Having a sense of certainty firmly rooted in one’s faith is not something easily achieved by most of us. Whether we belong to the believers or not, whether we are a shepherd or one of the flock, it is hard on the one hand to feel any certainty and, on the other, to taste genuineness. It takes a lot of work to see the meaning after faith has been so carved up and watered down. It takes even more to believe that the «Sun of Justice,» celebrated in Tuesday’s psalms, is rising now rather than at some distant time that cannot be measured by anything at our means. Justice remains unfound, even among those who claim to be the deacons of the divine. For a long time people have known – since Democritus, the Thracian philosopher said that an uncelebrated life is like a trip without rest – that life without the respite of celebration can become a noose around our necks, just as a journey can become unbearable if there is no inn along the way where we can rest. And even if, over the years, holidays (be they religious or national) have been denigrated to routine affairs and lost all of their spiritual luster, we cannot exist without them and especially not without their expectation – even if once they pass, they leave us with the complaint that once again we did not have enough time to do all the things we promised, that again we doled out presents rather than real sentiment and that once again this routine has left us exhausted. But, there is something divine about routine as well. Ultimately, routine is our real condition, our certainty and genuineness, and as such deserves better than scorn. The essence of our being can be found in the mundane and not in the extraordinary. It is like a necklace whose real worth lies in the humble little chain holding it all together rather than the precious stones.