I don’t talk about it often on here, (or really, ever, on here) but I currently, and for the past 4.5 years, spend a good majority of my time Monday-Friday working in the office of a local church. As you might imagine, that also means I spend a good amount of time working with different office machines.

These machines include computers, copiers, printers, a postage meter, a paper cutter, and a paper folder, just to name a few. In theory, these machines are supposed to make my life easier. But in reality, they often end up driving me absolutely bonkers.

Paper jams. Ink runs out. The computer won’t communicate with the printer, or vice versa.  In moments like these, I find that my coping mechanism is to personify the machines. I’ll say things like, “She seems to have a mind of her own,” “He is in a bad mood today,” or “Maybe this machine needs a nap.” It’s weird, I know, but so it is. 

What’s even more strange is that I tend to do the reverse for myself and for the people in my life. Really, it’s more sad than strange. Instead of treating a machine like a person, I treat myself and others like machines. I value others based on what they can do for me or how well they perform. I often treat them like a commodity or a means to an end, rather than a living, breathing person made in the image of God. Intentional or not, I fail to recognize the whole of their human story. 

And the expectations I set for myself are similar. Like a machine, I base my worth on my productivity. Case in point: I can page through my journal and time and again, especially in Saturday entries, I can pinpoint some rendition of this sentence: “I probably wasn’t as productive as I should have been.” In that one sentence alone, there are layers of guilt, disappointment, and even self-condemnation. If I didn’t do much, then the day feels like a waste and I feel worthless. And I’m learning that those thoughts and feelings about myself and others could not be further from the truth.

Back in June, therapist and author Aundi Kolber posted this thought on her social media and I haven’t been able to forget it. She wrote,

“You are not a machine. Plan accordingly.”

For me, this simple reminder packed a punch, in a good way. Because while we are called to contribute, we were not created to mass-produce. While we are called to creative work, we were not created to manufacture. And while we are called to serve, we were not created to perform.  

And yet, we often don’t plan accordingly and we often don’t give others the space to do so themselves. We just keep bulldozing our way on through. And as people made in the image of God, that approach is just not sustainable, and I don’t believe that’s how it’s meant to be. 

In the last episode, remind{h}er 56, we turned to Psalm 46:1-7. And today, I’d like to pick up where we left off, with verses 8-11:

Come, behold the works of the Lord;

    see what desolations he has brought on the earth.

He makes wars cease to the end of the earth;

    he breaks the bow, and shatters the spear;

    he burns the shields with fire.

“Be still, and know that I am God!

    I am exalted among the nations,

    I am exalted in the earth.”

The Lord of hosts is with us;

    the God of Jacob is our refuge.

Verse 10 is probably familiar, maybe even cliche at this point. But like Aundi’s quote, it’s a simple line that packs a punch, in a good way. Be still and know that I am God. First, it says, be still. Not be busy, not be productive, not be overextended. Be still, or as some translations put it, cease striving. In doing so, we create space to know.

The Hebrew word used for “know” in this verse is only used eight other times in Scripture, and it essentially means to take note or acknowledge. This verse calls us to be still and acknowledge that God is God. The stillness allows us to lean into our humanity, and we are better able to pay attention to and take note of who God is and all God has done. As verse eight says, we behold the works of the Lord. In a way, perhaps it’s a call to be still, take note, recount the ways of the Lord (Isaiah 63), and remember.

To remember our shared humanity, and that our humanity is held in the hands of a good God. 

To remember that we are not what we produce, even though it’s tempting to believe we are. 

To remember that our worth is not bound up in a perfect performance, but that we are valued even in the middle of our dysfunction. 

To remember that we are loved, not because of what we do, but because of who we are.

Most office machines have a “default setting.” They automatically print from a certain tray or fold paper a certain way. The good news is that, usually, I get to decide what that default setting is based on how I set it up. 

As a human person, not a machine, I want to make sure I’m paying attention to my default settings as well. With the help of the Holy Spirit, I want to reclaim and remember our collective humanity. I want to remember not only for myself, but for others, too. I want to be intentional about looking for the image of God in each person who crosses my path each day — the grocer, the server, the leader, the pastor, the teacher, the person on the other end of the phone, even those I strongly disagree with. I want to remember that we are all human, with limits and needs, worries and fears. And I want my default setting to reflect the One I follow, choosing to offer grace, understanding, compassion, and kindness. 

So today, if you’re caught up in the pressure to perform and produce, remember, you are not a machine. Plan accordingly. May we choose to lead with love, grace, and compassion, toward ourselves and the people around us, recognizing the whole of our humanity.