Stillness
Stillness
"Be still, and know that I am God." — Psalm 46:10
You know the morning. Alarm. Coffee. Emails before your feet hit the floor. Kids, traffic, a meeting you forgot about. Lunch at your desk. Carpool. Dinner that somehow needs to appear. Collapse.
Repeat.
We've built good lives here in Nocatee and Ponte Vedra. Nice homes, good schools, travel sports schedules that require a logistics degree. And somewhere along the way, we've quietly agreed that our worth is tied to our output.
We are busy. Relentlessly busy. And we wear it like a badge.
There's an unspoken religion in American culture. It doesn't meet on Sundays. It has no creed you recite out loud. But it has more devoted followers than most churches.
Call it the Cult of Productivity.
Its gospel is simple: you are what you accomplish. Its commandments are endless to-do lists and optimized schedules. Its offering plate is your time, your attention, your peace.
And here's the sneaky part—it infiltrates our faith. We turn prayer into a task. Bible reading into a checkbox. Serving others into another calendar item. We "do" Christianity the same way we do everything else: efficiently, measurably, productively.
But what if God is less interested in your output than your presence?
I didn't come up with the phrase "human beings, not human doings." But it lands differently every time I hear it.
We are human beings.
Somewhere we forgot this. We started believing the lie that our value comes from what we produce, achieve, or check off. That rest is for the lazy. That silence is wasted time. That "doing nothing" is failure.
The desert fathers and mothers knew better. Those wild, wise Christians who fled to the Egyptian wilderness in the fourth century understood something we've lost: stillness is not the absence of work. It's the presence of God.
Abba Poemen once said, "Teach your mouth to say what is in your heart." But you can't know what's in your heart if you never stop long enough to look.
The desert tradition understood that constant activity can become a way of hiding from God. We stay busy so we don't have to sit with our thoughts. We fill every silence with podcasts and playlists so we don't have to hear what the Spirit might be whispering.
Busyness becomes a spiritual anesthetic.
Here's where it gets countercultural.
In a world that worships productivity, rest is an act of rebellion. A holy one.
When you stop—when you sit, when you resist the urge to be "useful" for five minutes—you are making a statement. You are declaring that your worth does not depend on your output. That God is God, and you are not. That the world will keep spinning even if you take a breath.
This is not laziness. Let me be clear.
Laziness is avoidance. It's running from responsibility. It's numbing out.
Holy rest is something different. It's an act of trust.
It's saying to God: "I believe you can handle this. I believe my striving isn't what holds everything together. I believe you are working even when I am not."
The Psalmist puts it simply: "Be still, and know that I am God."
Not "be productive and know." Not "hustle and know." Not "optimize your morning routine and know."
Be still.
I know what you're thinking. That sounds nice, Father Justin. But have you seen my schedule?
Fair point.
You're not a fourth-century monk with nothing but sand and silence. You've got school pickups and work deadlines and that thing you volunteered for because you couldn't say no.
But here's the secret the desert mothers knew: you don't need a cave in Egypt to find God. You need a crack. A sliver. A pause.
Maybe it's the three minutes in your car before you walk into the office. Maybe it's the quiet before the kids wake up. Maybe it's a bench at Nocatee Preserve where you can just sit.
God doesn't need an hour of your perfectly curated quiet time. God needs your attention. Even for sixty seconds.
The Spirit speaks in the silence of being "un-useful."
When you stop trying to earn your worth. When you stop performing your faith. When you simply are—present, available, unhurried—something shifts.
That's when you remember you are beloved. Not because of what you do. But because of whose you are.
Here's the theological truth underneath all of this: God doesn't need your help.
I know that sounds harsh. It's actually incredibly freeing.
The universe was spinning before you arrived. It will keep spinning after you're gone. The Kingdom of God does not depend on your hustle. Jesus didn't say, "Come to me, all you who are weary, and I will give you a longer to-do list."
He said, "Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest."
Rest isn't a reward for finishing your work. It's a gift. Grace in time form.
When you rest, you're not abandoning God's mission. You're participating in it differently. You're trusting that the Spirit is at work even when you are not. You're making space for God to do what only God can do.
The desert fathers called this holy leisure—not laziness, but availability. Not checking out, but checking in. With God. With your own soul. With the quiet voice that gets drowned out by all the noise.
So here's my invitation.
Do nothing.
Not forever. Not irresponsibly. But intentionally. Prayerfully. Rebelliously.
Find five minutes today where you don't produce anything. Don't listen to anything. Don't scroll anything. Just breathe. Just be.
If that feels impossible—if the thought of sitting still makes you anxious—that's probably a sign you need it most.
You are not a machine. You are not your productivity. You are a beloved child of God, created for relationship, not just output.
If you're hungry for more of this kind of soul-deep rest, I'd love for you to explore what we're building at St. Francis in-the-Field. Our Supper Clubs are a good place to slow down and share a meal with others figuring this out together. Our Bible Study groups go deeper into these ancient practices. And if you're looking for contemplative resources, From the Well has more reflections like this one.
You don't have to earn your place here. You just have to show up.
The Spirit is already at work. Even in your rest. Especially in your rest.
Be still. Be present. Be loved.