It’s a curious thing, really — this idea of “doing nothing.” It’s not something that comes naturally to clergy, to parents, or indeed to most Canadians who were raised with the firm belief that idleness is one step removed from moral decay. “Don’t just sit there — do something!” is the unspoken motto of modern life.
But I am discovering, rather against my will, that there is great holiness in doing absolutely nothing. Not a little something. Not multi-tasking while resting. Nothing. The big, unapologetic, guilt-inducing nothing.
This revelation comes to me, as so many good theological insights do, from the school of forced experience. When the body insists on rest — when recovery becomes not optional but mandatory — one suddenly finds oneself in the rare and unfamiliar parish of Stillness. It’s a small congregation, populated mainly by pillows, medical devices, and the occasional cup of tea that has gone cold while you were “resting your eyes.”
At first, I confess, I was a dreadful parishioner. I argued with my physician as though he were a heretic proposing a new creed. “Surely,” I said, “I could manage a little paperwork from bed? A few pastoral emails? A sermon draft, perhaps?” He smiled the way one does at a parishioner who is about to learn something the hard way and said, “No. You need to rest.”
So there I was — enrolled in the Ministry of Doing Nothing. And, like many clergy assigned to an unexpected cure, I tried at first to fill it with activity. I made lists of all the things I would do once I was doing something again. I even tried to justify the stillness as a spiritual discipline: “It’s not rest,” I told myself, “it’s contemplative prayer.” But the truth is, sometimes even prayer must give way to silence — to the simple act of being in the presence of God, unpolished and unproductive.
Scripture, as usual, has been ahead of me on this. The psalmist tells us to “Be still and know that I am God.” Jesus Himself, no stranger to a busy schedule, occasionally disappeared up a mountain to rest, much to the confusion of His disciples who, no doubt, preferred a tighter meeting agenda. Even God, having spent six days creating, took the seventh to sit back and say, “That’ll do.”
There is something profoundly theological in the idea that rest is not laziness but participation in the divine rhythm of creation. Doing nothing — when it is time to rest — is not neglect of duty; it’s an act of faith. It’s saying, “The world can turn without me for a while, and God will still be God.”
And perhaps that’s the holiest part of all. Because the uncomfortable truth is that many of us, even in ministry, secretly believe that the Kingdom of God will grind to a halt if we take a nap. (I imagine God chuckling gently at that one.) But the ministry of doing nothing teaches us that our worth is not measured in meetings attended, sermons written, or casseroles delivered. Sometimes, the best ministry we can offer is the quiet witness of trust — the still, surrendered confidence that God’s grace is enough, even when we are flat on our backs and contributing nothing but our presence.
So if you find yourself in a season of rest, recovery, or waiting — don’t rush it. Don’t try to make it productive. Put down the to-do list, the phone, and even the devotional book if you must. Just sit there. Breathe. Let God be God.
And who knows? In the silence, you may hear that still, small voice saying,
“Welcome, my child. You’ve finally stopped doing long enough to let me work.”
A Prayer for the Ministry of Doing Nothing
Holy and gracious God, You who rested on the seventh day, teach us the holiness of stillness.
When our bodies falter and our minds rebel, when our calendars whisper accusations of idleness, remind us that You are at work even when we are not.
Grant us the courage to rest without guilt, to wait without panic, to trust that the world spins safely in Your hands.
Let our stillness become prayer, our recovery become praise, and our waiting become a quiet act of faith. When the time is right, renew our strength as the dawn renews the day, that we may rise refreshed — not to do more, but to walk more gently in step with You.
Through Jesus Christ, who napped in boats and prayed on mountains, we rest in Your peace.
Amen.