You’re Busy. But What If God Is in the Pauses?
The morning alarm blares. Emails pile up. Coffee spills. A red light turns against you when you're already late. By noon, you're exhausted, and by evening, you're scrolling through your phone, wondering where the day went.
Lent invites a different rhythm. Slow down. Pay attention. Watch for God.
The ancient monks called it statio—the practice of stopping between tasks, noticing transitions, and refusing to rush mindlessly from one thing to the next. They believed holiness wasn’t just found in the big moments—Eucharist, confession, deep prayer—but in the small spaces in between. Waiting for water to boil. Standing in line. Brushing your teeth. Each moment can be a sacred pause, an icon of the divine.
The Curse of “Hyperproductive-Existentialism”
In our modern, fast-paced world, we have lost the art of being still. We treat prayer like a checklist. We scan Scripture like we scan headlines—looking for something quick and digestible. But deep faith cannot be rushed.
Lent is not quick. It is forty days of stripping away the unnecessary. Fasting, not just from food, but from our addiction to speed. The Anglican tradition, deeply rooted in monastic wisdom, calls us to embrace a different pace—to let time be spacious enough for God.
Carl Jung, the great Swiss psychiatrist, once wrote: “Hurry is not of the devil; it is the devil.” A frantic soul does not rest. A soul that does not rest does not listen. And a soul that does not listen does not grow.
The Gospel of Small Things
Jesus was never in a hurry. He moved at the speed of real life—which is to say, inconveniently. He stopped at wells. He lingered in conversations. He sat at tables long after the meal was finished. He let interruptions become opportunities for grace.
Lent invites us to do the same. To find “sacred pauses” in our day—not as another task, but as an opening to God.
Consider this: the Anglican Liturgy is designed for breath. The rhythms of kneeling, standing, silence, and chant aren’t just ancient traditions; they are invitations to slow down, to become aware. Every Sunday, when the priest prays, “Let us keep silence before God,” there is a moment where nothing is said. A deliberate gap.
God moves in the gaps.
The Art of Holy-Interruption-Acceptance
But silence alone isn’t enough. We also need to practice what I’ll call “holy-interruption-acceptance”—the art of letting small, mundane moments become invitations to prayer.
Stuck in traffic? Bless the people in the cars around you.
Washing dishes? Thank God for daily bread.
Frustrated with a coworker? Whisper a prayer instead of a complaint.
These micro-moments shape us. The Desert Fathers, those wild early Christian monks, believed that the way we do small things is the way we do all things. How we wait, transition, and move from task to task—either draws us deeper into God or distracts us from Him.
And yes, you will forget. You will rush, and scroll, and ignore the invitation. But that’s the beauty of Lent. It is not about perfection. It is about returning.
The Challenge: One Sacred Pause a Day
So here’s the invitation: once a day, pause. Just one moment. No pressure, no rules—just a simple decision to stop and notice.
Let a sip of tea become a sacrament.
Let a deep breath become a prayer.
Let a pause become holy.
Because God is not waiting in some far-off mystical experience. He is here, now, in the spaces between.
By: Fr. Rian Adams