Saturday Sermon

From third grade until college we spent weekends at mom’s house. For the first half of those years, she lived in a small town smack dab in the middle of Massachusetts, next to an old Episcopal church with an aging congregation. A weather-beaten stockade fence divided her backyard from the church’s side yard - the perfect spot to play for three brothers who didn’t know anyone else in the neighborhood. Most Saturdays, that meant three-man wiffle ball. One pitcher, one fielder, one batter, countless ghost runners, and a poorly painted strike zone on that same fence we used as a catcher. Singles were any ground balls past the pitcher that stopped, or weren’t fielded cleanly. Anything in the air that hit the ground past the pitcher was a double. Triples had to hit the church walkway that ran through the outfield, and a home run was anything that landed past that. The batter got three outs, and then everyone rotated positions, playing until someone won or we ran out of daylight. More than a few games ended under protest.

For awhile, after mom moved, the only remnant of our ball field was the faded strike zone still painted on the fence. After a few years that was taken down by whomever moved in after us, and never replaced. A few years after that, the church closed its doors, and the building went up for sale. Today it still remains vacant, our field in a state somewhere between overgrown and abandoned - the perfect spot for our old ghost runners keep circling the bases.

Saturdays in college served a much different purpose. Hours of lectures, studying, work, extracurriculars, and stress added up throughout the week. Release came from Friday nights spent sweating in cramped basements with loud music, sticky floors, and whatever cheap alcohol could be secured by upper classmen. Naturally, Saturday became a day of rest and recovery. The less fortunate among us spent mornings paying penance at the porcelain altar. Those with better luck slept in just long enough to still make it down to the local diner before they stopped serving breakfast. There we regrouped from the night before, in a modern day Council of Nicaea. Memories became a group effort; re-assembled slowly, and changed frequently over eggs, pancakes, and burnt coffee. Once solidified and agreed upon those memories became the parables we still share when everyone gets back together, even though the diner closed years ago.

Nowadays, I’ve traded the extra rest for routine. Waking up early, taking the dog for a long walk, and having a coffee have all become part of the Saturday morning ritual. The still time before sunrise, when not even the birds are awake, has become my favorite part of the day. I read once that some Native American cultures hold that time of morning as sacred. Set aside by their Creator, just for humans, as a time for reflection and appreciation. Reflection on the past, appreciation for the present, and from those - a greater connection to what moves the universe forward. For some reason that has resonated strongly with me ever since I heard it. Does that make me spiritual? I don’t know. If you swap out “Creator” and “reflection” for “God” and “prayer” would it make me religious? I’m not sure. I’ve never considered myself to be either of those.

I do know that there are moments I can reflect on where I’ve felt something. Like when I look up on a cold, clear winter night and feel the weight of the stars and moon pushing down. Or when I feel the temperature drop and catch the scent of petrichor in the air right before a summer thunderstorm. Or even now, watching my dog through the window enjoying a particularly sunny patch of grass underneath his favorite tree as I write this. So I suppose, upon reflection, if that innate feeling that wells up in those moments is what people are referring to when they talk about God or religion, then maybe, just to be safe, I’ll end this with an…

Amen.