Most days we wake up without really recognizing the extraordinary circumstances in which we find ourselves—the wonder of our bodies, the miracle of the dawn.
And we go through our days, repeating the same rhythms again and again, finding comfort in the repetition, in the wheel of infinite agains.
And we often have hostile responses to interruptions because we are warm and comfortable and safe.
And there is no joy in the routine. No delight. Just comfort.
And this is often all we need. Because, often, the structure of the rut in which we walk means we don’t have to think. We dug the rut once and we don’t want to have to do it again.
* * *
In Orthodoxy, Chesterton ruminates on the delight that children take in routine. He suggests that, for a child, there is much joy in routine—in the do-it-again-ness—because the child is actively conscious of each repeated act, treating each occurrence as something new.
And Chesterton suggests that, perhaps, God is the same way. That, like a child, God delights in the newness of each turn of the wheel.
Perhaps God did not set in motion the rising of the sun with a single command. Perhaps God tells the sun each morning “do it again.”
Perhaps God has never grown tired of the wonder of the rising sun.
Perhaps, Chesterton suggests, we do not recognize the wonder of each turn of the wheel because we have sinned and grown old while our Heavenly Father is younger than we.
* * *
Last night I went out for a couple of beers with a friend.
And the shit he has gone through is more than I can possibly imagine. His life was interrupted in a way I pray mine never is.
And, yet, we talked of Love.
And he preached a sermon—beer in hand, at that small table in the darkness, laughter and music flowing around him—overflowing with Meaning.
* * *
And so, today, I am thankful for interruptions.
Because interruptions tell us—old and wonder starved sinners that we are—why the routine is sacred.