Sunday, January 31, 2010

Something About Sunday

Sunday is my favorite day of the week.
And I'm not sure why. It just is.
It has been for a long while now, and so much so, that I have suspected an uncanny reason. Like that the air is different or something. Back when I was a church-going person, I believed that I favored Sundays because that was when I got to go to church.
But then I quit going to church altogether. Quit exercising my "spirituality" in that way.
And I still loved Sundays.
I mean, immeasurably more than Saturdays.
When I wake up on a Sunday, I feel different than on any other day of the week.
Tonight as I was walking home in the chilly evening, I really invested some thought into this question -- why do I like Sundays so much?
Think, think, think, think..... and here is what I came up with --
My answer is that it is wrong to try and find a reason!
[I breathed in the crisp January 31st air molecules of Ottawa, which, in that moment were mingled with someone's fireplace wood, crackling away... giving itself to their pleasure and warmth]....
The entire question of trying to figure out why I love Sunday is wrongheaded.
My boots sound different on the sidewalk, as they scrunch salted gravel and ice and snow... different against clean concrete -- IT JUST IS.
The people who wrote the Old Testament felt it was a blasphemy to even pronounce the name of the God they worshipped. And when I recognize that fact, I realize that it would be no different for me to try and define why I like Sunday so much.
Some things are killed, in the defining.

And then it came to me -- Sunday is the day I am most there.
And most here. Where I should be.
Just as I came up with that conclusion I was passing a cathedral that once, quite a while ago now, inspired me to bring forth the following poem:

The Good Ones

There is something about a cathedral

that an atheist would admit to.

The good ones, mind.

With stone and spires. Ones with

big bells that ring you awake. Assymetrically

pleasing, and full of candles within.
Hooded people mumbling help.

The good ones have stained glass, and unreadable
things written, these are the ones that inspire
mystery, and a sense that God should live here.
You need smoke from an unseen place.

What are these other buildings made of wood?

Trees. Did Moses ever strike a tree to make

God talk? No.

He struck a rock.

A cathedral is what you need.
What you need is a place so ominous

that you fail to realize that God is indeed there

only because you are.

c. Ciprianowords, Inc. 2008


Beth said...

The last line of the poem prompted one of those, "oh, yes!" moments.

Stefanie said...

There is something about Sunday, especially Sunday afternoon, but Saturday is my day. Beautiful poem!

Amy said...

I love your poem. I am not religious, and in fact, don't know that I believe at all, but I feel exactly like this about certain worship spaces and services.

Anonymous said...

Because it's the first day of the week. A fresh start. Newness. Wonder. Anticipation.

Back when we went to church (quit 3 years ago), Sundays were MISERABLE. Fighting to get kids ready, in a rush to get out the door, smiles pasted on for people who were so keen on judging us... it's FAR AND AWAY better now.

Don't begrudge wooden churches their structure. Messiah, after all, was a carpenter.

The AnnaMatrix