Sabbath Says

Why Sabbath? Ask the poets. They know everything even if they don’t know they know everything. In particular, these three views of time resonate with me because once a week, I stop the clock.

“We’ll never get there

Time is always ahead of us, running down the beach, urging

Us on faster, faster, but sometimes we take off our watches,

Sometimes we lie in the hammock, caught between the mesh

Of rope and the net of stars, suspended, tangled up

In love, running out of time”

                                    from “In The Middle,” by Barbara Crooker

“That the hands of the sisters Death and Night incessantly

Softly wash again, and ever again, this soil’d world”

                                    from “Reconciliation,” by Walt Whitman

“not when the young

Keep shoving from behind

Not when the old are tugging us forward

Pulling on our arms with all their feeble strength”

                                    from “The Parade,” by Billy Collins

It isn’t Sabbath yet – but it is a beautiful, blustery autumn day. Today I have no illusion of holiness. I just want to wish everyone a very happy Thursday, like Pooh. I want to watch the trees turn and watch my puppies chase the bright yellow leaves.

I don’t want to do anything in particular. I want to be unproductive. Squander my hours. Waste my minutes. I’ve got plenty of nothing, and nothing’s plenty for me.

As I said, today is not the Sabbath, but with seven years of Sabbaths under my belt, I recognize a good thing when I see it. Without the rest-practice, I wouldn’t be signing off for the rest of today.

Maybe when Sabbath swings by in a couple of days, I’ll have unwound enough that I can really worship. I’ll be rested for my Rest. I’ll look back on this day, and realize that it, too, was holy. Maybe even grand.

Where is that silly old Bear when you need him?

It’s Sabbath again. I have lit my candle, prayed my prayers, and still I resist the hand of God. I see His writing on the wall. I see His scratches on the ground. I am afraid.

I don’t want God’s kind of good. Like Bilbo, and I wish to be left alone. No adventures, thank you. I’ve got tea on, don’t you see – good tea at that. Can’t you come back tomorrow?

Still, if Gandalf had not persisted, marching into Bilbo’s house with 12 voracious dwarves, Bilbo would not have had a tale to tell. There would be no There, and Back Again.

Our adventures are such rubbish. Hospitals, instead of dragons. Magic medicines, not magic rings. Debate instead of war. There are so few chances to be heroic in our global world of isolated islands.

Bilbo was chosen for a burglar, a disreputable task for a hobbit. I wonder what task my Wizard has in store for me. Ever since I let that Jesus fellow in, I haven’t had a moment’s peace.

I’m weary, Lord. I don’t want a holy day to worship You, but instead a holiday from You. Good morning, Sir!

You’re still there, aren’t You?

I am only quite a little person in a wide world, after all.