Be Still

A Reflection on Burnout and the Nature of God

Late last week, I was packing up my office in a hurry, rushing out the door for what I was quite sure was a “very important diocesan meeting” (said with tongue firmly in cheek).  You know the scene: a random assortment of papers under one arm, my iPad under the other, and a fake clerical collar tucked into my pocket just in case I needed to look particularly “official.” (We used to call those “Dickies.”)

As I hurried out of Dendtler Hall, I passed one of our frequently served Cobb officers.  We made brief eye contact, and I offered one of those half-present, well-intended priestly greetings: “Hey! Hope you’re having a great day!  Be safe out there.”  And I kept moving.

I made it all the way to my truck before I realized I had left my orange water bottle back in my office.  So back through the doors I went.  As I got close to the St. Michael Chapel, retracing my steps, I noticed that the officer was still there—not in the restroom, not in the chapel space designed for rest and renewal, just standing in the hallway in front of the bulletin board, not really reading anything.

“Hey, sir,” I said, “are you okay?”

He looked up and said, “Yeah… do you have just a second?”

Honestly, I didn’t.  But I have also learned the hard way, through many missteps, that the ministry in front of me is always more important than “theoretical ministry” in a meeting I haven’t gotten to yet.  (And, in fact, I arrived late to the meeting I was rushing to—and it was absolutely worth it.  That meeting was not nearly as important.)

The officer and I walked through the copy and counting room and into my office.  I told him to sit wherever he felt comfortable.  And before he even had a chance to sit all the way down on my green office sofa—still weighted down by all the gear and armor that officers wear in our modern era—he looked at me and said,

“Is there any spiritual antidote to burnout?”

I wish I could tell you I offered him something brilliant and eloquent.  In that moment, my brain panicked.  I mentally scanned the spines of the books on my shelves, hoping some wise theological treatise would leap into my hands.  I searched my education, my training, my vocabulary.

And in what felt like an awkwardly long time of panic for the right answer, the Holy Spirit gave me something far simpler than a book or a theological explanation.

I thought of a prayer I had once carried on a little pocket card—something we used to hand out freely at Christ Church as a kind of quiet evangelism.  A prayer that has carried me through some exhausting and disorienting seasons of my own life.  It comes from Psalm 46, and it goes like this:

Be still and know that I am God.
Be still and know that I am.
Be still and know.
Be still.
Be.

This prayer comes out of the contemplative Christian tradition.  It’s meant to be prayed as a mantra, following the rhythm of your breath  On the exhale: Be still and know that I am God. On the inhale: Be still and know. And then again.  And again.  And again.

Over time, as you follow the breath, something subtle but powerful happens.  That part of the brain that is exhausted and firing off all the familiar signals—“I can’t do this, I’m overwhelmed, I’m anxious, I’m lonely”—begins to quiet.  And it gives way to the deeper, wiser part of us that can still recognize the presence and the gift of God.

It does not make the hard things disappear.
It does not “fix” any problem, except the problem of our perception.
It helps us remember what is true.

Burnout happens when we begin to believe that everything depends on us—that the world, the people we love, the work we do, and even God’s kingdom somehow rest on our shoulders alone.  And eventually that story breaks, because that is not how God’s kingdom actually works.

We are God’s created creatures. We are not responsible for God’s kingdom.  We are responsible only for our willingness to follow in paths of obedience and care—to be God’s hands and feet in the world.  That does not mean we must bear the weight of God’s activity in the world. It means we listen, and we follow.

Last Sunday, we reflected on the Magi at Epiphany, and I pointed out in the sermon how they didn’t bring opinions—they brought gifts.  I wonder if one of the ways we push back against burnout, exhaustion, and overwhelm in a world that feels more relentless than ever is by remembering this: it is not incumbent upon us to fix everything with our wisdom or responsibility.  It is incumbent upon us to be faithful, to offer the gifts God has given us, and to trust God with the outcome.

To say that God is the author of our salvation—a phrase so familiar it sometimes loses its power—is to say that God is the subject of the sentence.  “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.  He was with God in the beginning” (John 1:1–2).  God is the one doing the saving.  God is the one at work in the world.  If God is doing this, then our calling is not to control it but to participate in it.

God is responsible.
God is in charge.

The weight of the world, the weight of God’s kingdom, the work of breaking cycles and making this world more just, merciful, graceful, and loving—that belongs to God.

We are simply the work.

And sometimes the holiest thing we can do is stop, breathe, and remember:

Be still and know that I am God.
Be still and know that I am.
Be still and know.
Be still.
Be.

Pax et Bonum!

Fr. Ben +