This past weekend, we lost an hour.
Most of us felt it on Sunday morning. That particular kind of tired that isn’t quite like regular tired — the one where your body knows something has been taken from it and is not shy about saying so. I’ll be honest: standing at the front of a worship space, trying to preach with coherence and lead with energy while running on one fewer hour of sleep is its own spiritual discipline. Maybe consider it one of my Lenten offerings?
But Daylight Saving Time has a way of reminding us how much we assume time is simply ours — reliable, manageable, always available. And then someone moves the clock, and we realize we were never really in charge.
Luther wrote that the Christian life is one of constant return — returning to our baptism, returning to grace, being drawn back again and again to the God who holds us. Perhaps then there’s something quietly Lutheran about losing an hour. It interrupts our illusion of control. It reveals our creaturely limits. And in that small disruption, there is actually an invitation.
The ancient Hebrews understood time differently than we modern folk tend to. Kairos — a Greek word used throughout scripture — doesn’t mean clock time. It means the right time, the appointed time, the time that is pregnant with meaning and possibility. God doesn’t operate on our calendar. The resurrection happened early in the morning, before most people were awake, before anyone had scheduled it. Many of us may think we have full control of our schedules, but I believe that God is always doing something new in the margins of our planners.
I often think of Jesus’ words in Matthew 6:21: “For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” He’s likely talking about money — but we know that’s not our only treasure. As the old adage goes, “time is money,” and the older we get, the more we realize just how valuable a treasure time really is. How we spend it reveals what we love, who we love, and where we’re placing our trust.
Which brings me to rest. It’s tempting — and I speak from personal experience here — to equate busyness with faithful ministry. A full calendar can feel like evidence of a thriving congregation. But I’ve been learning, slowly, that the same is true for us collectively: sometimes fewer things on the calendar is not a failure. It’s faithfulness. Gone are the days when “doing church” meant showing up to something at the building multiple times a week. In the moments when I’m better at this pastor thing, I remember that the church exists not to fill our schedules, but to help us use all of our time more faithfully — and that means all of it, not just the hours that line up with the Emmanuel ministry calendar.
“This is the day the Lord has made,” the Psalmist sings. And notably, the Psalmist adds no qualifiers. Not this well-rested day, or this perfectly scheduled day. Just — this one. Offered fresh, as a gift. Even the tired ones with an hour less sleep.
Maybe especially those.