Taking Care of BusynessHow to minister at a healthy pace.
Solitude is a more traditional practice to cure hurry sickness. Jesus engaged in it frequently. At the beginning of his ministry, he went to the wilderness for extended fasting and prayer. He also withdrew when he heard of John the Baptist's death, when he was going to choose his disciples, after he had healed a leper, after his followers had engaged in ministry. This pattern of withdrawal continued into the final days of his life, when again he withdrew into the garden to pray. He ended his ministry, as he began it, with the practice of solitude.
Ministry must be done in a rhythm of engagement and withdrawal. Wise followers of Christ have always understood solitude to be the foundational practice.
What makes it so important? Solitude is the one place where we gain freedom from the forces of society that otherwise relentlessly mold us. It is (in one old phrase) the "furnace of transformation."
Dallas Willard noted an experiment done with mice a few years ago. A researcher found that when amphetamines are given to a mouse in solitude, it takes a high dosage to kill it. Give it to a group of mice, and they start hopping around and hyping each other up so much that a fraction of the dosage will be lethal—so great is the effect of "the world" on mice. In fact, a mouse that had been given no amphetamines at all, placed in a group on the drug, will get so hyper that in 10 minutes or so the non-injected mouse will be dead. "In groups," Willard noted, "they go off like popcorn."
You'd think only mice would be so foolish as to hang out with other mice that are so hopped up, so frantically pursuing mindless activity for no discernible purpose that they put their own lives at risk.
But what exactly is solitude? Some people ask, "What do I do when I practice solitude? What should I bring with me? The primary answer, of course, is "Nothing."
Not long ago, a man told me about preparing for his first extended period of solitude: he brought books, message tapes, CDs, and a VCR. Those are the very things you go into solitude to get away from.
At its heart, solitude is primarily about not doing something. Just as fasting means to refrain from eating, so solitude means to refrain from society. When I go into solitude, I withdraw from conversation, from others, from noise, from media, from the constant barrage of stimulation.
"In solitude," Henri Nouwen wrote, "I get rid of my scaffolding." Scaffolding is all the stuff I use to keep myself propped up, to convince myself I'm important or okay. In solitude I have no friends to talk with, no phone calls or meetings, no TV to entertain, no music or books or newspapers to occupy and distract my mind. I am, in the words of the old hymn, "Just as I Am": not my accomplishments or resume or possessions or networks—just me and my sinfulness, and God.
Solitude requires relentless perseverance. Unless I pull my calendar out and write down well in advance when I am committed to times of solitude, it won't happen.
I think about solitude in two categories: I need brief periods of solitude on a regular basis—preferably each day, even at intervals during the day. But I also need extended periods of solitude—a half day, a day, or a few days—and this is possible only at greater intervals. Frances de Sales, author of the classic An Introduction to the Devout Life, used the image of a clock:
"There is no clock, no matter how good it may be, that doesn't need resetting and rewinding twice a day, once in the morning and once in the evening. In addition, at least once a year it must be taken apart to remove the dirt clogging it, straighten out bent parts, and repair those worn out. In like manner, every morning and evening a man who really takes care of his heart must rewind it for God's service. … At least once a year, he must take it apart and examine every piece in detail, that is, every affection and passion, in order to repair whatever defects there may be."
I try to begin my days by praying over the day's schedule—meetings I'll attend, tasks I must perform, people I'll be with—and placing them all in God's hands. Through the day, I try to take 5-minute breaks, close the door to my office, and remind myself that one day the office will be gone and I'll still belong to God.
At the end of the day, I like to review the day with God: to go over the events to see what he might be saying to me through them, and to hand any anxieties or regrets over to him. One of the great benefits of this exercise is that you begin to learn from your days.
When I was in athletics in school, we used to watch videotapes of our performances. They were sometimes painful to watch, but it was worth it to be spared from making the same mistakes over and over.
It's the same here. For instance, when I began this daily review, I discovered I experienced much more anger than I ever thought. I began to be aware of the attitudes and responses that were guiding my life.
