That thy peace which evermore ...
This is an odd sense: the pleasure of sleeping until five o’clock in the morning, marred by waking up, glancing at the clock and feeling I’ve been robbed of two hours of my life. But there it is, morning’s first awareness.
It comes from long years as a parish priest living in a rectory next door to the church on a main highway, the habit of getting up very early to enjoy the only time of day I would have to myself. Before dawn, even the Deity wouldn't knock on the door requiring my soul or asking for a handout, and the tramps and transients are still sleeping it off in the motel room I paid for last night.
More, it comes from those three months mid-October 2010 through mid-January 2011, rising as early as possible certain, because of my medical prognosis, that this would be the day to drive my Chevy to the levee, so enjoy the ride. Getting there is half the fun.
In fact, getting there is all the fun. And, yes, I do remember.
The Week yesterday had a religious piece that at last I can finally embrace wholeheartedly and endorse unreservedly.
Doubt is of the essence of faith, but certainty has no place in faith. Maybe the pope will convene a General Council to update the Nicene Creed, eh? Would the Episcopal Church attend and have voice and vote? Not likely. Eight-o’clockers still prefer the 1928 prayerbook. The rest are too oblivious to recite the Nicene Creed without stumbling over the filioque that we already have deleted on our own. What would I update? Everything “which passeth human knowing.”
This is what comes of getting up too late.
Time to get dressed, drive to 205, and walk.