The Theology of Rest

This morning I am home.

Really home.

Yesterday morning, sometime around 6:20, our plane touched down in Houston. Then came the shuttle to the car, followed by another two hours on the road to Lufkin.

By the time Tanya and I walked through our own front door, Alaska seemed both very near and very far away.

We were tired.

Not the kind of tired cured by another cup of coffee.

The deep-down tired that comes after airports and airplanes, suitcases and schedules, time zones and long drives—and perhaps simply from discovering that two octogenarians don’t travel quite as easily as they once did.

But last night I had somewhere to be.

The Chapel of Hope.

I had printed the message, Where Shall I Go?, and carried it with me to the prison. It had been born, in part, during those quiet mornings at Bonnie Lake.

“Where shall I go from Your Spirit?
Or where shall I flee from Your presence?”
—Psalm 139:7 NKJV

The men received it well.

And then I came home.

This morning Tanya is still sleeping.

Good.

Let her sleep.

The yard needs water after our absence, so I have been moving the hose around. Coffee is nearby. And waiting for me are three books whose proof copies arrived yesterday and today.

Crossing the Kidron Valley.

Rick’s Cleansing My Temple workbook.

And Seeking Him.

Three books that occupied many of those quiet hours at Bonnie Lake.

Now they have followed me home.

Linda has finished the cover for Crossing, and I am reading the book one final time.

Rick and I are doing the same with his workbook.

And Seeking Him gets its first proof reading.

There is work to do.

But there is no hurry in me this morning.

And then Oswald Chambers arrived.

Not literally, of course.

But the August 12 reading from My Utmost for His Highest is titled:

The Theology of Rest.

His Scripture is from the storm:

“Why are you fearful, O you of little faith?”
—Matthew 8:26 NKJV

Chambers makes an observation that stopped me.

We often believe we trust God—until something happens that requires us actually to trust God.

It is easy to speak confidently about His faithfulness when the lake is still.

Then the wind rises.

The boat begins taking on water.

The horizon disappears.

And suddenly what we believe becomes visible.

The disciples had Jesus in the boat.

Think about that.

They didn’t merely have a promise from Him.

They had Him.

And still they were afraid.

Jesus was asleep while they were watching the waves.

Perhaps that was part of the lesson.

They interpreted His sleeping as indifference.

Jesus interpreted His sleeping as confidence.

The storm did not require His anxiety.

And maybe that is what Chambers means by a theology of rest.

Rest is not the absence of storms.

Rest is knowing Who is in the boat.

We have just spent eight days at Bonnie Lake watching creation change almost hourly.

Some mornings the mountains were brilliantly visible.

Another morning they disappeared into mist.

Clouds came down the mountainsides.

Sunlight broke through.

The lake became glass.

Then wind disturbed it.

One morning the distant mountains were receiving rain while we sat beneath another sky.

And every morning the mountains were still there.

Whether I could see them or not.

There may be a theology in that too.

What disappears from sight has not necessarily disappeared from reality.

Faith knows the mountain remains behind the cloud.

And faith knows God remains when circumstances temporarily obscure Him.

Chambers says that the ultimate result of sanctification should be rest in God.

That caught me.

After all our theology.

After all our Bible study.

After all our sermons.

After all our prayers.

After all the years of walking with Him—

what should be developing in us?

Not merely more information about God.

Rest in God.

A settled confidence.

Not passivity.

Not indifference.

Not pretending the storm isn’t real.

But something deep within us that has learned:

He is here.

He knows.

He has not lost control.

And I do not have to carry what belongs to Him.

Perhaps that is one of the lessons I brought home from Alaska without realizing I had packed it.

Yesterday I crossed several thousand miles.

Last night I stood with the men in the Chapel of Hope.

Today there are manuscripts waiting.

There will be corrections to make.

Decisions to make.

Things around the house that need attention.

Life has resumed.

But this morning I am watering the yard.

Drinking coffee.

Tanya is sleeping.

Three books are sitting nearby.

And nothing is demanding that I panic.

The theology of rest eventually has to become the practice of rest.

Maybe spiritual maturity is partly learning that I don’t have to understand the entire journey in order to trust the One who does.

I don’t need the whole map.

I only need to know the Voice.

The storm may come.

The mountain may disappear behind the clouds.

The road may run beyond the edge of my map.

But the Shepherd has not disappeared.

And perhaps, after all these years of walking with Him, one of the greatest gifts I can give Him is simply this:

Confidence.

To remain at rest when I cannot yet see what He is doing.

To trust Him enough that He does not have to calm every storm before I become peaceful.

This morning, there is no storm.

Just a quiet house.

A sleeping wife.

A thirsty yard.

Three books.

And a cup of coffee.

So I think I will practice my theology.

I will move the hose.

Take another sip.

Turn another page.

And rest in God.

Marker Stone

Rest is not the absence of the storm.

It is knowing Who is in the boat.