Once upon a time, I
worked as a houseparent in a Christian agency caring for troubled children.
There were several houses on the property and each was assigned a different
supporting church to attend with our wards.
Unhappily, I found
myself worshipping in the stiffest, most solemn congregation on the list of
contributing parishes. These were some long-faced, serious, scowling believers,
I tell you that! If the gospel is good news, no one had told these brothers and
sisters. It was like attending calling hours for Jesus week after week.
In my house were
several older teens and three, rambunctious eight-year-old boys. The older
teens were as frightened as I was of our fellow worshippers, so they caught on
immediately that this was not a place to cause trouble and behaved
appropriately but eight-year-old boys have the spiritual gift of squirming.
One Sunday, two of my boys, Eric and Marcus, were plaguing one another throughout the deadly proceedings. I scowled. I pointed fingers. I made the death sign across my throat. All to no avail. Suddenly, just as the ushers presented the collection at the altar, the two took to pummeling one another so hard they rolled out of the pew right into the aisle!
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