is in us and around us all the time. In similar fashion, the presence of God penetrates us, is all around us, is always embracing us. Our awareness, unfortunately, is not awake to that dimension of reality.
The South African Archbishop Desmond Tutu once said, “I am learning to shut up more in the presence of God.” As opposed to a “shopping list” prayer, the Archbishop said he was “trying to grow in just being there. Like when you sit in front of a fire in winter, you are just there in front of the fire, and you don’t have to be smart or anything. The fire warms you.”
Spiritual and secular resources abound to teach these practices. Various forms of stillness, relaxation, calmness, meditation, contemplation, and mindfulness have emerged from both the East and West. In taking baby steps, I notice gracing marked by a stillness that spills out into my daily activities in unexpected ways.
Once, for example, in the middle of a busy day, I was practicing a violin piece to perform at church. It was a beautiful number: “Savior, Redeemer of my Soul.” Alongside inspiring lyrics and talented musicians, I wanted to prepare well. But it was not an easy violin part. The notes approached dog-whistle pitch—very high with numerous ledger lines past the standard treble staff. And sometimes it felt like a Hail Mary pass to launch my finger up the string and land on the correct note.
As I concentrated and drilled, at one point I noticed a tension in my hand and shoulders. In what felt instinctive due to my meditation practice, the observation of tension initiated an easing in my shoulders and a softening of my fingering hand. My bowing arm relaxed—still firm but in a way which allowed the bow to glide smoothly rather than rigidly against the strings. The tone of the notes became clearer and more resonant. The quality of the music shifted ever so slightly. It was subtle, almost imperceptible.
The moment of noticing the tension and the subsequent relaxing felt so familiar and so much like meditation that I am sure the one must have influenced the other. The substance and practice of rest improved my work, though I could not have anticipated that occurring with the violin. I wondered how many other unexpected places this quality might manifest.
REFLECT
What rituals or practices bring a restful aura into your day?
How does your day improve when you make intentional time for these?
Join us in our Substack chat on Friday at 12pm Mountain time to discuss—and if you can’t make it then, please feel welcome to share your thoughts and read the thoughts of others at any time.
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