Skip to content


We make a virtue out of

worshiping a clock-faced god,

living lives of tightly scheduled minutes

as if each lateness

were recorded in some

great and doomful book,

to be counted up and weighed against our hearts

when all our days are done.

As if Creation cared.

There is nothing natural

in the revolutions of a clock.

No ethics

in the rocking trap of the escapement.

Nothing holy

in the gears and springs

that cut the world to seconds.

We chose to treat these things as sacred,

to make a Faith of punctuality

and a Creed of “Don’t be late.”

But this is not a healing rite.

Punctuality is other people’s

demands upon our souls.

And it is not the only choice we are allowed.

The deep world moves but slowly

to the lingered dance

of sun and moon,

keeping time through

an abiding whirl of stars

that are for signs, and seasons, and days, and years.

And we can take that measure for ourselves.

Against the ageless patience of the skies

what worth are all our spring-wrought hours?

Here, our careful liturgy of timeliness comes loose.

Here, it does not matter if the seconds run away from us.

Here, beneath this temple vault of heaven,

is a morality of timelessness

that begs of us to stay until we know enough,

to travel at the speed of peace,

and keep our faith with moments,

not with minutes.

An ethics of the time we owe ourselves

so that, when all our hours have run dry

and every substance of our days is weighed and judged,

it can be said that our short stay here was well-lived,

and not well-scheduled.

Published inUncategorized