The Very Best of My Friends
"The Christians have screwed up Sundays."
This was a bon mot that one of my wouldbe-writer colleagues and friends, A. Aveilhe, tossed off one Sunday afternoon long ago, while several of us walked along the quiet D.C. streets. I don't know if it was original with him.
I think Art had in mind the traditional shutdown of various business establishments, and also the strong conformity indulged in on that day by the faithful, which they expected of infidels like us as well. Just a few years later, in the 1960's, I started blaming the crippling of our Sundays on the new national religion instead, pro football.
How many times must Art's statement have come out of the mouths of dozens of so-called pagan cultures in the Middle East and elsewhere, 1,600 years ago, when Constantine the Great, the Council at Nicea, and other forces began setting Christianity's feet in concrete. To many of these cultures, including, we are told, what survived of the Romans themselves by Constantine's time, Sunday was the Lord's day, and the Lord was the Sun. But the Christians took over that day for themselves, codifying it as their main day for worshipping their God and their Son of God, neither of which was a celestial body.
In the times when it is truly followed, Christianity is okay, but I think the numerous groups that worshipped the Sun in ancient times were in much closer touch with the source of our most essential blessings.
Whether we like it or not, and however hard we try to shield ourselves from its numerous rays, the Sun is the biggest factor in our lives. Always has been, always will be. It is the Bringer of Life in so many ways, and this suggests that the Sun is actually more deserving of being worshipped than anything or anybody else.
One thing is certain: the existence of the Sun is far beyond any shadow of a doubt.
With that said, I would never worship the Sun.
One reason is that I seem to have been born without a worship gene of any sort.
But more than that, worship involves prayer, and prayer assumes that a higher being somewhere is listening. I know that the Sun isn't listening -- to me or to anyone else. It isn't aware of my existence or of the existence of anyone else on this, one of its closest clients. The essence of the Sun is a huge atomic furnace buried deep within the glowing orb whose light and warmth bathes us, blindly pumping out heat and all sorts of tasty little nuclear particles. It doesn't do any speaking either, at least of the vocal sort.
Instead I satisfy myself with welcoming its reappearance each morning with the deepest gratitude.
I see the Sun as being the very best of my friends -- and I have the greatest confidence that it won't blow up while I'm here.
This was a bon mot that one of my wouldbe-writer colleagues and friends, A. Aveilhe, tossed off one Sunday afternoon long ago, while several of us walked along the quiet D.C. streets. I don't know if it was original with him.
I think Art had in mind the traditional shutdown of various business establishments, and also the strong conformity indulged in on that day by the faithful, which they expected of infidels like us as well. Just a few years later, in the 1960's, I started blaming the crippling of our Sundays on the new national religion instead, pro football.
How many times must Art's statement have come out of the mouths of dozens of so-called pagan cultures in the Middle East and elsewhere, 1,600 years ago, when Constantine the Great, the Council at Nicea, and other forces began setting Christianity's feet in concrete. To many of these cultures, including, we are told, what survived of the Romans themselves by Constantine's time, Sunday was the Lord's day, and the Lord was the Sun. But the Christians took over that day for themselves, codifying it as their main day for worshipping their God and their Son of God, neither of which was a celestial body.
In the times when it is truly followed, Christianity is okay, but I think the numerous groups that worshipped the Sun in ancient times were in much closer touch with the source of our most essential blessings.
Whether we like it or not, and however hard we try to shield ourselves from its numerous rays, the Sun is the biggest factor in our lives. Always has been, always will be. It is the Bringer of Life in so many ways, and this suggests that the Sun is actually more deserving of being worshipped than anything or anybody else.
One thing is certain: the existence of the Sun is far beyond any shadow of a doubt.
With that said, I would never worship the Sun.
One reason is that I seem to have been born without a worship gene of any sort.
But more than that, worship involves prayer, and prayer assumes that a higher being somewhere is listening. I know that the Sun isn't listening -- to me or to anyone else. It isn't aware of my existence or of the existence of anyone else on this, one of its closest clients. The essence of the Sun is a huge atomic furnace buried deep within the glowing orb whose light and warmth bathes us, blindly pumping out heat and all sorts of tasty little nuclear particles. It doesn't do any speaking either, at least of the vocal sort.
Instead I satisfy myself with welcoming its reappearance each morning with the deepest gratitude.
I see the Sun as being the very best of my friends -- and I have the greatest confidence that it won't blow up while I'm here.
posted by Carl (aka Sofarsogoo) | 6:36 AM
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