I grew up in a small church in a little resort town in
Minnesota. I suppose our style of
worship would have been called liturgical and somewhat formal. The pastor wore vestments and the choir wore robes
while processing down the aisle to their place on the platform during the first
hymn. Before that happened though, the acolytes would light the candles on the
altar before the service began and then at the end of the service they would
come up the aisle and “take the light out”.
The acolytes were usually middle school-aged children and everyone,
including myself, loved it when it was our turn to serve because this meant we
could sit away from our families in the foyer and not have our parents nudging
us every time we whispered or giggled at something.
I will never forget one particular Sunday morning. My friend and I were the acolytes for the
service and we were so excited! No parental control! As soon as we did our “job” at the beginning of
the service we started whispering and talking to one another. Every once in a while, a giggle would escape
our lips and we would look up anxiously seeing if anyone heard us. When no one paid us any attention we got a
bit reckless and forgot where we were because when my friend said something
particularly funny, I laughed out loud.
Not a giggle or little hiccup of a laugh, it was an all-out, open
mouthed, belly laugh. Realizing where I
was and what I just did, I frantically looked up to see if anyone heard me. Yep, I saw some people turn around, but what
was worse, my dad heard me. Now my dad is a very fun-loving, kind,
patient man, but we were taught that God’s house was a place of reverence and
awe and my raucous hilarity was not part of that description. He stood up at his place in the front of the church, climbed over the tenor section, and marched down the
aisle with his choir robe billowing all around him. He looked like an avenging angel and I knew I
was toast; crispy on all sides, hold the butter, toast. I wondered what punishment awaited me. I remembered the devastating cookie ban of ’74 when
I got into the cookie jar and lied about it. Oh, this was not going to be good.
My dad took me by the arm, led me to a room, sat me down and
explained to me why we were having this conversation. He explained what I did wrong and how my
behavior did not show respect to God or others. Though he was disappointed in
my behavior he made sure to let me know that he wasn’t disappointed in me and
loved me very much. I’m sure I was not
allowed to be the acolyte for several months and had to apologize to our
pastor. I am happy to report that my dad
never had to come flying down the platform in his billowing robe ever
again. I had learned my lesson about
respecting others, God’s house, and what my heart attitude should be when serving
Him.
Hebrews 12:10-11 says, “He (God) disciplines us for our good, so that we may
share His holiness. All discipline for the moment seems not to be
joyful, but sorrowful; yet to those who have been trained by it, afterwards it
yields the peaceful fruit of righteousness.”
Some define holiness for Christians as conforming to the
will of God. Becoming more like Him. And
the fruit of those “teachable moments” is the fruit of righteousness. Just like
my dad had to discipline me so I could learn a valuable lesson, my heavenly Father
does the same, wanting me to have the peace that comes from a life that is free
from guilt or the fear of a life separated from Him. A peace knowing that my soul is secure and my
relationship with Him strong. Do I love to
be disciplined? No! But I love my Father and trust Him to mold me
in whatever way, shape, or form that is needed to make me more like Him.
That particular Sunday a long time ago, was just one of many
“teachable” moments from my earthly father and
heavenly Father. And as discipline goes,
probably the easiest to bear. Though
that cookie ban was pretty rough.
Sometimes learning the lesson the hard way with you,
Lisa
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