A Time to Laugh

The Covenant Child

Still learning about this one. . . . but it just makes sense in the light of the whole of Scripture.

Yadah, yadah, yadah

1 Count yourself lucky, how happy you must be— you get a fresh start,
your slate’s wiped clean.

2 Count yourself lucky—
God holds nothing against you
and you’re holding nothing back from him.

3 When I kept it all inside,
my bones turned to powder,
my words became daylong groans.

4 The pressure never let up;
all the juices of my life dried up.

5 Then I let it all out;
I said, “I’ll make a clean breast of my failures to God.”

Suddenly the pressure was gone—
my guilt dissolved,
my sin disappeared.

6 These things add up. Every one of us needs to pray;
when all hell breaks loose and the dam bursts
we’ll be on high ground, untouched.

7 God’s my island hideaway,
keeps danger far from the shore,
throws garlands of hosannas around my neck.

8 Let me give you some good advice;
I’m looking you in the eye
and giving it to you straight:

9 “Don’t be ornery like a horse or mule
that needs bit and bridle
to stay on track.”

10 God-defiers are always in trouble;
God-affirmers find themselves loved
every time they turn around.

11 Celebrate God.
Sing together—everyone!
All you honest hearts, raise the roof!

Psalm 32

I’m more than a little surprised at how different this Presbyterian thing feels. I mean, I’m not uninformed about American religion — especially among conservative Protestants. At least, so I thought. But now that we’ve attended several PCA churches locally and although their worship “styles” have varied, one thing is consistent and that’s the thing I find most startling.

Each service re-presents, rehearses, and reviews the Gospel. In my previous life, that might mean something heavily evangelistic. And I intimately know many fundamentalist ministries who are overtly trying to be God-centered (code for “Reformed”). All that aside, this Presbyterian thing is more deliberate, more routine, and, it seems to me, more tried-and-true. Dare I call it liturgical?

You often hear so-called non-denominational conservative Protestants scolding their more market-savvy brothers for being too man-centered in their worship. “Worship,” you’ll hear, “is not about you. It’s about God.”

Well, no. It’s not. It’s about both. Presbyterians get that. Sean Michael Lucas — fellow BJU alum and, I’m pretty sure, a former student of mine way, way back when because he looks so familiar — explains it this way:

Our belief [is] that worship is covenantal would mean that in worship there is a two way movement between God and his people. Some people have even suggested that in worship there is a dialogue between God and his church. God is the one who makes the first move toward us be calling us to worship, and we respond by invoking his presence in our midst. And the rest of worship is a movement back and forth between God and his beloved people, a movement in which God meets us in Word and sacrament and we respond to his presence with prayers and praises.

Perhaps you have noticed a certain ebb and flow to many Presbyterian worship services:

• God calls us into his presence by his Word and Spirit.
• We enter God’s holy presence, are convicted of sin, and confess our sin to him.
• God responds by his Word with an assurance of his pardon.
• In prayers and songs, we praise our God for calling us into his presence and forgiving our sins.
• God speaks to us by his Word in the reading and preaching of Scripture, as well as through his visible signs of baptism and the Lord’s Supper.
• We respond to God in thanksgiving with praise and offerings.
• God sends us away with his blessing (or benediction).
• We move back into the world for loving service, assured that we are God’s people.

That’s not just the Gospel in five easy-to-remember steps. That’s not just a revival service designed to get ‘em saved. That’s reminding me that the Gospel is for me. That’s rehearsing the Drama of Grace.

Starting with Confession, yadah. Surveying the Old Testament use of the word en masse implies that confessing our sin as sin and confessing our God as Lord are pretty much the same. Like inhaling and exhaling, crescendo and decrescendo. We are helpless and fallen, and God is powerful and good. We have broken the law, and God provides escape. Salvation and adoration. Repentance and praise. It’s all confession. In admitting our iniquity, we privilege God’s greatness. We are depraved and He is gracious. We are human and He is God.

Why won’t we confess? We believers should be the best at this since it most glorifies God. But in refusing to admit our own sin, we’re erecting our own towering, babbling ziggurats. David describes it as gnawing away at our insides, dehydrating our juices, and pulverizing our bones. Nothing sounds more maddening, more Pharisaical, more pagan, and more blasphemous.

