My three-week vacation was nearly over when it began to nag at me. The vacation had been great: a three-mile run along California’s Highway 395 in a thunderstorm, with my wife who laughed and photographed me from the car; the man in the campground who gave us twenty already cleaned trout; the discovery of a secret hot spring at the edge of a lake; the lava flows in Bend, Oregon; the camping trip with dear friends when we sang “Praise to the Lord the Almighty”; our laughter, love, and well-spread table.
Yessir, at the end of the week I’d be bringing home to southern California a veritable smorgasbord of great experiences, warm memories, and super stories (several of which were of sermon illustration caliber). But was I spiritually ready to resume my ministry? More than that, was I ready to get on a plane, return to Catalina Island, and spend a week speaking and living the Gospel among ninety high school kids at synod camp? The answer to both questions—no, not even close to ready.
Then on impulse I decided to follow through with an idea I had toyed with since reading Mark 1:35. Jesus prepared for ministry with a forty-day “solo” in the wilderness. Maybe a less ambitious trip would help prepare me, I thought. I pulled out a topographical map of the Cascade range and picked a tiny lake several hours in from the trailhead. I packed my backpack, and included a lantern and a Bible. I was on my way.
I had no one to complain to about the steep treacherous trail leading to Melakwa Lake, so I prayed all the way up over several hours. During that time I was both inside and outside of myself. One minute I would ask for God’s help and the next I’d praise him for the fresh blackberries along the trail and the waterfall and the clean air. With no one around, I lost self-consciousness and burst into song.
By that night, after eight hours of solitude, I’d begun looking down with a sort of eagle’s eye perspective on the important relationships of my life. I scrutinized my marriage, my ministry, my personal and professional goals. I prayed about each of them, recommitting each to Christ’s care and Lordship.
Late that night, I awoke thirsty and went to the lake for water. The night sky was as I’ve seen it only three or four times in my life. There was no moon and the Milky Way dominated the heavens. The newspapers had predicted a meteor shower and here, far from city lights, the shower of falling stars made me feel as if I had a box seat at the creation of the world.
The next morning, I swam, ate, read, reflected, prayed, and broke camp. As I loped down the trail I thought of the picture of Rocky leaping at the top of the stairs, fists in the air, caught in the estactic moment when he knew he was ready for the fight. That’s how I felt.
Since late August I have reflected on this mountain top experience. Looking back I am left with a question: Why was this simple experience of prayer and solitude—apparently common to Jesus—so overwhelming for me? That trip had been my first solid spiritual food in months. What was a regular and meaningful part of Jesus’ life—conversation with his heavenly father—was only a catch-as-catch-can for me. I was a starving man who had received a square meal after forgetting what food tasted like. Since then I’ve redoubled my efforts at finding a half-hour a day to feed myself. My problem was what Charles Hummel has called “the tyranny of the urgent.” Such urgent “administrivia” as double-checking Sunday’s communion cups used to keep me sprinting through my prayer time.
Jesus avoided this tyranny. How? The accounts of our Lord’s wilderness journey in Mark 1:35 and Luke 4:42 give us three keys to his devotional life.
First, Jesus knew his human limitations. He knew he needed time alone. In order to have an effective ministry he isolates himself to pray to his father. Dare I say it? Jesus could be selfish. I wouldn’t be surprised if on some of those mornings when he rose early he didn’t take a quick dip in the Sea of Galilee or watch the sun break across the water. And yet my own struggles tell me such moments grow more from humility than selfishness. Pride keeps many busy pastors from mustering faith in a God who can bring in his own kingdom.
Luther once made a statement that I keep on my refrigerator door: “While I drink my little glass of Wittenburg beer the Gospel runs its course.” (Luther reportedly drank a lot of Wittenburg beer while the Reformation ran its course!) Although you may disagree with his views on drinking, Luther’s theology is sound. He, like Jesus, knew his manhood included the need for renewal and refreshment.
Second, Jesus was willing to say no to his congregation. No minister will be a stranger to Luke 4:42: “And the people sought him (put your name there) and came to him, and would have kept him from leaving them.” Jesus’ phone kept ringing. But he knew how to say a loving no. He had priorities and he knew how to stick to them. Yes, at times our Lord took the phone off the hook. (My wife and I have a system where we can take the phone off the wall.) Jesus told the people no—and the text never indicates that he felt guilty about it.
Third, Jesus didn’t try to prove his worth through a busy schedule. Somehow, his relationship with his father translated into the security of not having to display ajammed calendar. A game many clergymen play is “time macho.” Our spouses lose. As a master gamesman I find myself reverting to time macho when I’m frustrated. Often it’s when I’m searching for an answer to the question, What have I accomplished today? I measure my hours.
Jesus was free from this. He took time to pray. And at the end of his earthly ministry Jesus was able to say he had finished his task. Think of that. Jesus Christ, having no more hours in a day than any of us, accomplished all that his father had given him to do.
Not a day goes by in a pastor’s life that he doesn’t feel pressure from the swaying mob. In our case the mob is looking to us for direction. I find that I can lead my congregation most effectively when, like Jesus, I take my eyes off the mob.—VICTOR PENTZ, pastor, LaVerne Heights Presbyterian Church, LaVerne, California.
