I hate to admit it, but I have a tendency to think I’m Superman. Not the “leap tall buildings in a single bound” kind. More like the “trauma doesn’t affect me” kind. I tend to assume human limitations don’t apply to me. I can handle one more responsibility, solve one more problem, keep pushing a little longer.

Basically, I’m Superman, but without weakness—without kryptonite.

It takes a pretty proud person to think he’s better than Superman.

Then, this past spring, my body started breaking down. I got daily, day-long migraines. Numbness began in my thumb and pointer finger, then crept into my other extremities. I felt so tired that I thought, “I could sleep for three months straight.”

That’s when my elders stepped in and said, “Michael, you’re taking a three-month sabbatical.”

I visited all kinds of medical professionals, and every test came back normal. It turned out to be my trauma therapist who provided what I think was the best explanation: “Everybody experiences trauma differently. Some fall apart right away; others keep functioning. They keep going. And then months or even years later, their minds and bodies finally register what they’ve been carrying.”

Having experienced trauma a few years back, that was part of my story. I was just being human.

But it wasn’t the whole story.

On top of just being human, there was also me trying to be superhuman. For several years, I had tried to outrun grief and pain with work and work. Somewhere beneath the surface, productivity had become a way of proving that I was okay. Eventually my body said, “You have to stop.” And through my body, I believe God was telling me something I already knew but struggled to accept:

I’m not Superman. I’m not a machine.

I have limits.

And limits are not failure. Accepting them, rather, is a sign of humility.

When Your Feet Outrun Your Limits

Psalm 131 has become one of the most meaningful passages of Scripture in my life. Charles Spurgeon called it “one of the shortest Psalms to read, but one of the longest to learn.”

He was right.

David begins, “O LORD, my heart is not lifted up; my eyes are not raised too high; I do not occupy myself with things too great and too marvelous for me.”

There is a progression here: The heart rises; then the eyes rise; finally, the feet start moving.

The Hebrew behind “I do not occupy myself” carries the idea of going or walking after something—just like Israel walked after other gods (Deut. 6:14; 8:19). What begins in the heart proceeds through the eyes, and then into the feet—until it becomes your “walk”—your lifestyle.

This doesn’t mean ambition is sinful. Paul wrote, “I make it my ambition to preach the gospel” (Rom. 15:20). Aspiring to achieve great things is a good thing—provided that it doesn’t spring from a proud heart and haughty eyes, as in Psalm 131. The “great and marvelous things” condemned by verse 1 are those that spring from pride, not holiness.

Holy ambition wants to make God’s name great through faithfulness to a great God. Unholy ambition wants to make my name great through superhuman achievement. That distinction can feel blurry because pride wears camouflage. Sometimes what we call “excellence” is anxiety in church clothes. Sometimes what we call “work ethic” is an inability to stop. Sometimes what we call “vision” is a refusal to admit that God has assigned us a human-sized life.

Pride says, “I have no limits.”

Humility agrees with reality: God is infinite, and you are not. God neither slumbers nor sleeps; you should probably do both.

This brings us back to Psalm 131. The image of spiritual rest is not of Superman leaping over buildings. It’s a child resting in Momma’s arms.

When God Lets the Milk Dry Up

David continues: “But I have calmed and quieted my soul, like a weaned child with its mother; like a weaned child is my soul within me.”

Weaning is not a sentimental process. Ask any mother who has done it. What once came immediately is suddenly withheld. Generally speaking, the baby does not respond, “Mother, I appreciate your commitment to my long-term development.”

The baby screams.

But Psalm 131 pictures the child after the process is complete. The child has learned to rest against Mom without demanding milk. The milk may be withheld; her presence remains.

God sometimes does the same thing with us. We grow accustomed to a particular form of blessing: health, strength, a job, a relationship, financial security, answered prayer, ministry success, some spiritual experience. Then the milk dries up.

Our first reaction is usually restlessness. We assume something has gone terribly wrong. Sometimes it has. But sometimes deprivation is doing something in us that abundance never could. The child learns to rest in Mom rather than milk.

And we learn to rest in God, not just His gifts.

That is Christian maturity, and it is harder than it sounds. I like the constant flow of blessings. I like quickly answered prayers, health, strength, and fruitful ministry. There is nothing wrong with any of those desires. Scripture constantly teaches us to pray for healing, provision, rescue, revival, and blessing.

But those things are milk.

God is not obligated to continue every stream of blessing. And that’s for our ultimate good—just like it’s good that every reader of this blog was at one point weaned off breastmilk (or formula).

