Sunday afternoons, with sun and breeze, are made for yard work – though I don’t think of it as work. I come home from church, still humming the hymns, change my clothes, put on an old pair of work gloves (it’s not work) and haul out the push mower. No engine, just spinning blades as I walk back and forth across the lawn – to and fro upon the lawn, walking up and down in it.
With a portable speaker on the porch, I listen to music as I walk the yard. I sing along, full voiced – or as full voiced as I can be. Sometimes I get a little winded pushing the mower and pulling weeds. Maybe the neighbors hear me. Maybe they don’t. Doesn’t matter. I enjoy it.
Today I also dug up some new flower beds. I shoveled up the soil, laid in some compost from my heap in the backyard, and planted a variety of annuals and perennials: Coneflowers, Black-Eyed Susans, Morning Glories, 4 O’clock Flowers, Sweet Basil, Poppies, Dahlias, Lilies, and a mix of assorted wildflowers.
Sweated and slightly exhausted I surveyed my handiwork (it’s not work) and realized that Gunner was there. Watching with his arms crossed across his chest. He was not amused.
“Shouldn’t you be resting, Carter? It’s the Sabbath.”
I pulled off the gloves and knocked the dirt from them. I also noticed the dirt under my fingernails. “Gunner. Good to see you as always,” I said. I used my pocketknife to dig the dirt out.
“Six days you shall labor, Carter.” Gunner said. “You’ve got six days to do all your work but the seventh – Sunday – is a Sabbath to the Lord, your God.”
“Gunner,” I said. “You are a joy and a wonder, aren’t you?”
“No work or labor of any kind. No kindling fire. No gathering food. No commerce -buying or selling. No carrying of burdens.”
I took a large drink of water from my thermos. It’s important to stay hydrated, after all. I took off my cap and wiped sweat from my brow. “It’s not work, Gunner. I enjoy this. The sun on my face. The smell of the cut grass and the dirt. This is not work; this is a pleasure.”
“That’s out too, Carter. You must refrain from doing thy pleasure on the Lord’s holy day. You can’t call the Sabbath a delight. The Sabbath is not for personal pleasure. It is reserved for honoring the Lord. You need to find an inward posture of reverence and worship instead of these self-centered activities.
“Self-centered?” I asked. “Self-centered? Do you think this is all for me? And I think you’re missing the point of that chapter in Isaiah.” He glared at me. “Yeah, I recognize the reference.”
“Work, trade, and trivial pursuits are beyond the Sabbath boundaries.”
“Trivial? Trivial?” I said. “All the produce of the garden is with resurrection filled, that the Lord may have a city fruits of resurrection build.”
“What? Is that supposed to be a hymn or something?”
“It’s here in the yard that I rest,” I continued. “I am restored. I am resurrected. My body, fresh, my mind attuned to the day. It’s here that I am made whole again. The garden of the world is remade. Order and beauty are brought out of chaos. The bees are fed. The neighborhood is filled with color. And God is praised.”
Gunner kicked a clod of dirt
“And yes. It is a hymn, though not often sung. You should look it up; Margaret Jenkins Harris had a few good ones.” I offered him a trowel. “Would you like to lend a hand?”
He kicked another clod of dirt and turned away.
The Previous Conversations:
An Imaginary Conversation with a Real Troll (the first of the series)
I Will Not Fight the Argument (the second)
Supermarket Wrestling (third conversation)
Do You Even Pray (the troll returns)
All Means All (A fifth conversation)
The Doctrine that Cannot Be Challenged (sixth conversation)
Toward Sodom - (a halfhearted seventh conversation)
Millions of Years of Death (the eighth conversation)
Truth with Untruth (the ninth conversation)
Bulls, Dogs, and Villains (the tenth conversation)
The Righteous Forsaken (the eleventh conversation)