We get incensed that Science denies God as Creator while we whitewash our sepulchers. We raise our fists and our voices in anger at politicians for sounding a tad too Marxist in describing our religious impulse, but we act as embittered as any failed revolutionary when it comes to admitting our wrongs. We stand without apology after all, and we think that’s a tribute to God when it’s nothing more than a tribute to ourselves.

Why not confess our sins? What are we afraid of? Making God look good?

Mom My Ride

If you see me driving to and fro this week, you’ll see the sidewalk chalk bling that my freshly-minted two-year-old added to my ride. Yes, I could brush it off, but it’s my tribute to this:

Springtime for . . . well, for us!

Spring has sprung . . . but barely. We did have freezing temperatures this week even though the calendar says we shouldn’t. And I have to show you our latest projects.

I’m putting the sunflower house and the pea-tee-pee on hold until the husband of my life and my yard calls the Bobcats in. So until then, my horticulture is above my head.

You’ve seen those Topsy-Turvy Tomato Planters? They are expensive and very poorly reviewed. So I found a home-grown alternative that I made with a Deer Park 3-liter Stackable water jug, some rope, and my drill. Not bad, eh? Especially for free. Considering that the cutworms and the soil-born fungus usually get to my tomatoes before I do, I think the yield might actually be better this away. We’ll see, I s’pose.

I get real tired real fast of blowing bubbles. And when I saw Magic Cabin’s fancy-schmancy bubble wands, I thought I could make a reasonable copy. The most durable version is the blue one up there on the right; all the others fell apart fairly quickly. They were pretty much fun and were easier on the little guys to do their own bubble-making by running around the yard with their suds. We spilled the bubble juice I don’t know how many times, so I’m off to make some more today with another homegrown version:

1 Cup Water
2 Tablespoons Light Karo syrup or 2 Tablespoons Glycerin
4 Tablespoons Dishwashing liquid

It’s warm enough to eat our popsicles outside in a lawn chair train while Sugar makes the yard safe for democracy by terrierizing all the soccer balls, dirt clods, and dried leaves.

We’ve got the guest house ready for the Wrens to move in.

We’ve all gotten our somewhat-crooked spring haircuts now, and just today I discovered that playing outside with Mommy is more fun than a run to Target. Spring has sprung! If only Gene Wilder and Zero Mostel could produce a hit musical for us!

John Daker and Company

2!

So our little Gavin is two today. He woke up at 5, came into our room and snuggled (quietly even!) until 7:15. Bliss! He giggled until I was awake, and we began our day. Dancing, bellowing, spinning, laughing, jumping, and teasing. Oh — and lots of eating!!

He had his second breakfast of the morning with Grandpa Kaminski. My Dad’s staying with us for a little bit while my Mom recovers from open heart surgery. I wish you all could have seen it. Besides the back-and-forth teasing between them (fighting over which train was whose), they also teased back and forth over toast, ketchup, and scrambled eggs. When Isaac decided that he was done with his big pile of eggs (our 4-year-old is our toast-with-honey connoisseur), I fell into daughter-mode and passed the plate to my Dad to finish off.

The birthday boy objected loudly. After all, the eggs were on a Diego plate which was clearly meant for him. And he was still hungry. So Gavin began his third breakfast of the hour.

Two peas in a pod these two gentlemen — Grandpa at nearly 85 and Gavin at just-now 2.

Both forceps-delivery. Both the second living child after a traumatic loss. Both extended nurslings. Both incessant teases. Both meat-and-potatoes men. At age 5, I imagine that Gavin’s shoes will be in a similar condition to his Grandpa’s there in the photo. See them? Brand new and already scraped up from the walk to the photographers.

Both so full of life and fun. And I am blessed to know them both. Happy Birthday, my Gavin! I pray you have as long and happy a life as your dear Grandpa!

So. . . .uh. . . .

We’ve decided to go back. Starting tomorrow. They’ve issued a full apology, and we’ve already signed a contract. Our salaries will be double what they were (and now normal for the same position).

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APRIL FOOL’S!!