Keeping the Sabbath in a Hustle Culture

A Lawyer’s Commitment to Rest (Part 2)

There is a rhythm to the world. It doesn’t announce itself with urgency or chase us down with deadlines or ping us at 10 p.m. on a Sunday. It waits quietly, patiently, for us to remember it.

That rhythm is rest.

I didn’t grow up with a Sabbath practice, and honestly never really thought about it much. But in law school, when my life turned into a slog of endless deadlines, projects, and tests, something in me knew I needed an anchor. Not a nap. Not a day off. Not even a vacation. Something deeper. I needed resistance.

My Sabbath practice started not with a theology book or a church sermon, but with deep exhaustion. Law school demands everything from you: your time, your mental energy, your relationships, and even your identity. The people who survive it either surrender to the system or find a way to live outside it.

The gift I had been given to withstand and resist this system was that I had been shaped, years before, by an experience that would become foundational to my Sabbath practice. After college, uncertain of my future and worn thin from nonprofit work, I went to a monastery in France. (Something I’ll dive into another time…) But it changed me. I went to the edge of my spiritual limits — and found that monastic life, silence and structure, weren’t confinements. They were fundamental habits for freedom.

Later, back in Waco, I founded an intentional community with three friends. We shared our money, our meals, our prayers, and even an extra room for people in need. We developed what we called a “rule of life.” Prayer at 7 a.m. and 7 p.m., family dinner rhythms, boundaries around our time. And while we weren’t trying to be monks, we were trying to survive with our souls intact.

So, when I entered law school, I brought this rhythm with me. Sabbath became my line in the sand. A full 24-hour window where I closed the laptop, ignored the pinging phone, and said no to the endless expectations of my performance-driven culture. It wasn’t just about rest. It was a protest against the expectation to always be “on”.

Sabbath is how I defy the voice in my head that says, “Keep grinding. Prove yourself. Don’t fall behind.” It’s also my protest against a corporate culture that demands 24/7 availability and rewards burnout with more work.

During my Sabbath, I remind myself the world will spin without me, and that my worth does not rise and fall with productivity.

Now, this isn’t always clean. There are moments when I break my Sabbath for various reasons. A client emergency, for example, which is a request I feel obligated to respond to. When I do that, it doesn’t feel really like a compromise… It feels like grief. It’s not just about what I give up – it’s about who I become when I forfeit the pause. I carry frustration and always disappointment.

But Sabbath, like grace, is not earned. It is returned to.

If you want to start a Sabbath practice, I have only one piece of advice: make it measurable. Make it real. Don’t start with an undefined idea of what you want it to be. Choose a day and set a start and end. It could be two hours or twenty-four. But put a fence around it. Ironically, that’s where freedom begins.

Then fill that time with what makes your soul expand. For me, it’s church, family, friends, the gym, dinners, my wife and dogs. Sometimes it’s reading a good book. Other times, it’s simply doing anything but work.

It may sound counterintuitive, but not working (Sabbath) has made me a better lawyer. Not because I’m more efficient, but because I remember who I am when I stop performing. I remember why I do this work. I remember who it’s for.

The machine isn’t going to stop. It’s a machine after all. But you can step outside of it.

Even for a day.

Even for a breath.

And in that sacred pause, you might remember who you are and why you do what you do.