In a dark room, I have just lit a candle to welcome Sabbath. As I lowered the match to the wick, I spoke aloud, "A light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it."
I notice how these words feel more purposeful to me now than ever before as we enter into new leadership in the US during a time when much is at stake.
Some of you may know that I grew up as a Seventh-day Adventist Christian. These days I consider myself more of a Christian mystic, but still find myself drawn to practicing Sabbath.
In a world where productivity is idolized, where we measure our worth by achievement and follower counts and the power we broker, Sabbath might be an antidote—a reminder of something essential that can be easily overlooked, and underrated.
I notice how these words feel more purposeful to me now than ever before as we enter into new leadership in the US during a time when much is at stake.
Some of you may know that I grew up as a Seventh-day Adventist Christian. These days I consider myself more of a Christian mystic, but still find myself drawn to practicing Sabbath.
In a world where productivity is idolized, where we measure our worth by achievement and follower counts and the power we broker, Sabbath might be an antidote—a reminder of something essential that can be easily overlooked, and underrated.
To briefly describe Seventh-day Adventists, they observe the seventh day (Friday sunset to Saturday sunset) as a sacred time when there is no need to work, no have-to or ought-to. Sabbath is a weekly practice designed for deep rest and renewal, a way of reminding ourselves we are not human doers whose worth is measured by how much we accrue and become; but human beings. We are enough. We have enough. There is enough for everyone.
This was reflected in the cyclical law of the Year of Jubilee thousands of years ago. The year acted as kind of extended Sabbath among Israelites, a time when the poor were allowed to eat the produce of the land without sowing or reaping—a provocative idea intended to prevent cycles of poverty and create social and economic equality.
The other part of the name Seventh-day Adventist refers to the 'Advent', the anticipated return of Christ. By practicing rest and renewal, we step back from constant doing, and begin to remember who we truly are. We prepare ourselves for a Greater Presence, cultivating our own presence along the way, slowly growing into the likeness of the One we await.
One thing that has always fascinated me is how the fourth commandment in the Scriptures is the only one with an explicit imperative to “remember.” The others—don’t murder, don’t steal, honor your father and mother, et cetera—don’t ask to be recalled. Almost as if the authors believed these were nearly self-evident. But Sabbath, with its call to rest, was framed as something we needed to remember.
Perhaps the authors (or God) regarded that in a busy world, a time set aside for deep renewal would appear unnecessary—optional at best.
In Exodus, chapter 20, verses 8 through 11, we find it written:
“Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy. Six days you shall labor and do all your work, but the seventh day is the Sabbath of Yahweh your God (whose name interestingly translates to ‘I Am that I Am’—so, not a being, but the rhythms of Being itself). On the Sabbath you shall do no work: you, nor your son, nor your daughter, nor your male servant, nor your female servant, nor your cattle, nor your stranger who is within your gates. For in six days Yahweh made the heavens and the earth, the sea, and all that is in them, and rested the seventh day. Therefore Yahweh blessed the Sabbath day and hallowed it.”
Regardless of your religious position, I believe there is a lot we can learn here.
I wonder, what does it even mean to remember?
The ancient Hebrew word for “remember” is zakar (זכר), and in the Scriptures, zakar is not just a mental act. It’s physical—a call to use your whole body to engage in remembrance, with your hands, your feet, your voice.
When I lit the candle earlier tonight, I first had to find a candle and holder I felt would fit the occasion. I grabbed some multi-colored matches that were gifted to me by a friend in Colorado. I set the mood, turning off the lights in the room where I'm writing. Then, I spoke the words over the rising flame. My whole body was involved in this act of remembrance.
When I lit the candle earlier tonight, I first had to find a candle and holder I felt would fit the occasion. I grabbed some multi-colored matches that were gifted to me by a friend in Colorado. I set the mood, turning off the lights in the room where I'm writing. Then, I spoke the words over the rising flame. My whole body was involved in this act of remembrance.
For centuries, church bells have been rung to help us remember, too. They’ve marked a time to gather, called us to prayer, commemorated holidays, marked out hours during daytime, and attempted to remind us in the midst of our lives of who we are and where we belong.
Many notable cathedral bells have been rung throughout history. A few:
During World War II, on August 25, 1944, Paris was liberated from Nazi occupation. In response, the bells of Notre-Dame rang out in celebration as a symbol of freedom and resilience.
