Friday

This day, with all of its peculiarities, will not be much different than other days.  I will make my commute to work in the comfort of a climate-controlled car.  I will sip my single-serving of morning coffee while sitting in a beautifully decorated office. I will mutter through a few prayers before stressing over today’s looming problems in my life: when I will find time for the yard; what the kids will wear on Sunday morning; why the bathroom sink is draining so slowly.

I will consume my three square meals with hardly a nod of thanks.  I will take for granted the ones I love.  I will lose my temper, find my angst, and spend most of the day looking for answers to tomorrow’s questions. I will purchase trinkets with a salary earned representing a Galilean peasant publicly executed for challenging the religious and political status quo.

And then, at some point tonight, I will shuffle into a dimly lit sanctuary, accompanied by a small handful of kindred souls.  I will listen to the all-too-familiar passages and the droning bellow of ancient pipes.  I will watch the light die slowly around me.  I will do my part, extinguishing one final candle in the night.  And as I sit there, haunted by the uncomfortable silence, I will wonder why this particular Friday doesn’t feel any different than the rest.