There’s too much. Too many shows, too many podcasts, too many hot takes from people who haven’t blinked since 2019. Every platform is screaming for your attention like a toddler on a sugar crash. And somehow, you’re supposed to keep up — be informed, be entertained, be spiritually fed, be emotionally regulated, be productive, be “rested.” Good luck with that.
This isn’t content anymore. It’s a cultural avalanche. And we’re all pretending it’s fine while quietly melting down.
The truth is, we’ve hit critical mass. Peak content. Peak noise. Peak distraction. And in a world where everything is monetized — including your peace — Sabbath might be the last truly rebellious thing left.
Let’s start with the numbers. Nielsen reports the average American adult now spends more than 10 hours a day engaged with digital media. That includes streaming, scrolling, listening and watching — often more than one screen at a time. We’re not unwinding. We’re overstimulated, fragmented and digitally exhausted.
And it’s not just anecdotal. A 2024 report from the American Psychological Association linked chronic media exposure to higher rates of anxiety, burnout and attention disorders. The World Health Organization has started identifying screen-induced fatigue as a mental health risk, especially among Gen Z and millennials. And yes, your endless queue of “edifying content” counts too.
Meanwhile, a Barna study found that 58% of practicing Christians under 30 report feeling spiritually unfocused most days. The same study showed that more than half admitted to doomscrolling or binge-watching even when emotionally drained. We don’t rest because we’re tired. We consume because we’re numb.
Even our attempts at rest are infected. We’ve commercialized self-care. We’ve turned quiet time into content. Your devotional journal has a color palette now. Your Sabbath table setting is Instagram-worthy. There’s a YouTube channel dedicated to minimalist Christian routines that somehow make you feel busier than before.
So what are we supposed to do? Go off-grid? Become Luddites? Delete every app and live in the woods?
Not exactly. But in a world that commodifies your time, energy and even your rest, Sabbath might be the most radical, countercultural, holy practice we have left.
“Sabbath is a scheduled weekly reminder that we are not what we do; rather, we are who we are loved by,” writes A.J. Swoboda in Subversive Sabbath.
That stillness isn’t just good for your soul — it’s biblical. Sabbath appears in the Ten Commandments, right alongside not killing anyone or stealing your neighbor’s goat. God didn’t suggest it. He commanded it. And yet, it might be the most consistently ignored commandment in modern Christian life.
“Remember the Sabbath day by keeping it holy,” reads Exodus 20:8. The Hebrew word for holy means “set apart” — as in not like the others. Not just another day to get ahead or catch up. A day to stop.
Not slow down. Not multitask with lo-fi worship in the background. Stop.
But stopping feels unnatural now. We live in a culture where stillness is suspicious. If you’re not posting, people assume you’re not doing anything. If you’re not creating, producing, grinding or upgrading, you’re seen as lazy or behind. And that’s not just a secular problem. Hustle culture has infiltrated our spirituality too.
“The great irony of Sabbath-keeping is how hard it is for us to say no to people but how with such ease we say no to being at rest with God,” Swoboda writes.
Jesus modeled Sabbath rhythms even while saving the world. He withdrew. He said no to crowds. He slept through storms. He disappointed expectations. And when his followers tried to guilt him for healing on the Sabbath, he reminded them, “The Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath.”
Translation? This isn’t supposed to be a burden. It’s a gift.
And yet, for a generation raised on 24/7 connectivity, the idea of intentionally logging off — even for a few hours — feels less like a gift and more like social suicide. What if something happens? What if someone needs me? What if I miss something?
But that’s exactly the point. Sabbath forces us to face the uncomfortable truth that the world keeps spinning without us. That our worth isn’t in how many tabs we have open. That our value isn’t tied to our productivity or public visibility.
“Sabbath is a reminder that in our irrelevance we are still loved by the Maker of everything,” Swoboda writes.
It’s the kind of counter-narrative that challenges everything capitalism and hustle culture want you to believe — that if you stop grinding, you lose value. That silence is dangerous. That rest is weakness.
But that’s exactly what makes Sabbath so powerful. When practiced regularly, it becomes a protest. A declaration that you’re not a machine. A statement of trust that God — not your work, your feed or your follower count — is the one holding your life together.
“Sabbath is a way to save us from ourselves,” Swoboda writes. “Sabbath is how we turn off the voices of demand and dive into the depth of our belovedness.”
So what does this actually look like?
You don’t have to move to a monastery or cancel your Netflix subscription. Sabbath doesn’t start with dramatic gestures. It starts with quiet decisions. Choose a window of time — an evening, a morning, a full day — and make it sacred. Turn your phone off or put it in another room. Delete the apps if you have to. Don’t post. Don’t schedule. Don’t scroll. Go outside. Make something with your hands. Read Scripture out loud. Let your mind wander. Let your soul breathe.
“Practically, how can you begin if you find yourself in a challenging situation? Do this: begin with a half-day Sabbath. Just half a day. Turn your phone off. Make some pancakes. Go on a walk. Pray. Pull out your journal. Read a psalm out loud. God will meet you,” Swoboda suggests.
If you live with others, involve them. Make a meal together with no devices in sight. Eat slowly. Laugh loudly. Don’t take pictures. Let the moment pass unarchived. If you live alone, protect the time fiercely. Sabbath is communal, yes, but it’s also deeply personal. You’re not doing this for anyone’s feed.
And if the idea of doing nothing still feels terrifying, remember: Sabbath is less about doing nothing and more about doing nothing for gain. It’s about trusting that being is enough. That God is enough. That you are enough — even when you’re offline.
The content will still be there. The podcasts will keep coming. The stream never ends. But you don’t have to ride it 24/7. You can get off the ride. Not forever. Just long enough to remember you’re not a machine.
God saw that it was good. And maybe for one day a week, that can be your only metric too.
