Long before rest became something we needed, it was within God.

The bible did not introduce rest as a recovery mechanism. Boldly, it introduces rest as God’s rhythm for life—a gift He graciously shares with us.

“And on the seventh day God finished His work which He had done, and He rested… and
God blessed the seventh day and made it holy” (Genesis 2:2–3).

God Himself rested!
Not because He was weary.
Not because He needed a break.
God rested because He chose to. It was a moment to enjoy what He created, a time distinct from working and doing.

Healthy life rhythms matter to God more than ever we could realize.

This moment of God was set apart, but not just sequentially as another day.  The Hebrew word qadosh—holy—means separated, distinct, consecrated. The seventh day of God was uniquely embedded with His essence; joy, love, peace, abundant life.

God blessed the day, placing His approval and favor upon it, as if to say: This rhythm carries something you will need. And, I, myself will always be with it.  A day that was intended to shape the life of His people.

Rest was established as the foundation of life.

Before sin separated humanity from purpose.

Before work became wearisome.

Before recovery was ever necessary.

Rest was distinctly full of God Himself. Which means, rest is not primarily about stopping activity. It is about aligning with God’s design.

Years later, God would formalize this rhythm, saying, “Surely you shall keep My Sabbaths, for this is a sign between Me and you… that you may know that I am the Lord who sanctifies you” (Exodus 31:12–13). Sabbath was not merely remembrance of His moment at creation; it was a sign of transformation. A statement that God’s people would live differently because they belonged to Him.

Rest was tied to living in God. To refuse it was not just disobedience—it was rejection of intimacy. Refusing to be shaped by God’s rhythm rather than our doing.

I did not understand this for most of my life, even while I worshiped on Sunday. Doing and busyness dominated my life.

I knew how to work. I knew how to endure pressure. I knew how to give more when the demand increased. I had learned to live fueled by momentum, adrenaline, responsibility, and achievement. Tiredness became normal. Weariness felt familiar. Endurance was strength.

It wasn’t until seven years after working in cooperate America, and then another five years into planting Common Bond Church that something began to surface.

I saw the Sabbatical year in scripture.

It jumped off the page; my heart longing for something I did not have.

I wasn’t drawn to religious legality. This wasn’t something I had to do.
 It felt like an invitation.

Not a command—an invitation.
Quiet.

Unforced.

But undeniable.

I was puzzled—yet drawn in.

There was a boldness to it.

To trust God while He did the work.

Trust? Yes.

Do nothing… and wait on God? No.

That part was absent in my life.

Even still, I hesitated because of responsibility.

People to pastor.

A church to build.

Momentum that didn’t feel like it should be paused.

I didn’t want to let anyone down.

But the invitation remained.

Not loud.

Not forceful.

But clear.

It would require sacrifice—
of what was still being built.

Would this be irresponsible?

I would have to step into the unknown.

And that meant faith.

As I studied Scripture (Leviticus 25), I came across God’s promise to Israel—that in the year prior to the sabbatical, the harvest would be so abundant it would sustain them through the year of rest and into the next.

That passage stopped me.

Because it was already happening.

Unusual provision had come.

Enough to take a step—
but not enough to see the whole way.

Not enough to feel secure.

Only enough to build my faith.

God would still have to provide.

Just as He did for Israel in the wilderness—when He commanded them not to gather manna on the seventh day, risking hunger (Exodus 16).

And just as He did in the sabbatical year—when they were told not to sow or reap, risking their livelihood (Leviticus 25).

And I wasn’t stepping into it without resistance.

There was hesitation.

There was fear.

Not things to avoid—
but things I would have to walk through.

But there was also clarity.

This was not the first time.

When I left corporate America years earlier, God had done the same. Resources appeared that allowed me to step, which became a year of discernment in Santa Monica because God provided.

Seven years later, before planting the church, God provided again.

And now, seven years after that, it was happening once more.

Every time, the pattern was the same:

An invitation…
A step…
And a wrestling with what felt like sacrifice
before it revealed life.

Provision was never fully visible.

But God always stepped in—
in ways I could not have planned.

Because rest, in its truest form, will always confront what you believe sustains you.

Rest is a test of your faith.

Two months into that sabbatical, something surprised me. I realized how deeply exhausted I actually was. I had been running on fumes for years, mistaking calling for power. The pandemic had slowed my pace physically, providing a breather, but this season was different.

God was not just stopping my activity—
He was restoring my spirit.
Not by adding more—
but by teaching me how to be with Him
 without needing to do anything at all.

And in that rest, life began to emerge.

During that season, my wife became pregnant after ten years of waiting. We moved into a home. We received vehicles. Provision came without effort. It felt as though God was saying, "Now you cannot credit your work—because you are not doing it. You are learning to trust Me in a new way."

Rest revealed something that had been concealed.

I had trusted God by doing.

not by waiting.

And that is when the deeper truth surfaced.

I did not enter rest because I was complete.

I entered it because I was empty.

What I began to see—slowly, almost reluctantly—was that rest is not the reward at the end of your work. It is the place you were meant to live from.

God rested first.
Before commandments.
Before callings.
Before responsibility.
Rest was already there, waiting.

The more I looked at creation, the more unsettling the pattern became. God did not rest because He was tired. He rested because it was in Him. And He blessed that day—not the work—setting it apart as holy. Which means rest is not the absence of activity.
 It is the rhythm of alignment.

I had spent years serving God faithfully, yet rarely from rest. I knew how to labor. I knew how to endure. I even knew how to sacrifice. But I did not know how to stop and wait on God. And that revealed something uncomfortable:

I trusted God to tell me what do more than I trusted God with what He could do.

If rest was established before doing…


If it was blessed before effort…


If it was holy before responsibility…

Then perhaps the problem was not that we work too much.
 Perhaps the problem is that we begin in the wrong place.

And if rest is not something we take—but something we are invited into—
then the question is no longer whether we will rest…

but who we become if we refuse rest.