Our deepest hope cannot be a constant stream of outward blessing because outward blessings change. Like the weaned child of Psalm 131—the child at rest—our deepest hope is in connection, not consumption; presence, not provision.

This is a joy that never dries up.

Rest Is Received Before It Is Practiced

Little children aren’t known for their resumes, and this tells you something about spiritual rest: you don’t achieve it; you receive it. You receive it by faith.

Jesus says, “Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” The requirement is not that you finally juggle every spinning plate. The requirement is that you’re tired. Christianity begins with receiving, not achieving. On the cross Jesus said, “It is finished.” Jesus did the work so that we could rest. He achieved so that we could receive. This is why Augustine said, “You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our heart is restless until it rests in you.”

But the rest Christ gives must also be practiced. David says, “I have calmed and quieted my soul.”

This means his soul had not previously been calm or quiet. Because our default state is restlessness, all it takes is a bad news phone call, or a kid who won’t listen, or a car cutting you off to disturb the peace you’ve found in Jesus. It’s like throwing a rock into a placid pond. It ripples out to your mind and body. You go from calm to crazy in 6.2. Some of us find rest in Jesus, but the smallest pebble disturbs our souls, and we never re-center.

When this happens to David, he takes action. He calms and quiets his soul.

Psalm 131 doesn’t tell us HOW David calmed and quieted his soul. But other psalms illustrate this often. For example, in Psalms 42-43, we observe the refrain, “Why are you downcast, O my soul, and why are you disturbed within me? Hope in God, for I will yet praise him, my Savior and my God.”

The psalmists calm their soul by preaching to it. The reason it’s a refrain is that it doesn’t effect change the first time. He has to preach to himself over and over. If restlessness disturbs the pond, you have to meet each ripple with a corresponding truth from God’s Word.

Personally, I have notecards that spell out the lies I tend to believe, and the truths that replace those lies. Maybe you believe the lie that you have no worth. Write it down on one side of a notecard. On the other side, put God’s truth: “I have worth because I’m made in God’s image.” “I have worth because Jesus died for me.” Put a verse to match it.

And then preach it to your soul.

I know, that sounds like work. It is, but only sort of. It’s not the work of earning rest. It’s the work of putting yourself where God’s truth can work on you. Think about it like taking a shower. It takes some effort to get in, but you’re not scrubbing yourself clean with dry hands. The water does what you can’t do by standing outside it.

Preaching God’s Word to yourself is like stepping under the water. You bring your restless soul under the truth again and again, until the lies wash away and the soul grows quiet.

Truth does the work. Your job is merely to position yourself beneath its cleansing flow. Do this, and you will find rest. The truth will set you free. And when it does, you’ll be just like David in verse 3: “O Israel, hope in the LORD from this time forth and forevermore.”

Deep rest was never meant to terminate on David. God’s gifts are meant to be shared, not hoarded. Whenever you find your rest in God, you naturally want to invite others to enjoy this same hope.

Perhaps this can serve as a Rest Test: Are you inviting others to enjoy the salvation—the rest—that Jesus freely offers? If your soul is at rest, your heart will long to share Jesus. And your mouth eventually will.

Sometimes Humility Means Letting Someone Carry You

One of the hardest parts of my sabbatical was not simply being weak. It was being weak publicly. After more than two decades in ministry, I had grown accustomed to being needed. Meeting needs is a wonderful thing, but somewhere along the way, I had become dependent—ironically—on my own independence.

I liked being the strong person.

Then, for several months, I couldn’t be. Other people preached. Elders carried responsibilities. People made decisions without me—good decisions. And something unexpected happened: for once, I got to be the child.

Children don’t meet needs. They get their needs met.

The body of Christ met my needs. And I discovered that sometimes humility serves others, but sometimes it receives service from others. For me, the latter is a greater humbling. It meant I didn’t have to be indispensable. I didn’t have to be strong enough to carry the church. I could simply be weak, limited, and loved.

Like a weaned child.

Three months of being cared for in my state of weakness did more for my soul than years of pushing ahead. I can’t tell you how much it ministered to me to have a church that loved me for who I am, not what I can produce. This pressed into my soul a truth I know but struggle to believe: that Jesus loves me for who I am, not what I can produce.

I expect I’ll be learning this same lesson for the rest of my life. Because we’re all pilgrims. Even if we find rest on the inside, we don’t find total rest until Jesus returns.

We don’t arrive until He arrives.

Until that day, may we not be like the screaming child but like the weaned child that has learned to find peace in Mom, not milk. In God, not gifts. In presence, not proving.

And as I’ve learned over the last three months, God’s presence doesn’t have to come through some dramatic spiritual experience.

God makes His presence known, every Sunday, through the people sitting right beside you.