In the dead of night in London on September 2, 1666, a baker's shop on Pudding Lane caught fire. Soon flames spread throughout the city as the Great Fire of London formed, while church bells rang as a warning to citizens.
In Hiroshima, Japan, there is a Peace Bell that is rung each year on August 6th at 8:15 am, the exact time the atomic bomb was dropped in 1945. Its ringing is a somber reminder of the devastation and loss, as well as a symbol of a global commitment to peace and call to abolish nuclear weapons.
What might church bells have to do with us today?
We all know new technologies are emerging faster than we can process, with digital connections constantly at our fingertips, while power is shifting in unpredictable ways. It’s easy to feel unsettled with political tensions and competing narratives around what is 'true' and what is not—all which might produce uncomfortable sensations in our bodies.
We all know new technologies are emerging faster than we can process, with digital connections constantly at our fingertips, while power is shifting in unpredictable ways. It’s easy to feel unsettled with political tensions and competing narratives around what is 'true' and what is not—all which might produce uncomfortable sensations in our bodies.
What if, instead of resisting these negative emotions, we reframed them as church bells?
What if anxiety itself is a bell?
Fear, a bell?
Even despair—a bell?
What if negative emotions are invitations to pause, notice, and see what wants to emerge? Like bells tolling in the distance, these emotions can call us back to ourselves, prompting us to hold up a mirror and tend what is unfolding within and around us.
Otto Scharmer, Senior Lecturer at MIT Sloan and Founder of the Presencing Institute—which is devoted to personal and collective transformation on a global scale—uses the metaphor of 'holding up a mirror' to self and system to identify blind spots, move from ego to eco, and practice an open mind, heart, and will. Scharmer suggests nothing is more important for leading change—not technology, a tool, or framework—than cultivating one's own presence.
Otto Scharmer, Senior Lecturer at MIT Sloan and Founder of the Presencing Institute—which is devoted to personal and collective transformation on a global scale—uses the metaphor of 'holding up a mirror' to self and system to identify blind spots, move from ego to eco, and practice an open mind, heart, and will. Scharmer suggests nothing is more important for leading change—not technology, a tool, or framework—than cultivating one's own presence.
This practice of 'tending self' is something early Christians understood. Much of modern Christianity seems to have lost its way, too often focused on policing others, fueled by fear and power. We see it in the evangelical fervor for leaders like President Trump, who leverages faith for influence rather than introspection. But the earliest teachings of Christianity weren’t about enforcing beliefs. Early Christianity was the practice of radical presence in the midst of any circumstance.
“Love one another as yourself,” Jesus said, summoning our presence with self and others, no matter how hard.
Outwardly, this looked like feeding the poor, sheltering the homeless, welcoming the migrant, dwelling with a friend in need.
Inwardly, it meant the lifelong, often difficult work of holding up the mirror.
The Stoic philosopher Marcus Aurelius wrote in relation to this:
“Whatever anyone does or says, for my part I’m bound to the good. In the same way an emerald or gold or purple might always proclaim: ‘whatever anyone does or says, I must be what I am and show my true colors.’”
In a sea of crashing waves teeming with division and uncertainty, we may be tempted to board a boat captained by those who force their views onto others, mandating the world match their convictions. But this might indicate we do not know how to be present with our negative emotions and skillfully navigate challenging circumstances.
I believe our real calling, the practices that Sabbath and tending the bells within call us to, is the arduous inner work of making the Real Connection—with God (in whatever way you understand God), with self, with others, and the natural world.
Holding up the mirror to tend ourselves is much harder than policing someone else, which is probably why true Christianity is rarer these days. Yet its rarity might be an unexpected gift, lending greater depth and impact wherever it persists.
Religious or not, whenever we engage in a practice of holding up the mirror, we remember the church bells within us. We draw upon the spirit of Sabbath, practicing presence in a landscape governed by incessant doing, unchecked assumptions, and the swirling chaos of emotions ready to burst through and lay waste to anyone deemed "enemy."
May we learn to hear these inner bells, not as signals of crisis alone, but as sacred calls to return to our truest selves.
Perhaps, along the way, we will realize the abundant harvest rest and renewal can offer—bringing true protest to injustice through radical presence and the wisdom it unfolds.
