Happy Sabbath
When Nietzsche said
“We worship because we’re terrified of being equal to what we kneel before,”
he did not say from reason—
he saw through my eyes.
He looked into the quiet chambers
where faith trembles,
where belief breathes in mystery.
So we raised walls and called them holy,
named them sanctuaries,
hoping devotion might bargain us
a longer breath, a gentler fate.
We pledged ourselves to what we could not grasp,
and wrote laws so heavy
even the Son had to break them—
not to destroy, but to heal.
We were wrong to fear.
Wrong to think ignorance was humility,
for even wisdom falters
when vision is lost.
Wrong to imagine equality
with the unseen—
known only through stories etched
into the hearts of martyrs,
whose blood preached a glory
other beliefs could not explain.
We thought kneeling was persuasion,
as though posture could move divinity.
If only we knew—
how He delights not in bent knees
but in trembling hearts,
quivering in awe
like the wilderness mouths that asked,
What is this?
If only we knew
how longing moves Him—
like Hannah’s silent cry
that puzzled the prophet
before it pierced heaven.
Then faith would not shake
at what stands before us,
but rest in the assurance
of who stands behind us—
the Giver of worlds,
the Author of our becoming.
And so we remember Him.
Not just with words.
Not just with rituals.
But with every Sabbath.
W