When I go to work or come home from work on Sunday mornings, I sometimes like to pick a route that is usually jammed with cars on a weekday. Bicyclists own the streets on Sunday mornings. The trick is to be on the road before the church-goers (usually running late or pressured for a prime pentecostal parking place) start their engines, squeeze behind the steering wheel and careen to worship.
They are sincere in their desire to slip the surly bonds of this earthly plane, and sometimes that sincerity can't help but spill into a desire to send pedestrians or bicyclists to see Jesus in a very real, immediate and violent fashion. Maybe it's like sending an advance person. I'm sure one would be in their prayers after one became one with their mini van.
Anyhow, the streets were clear this morning. Broadway, in front of the court house, was abandoned. It's hard to think of a more emotion-packed, life-changing place as this court house. It is always interesting to be there when court is in session. The place is packed. You can see the tension, the sadness, the relief and anger on people's faces as they stream in and out of the place. This morning - nothing - just peace and sunshine.
When the street is empty of parked cars, another little story gets told. What looks like grease spots on the pavement, under each parked car's engine, is more than just a spot. The multitude of hot engines, leaking oil and other precious automobiley fluids has, over time, eroded the asphalt into evenly-spaced craters - sometimes right down to the old brick.
Cars, judgment, oil, time, destruction, habit, Sunday, church, and the indestructible brick underneath it all. Somebody wiser than me can tie this whole thing together in a nice philosophical package. As for me, I am heading out for a Fathers Day bike ride with my boys!
