collie black and white,
sleek, graceful
circles left low to the ground.
sinks to lying down,
nose to the earth.
swift to move right,
deft, silent,
drops down,
alert and watching.
ears twitch
listening to directives
only he can hear.
intuiting instinct
only he knows
he steers the invisible sheep
into the invisible pen,
awarded top marks by
the invisible ‘One Man and His Dog’.
and the man
on the path
in the park,
sees only the screen
on his mobile phone.
I love the pre-amble the Voice gives to Psalm 150. ‘…the worship of the one True God ought to be full of life and energy…voices lifted, shouting for joy, trumpets blaring, stringed instruments playing, people dancing, pipes humming, tambourines keeping rhythm, cymbals crashing.’ The question followed about whether our worship was our worship was ‘too quiet, too reserved, too structured’.
I was about to think about that question in relationship to my own church experience of worship when my thoughts went off in a different direction. What was I going to do about it? How was I going to contribute to the life and energy of worship? It’s all very well questioning the how quiet or reserved or too structured worship might be but what we do about it matters.
Verse 4 instructs us to ‘Praise Him with the blast of trumpets high into the heavens and praise Him with harps and lyres and the rhythm of the tambourines skilfully played by those who love and fear the Eternal. Praise Him with singing and dancing; praise Him with flutes and strings of all kinds!’
That’s me ruled out for the most part. But I do have a tambourine. Years back when I was reluctantly accepted into the worship group and told I did not have a good singing voice, I asked my husband to buy me a tambourine for Christmas. It turned out that I didn’t have a great sense of rhythm either. I can see now where their reluctance came from. The heart was there but not the music. But the heart matters too.
‘You have a tambourine,’ said God. It was under the stairs. It was the right size to fit in my rucksack, so I packed it in. I think I intended to leave it in the rucksack. The idea came to me that there might be tambourine players among the worshippers. Someone else could play it.
I remembered years ago at a worship meeting with the local Salvation Army. I was a student then, a member of the Christian Union. I think we had choreographed a dance, part of which involved tambourines. What is it about the Salvation army that makes me think they are experts with tambourines? They were a gracious audience. No one offered us tambourine lessons.
I took the tambourine out of the bag. There was lots of admiration, and in the time before the meeting began lots of people played with it. With the start of the meeting it was back in my hands. That lack of a sense of rhythm came back to haunt me. I think I must have reached that age where I am indulged, that old lady eccentricity age. No one turned around and frowned at me. One lady went as far as to say it had made her day. It had lightened her spirit. She suggested that I bring it to a mid-week prayer and worship meeting. I might do that – after I have scrolled through some You-tube clips on how to do it properly.
Doing it properly was not my real intention. Doing it badly was to be avoided, but doing it properly brought with it the idea of stifling the heart. I’d stopped taking the tambourine all those years ago because ‘doing it properly’ was held in high esteem. It was thought that not doing it properly was getting in the way of other people worshipping. I am glad that we have all moved on.
The Voice commentary reminds us that psalm 150 ends the Book of Psalms. All that came before, the other 149 psalms, ‘reminded us of all the reasons we should praise God.’ Even the tough psalms gave us no reason to stop praising God. ‘Praise is what God created us to do; it is one of our highest purposes in life.’
A very big part of taking and playing the tambourine was about bringing myself in line with scripture. I had been commanded to praise Him with the tambourine. Obedience comes in all shapes and sizes.
Yes, I know that there is dancing in there too – I will save that for next week!
Lord, fill me such that I shall overflow
That fragrant life might follow where I go
That love unquenchable, my heart will sow
Lord, set my feet upon Your chosen way
Your wonders on the road be on display
And praise unceasing falls from lips today
I saw a mouse,’
‘Where?’
‘There on the stair’
‘Where on the stair?
‘Right there…
A little mouse clogs on
Well, I declare
Going clip clippity clop
On the stair…right there’
I read about a mouse in a newspaper this afternoon. A woman saw a mouse, not on a stair and not wearing clogs or clip clippity clopping in windmill. It was just there, not really moving at all. She phoned someone, an agency that dealt with vermin. It all sounded very urgent so the man and his van, a mask and a pair of gloves, came round to deal with the infestation.
‘I saw a mouse,’
‘Where?’
‘Just over there’
‘Where over there?
‘Right there…’
Sure enough there was a mouse, calm as you like, right there. It wasn’t moving. The man hazarded a guess that the mouse was dead. It stands to reason that it would have disappeared down a mouse hole if it was alive. The mouse allowed itself to be captured.
‘I have a mouse,’
‘Where?’
‘Here in my hand’
‘Where in your hand?
‘Right here…’
It turned out to be a toy mouse, looking like the real thing, but fashioned from soft plastic. There were no clogs, no clip clippity clop on the stair, just a plastic mouse not moving anywhere.
What else looks like the real thing but proves to be something else entirely?
My dad was a practical joker so I’m told. I remember an incident when I was very young. He came marching into the sitting room. He had all the appearance of an angry man.
‘Someone has been sick on the bathroom floor!’
He stabbed a finger in my direction. I hadn’t been sick. I would have been crying if I had. I was a pathetic creature with very little backbone in those days. Some would say that I haven’t changed much since then.
‘You,’ he said, ‘get a mop and bucket and clean it up. Now!’
I didn’t argue. I wasn’t my sick, but I fetched the mop and bucket and headed up stairs. My father followed me up the stairs and stood leaning against the door frame, arms crossed over.
It was there on the bathroom floor. A pool of sick. Were those carrots floating around in it? I slapped the mop in the middle of the pool, one hand covering my nose. I dragged the mop towards me. In its entirety the puddle moved with the mop. The carrots did not float off in a different direction but held their place. There was no wet, slurping sound and there was no unpleasant aroma.
It was just a piece of plastic, sick coloured, dotted with plastic carrots. It looked real but it wasn’t. My dad howled with laughter. The siblings crowded round the door laughed too. I think there might have been a big, wet tear sliding down my cheek.
What else looks like the real thing but proves to be something else entirely?
I hate to say it but there a lot of people claiming to be Christians. They look the part, polished up nicely for church on Sunday. They tick so many of the boxes we associate with a faith confession. When it comes to that last day, when they knock on the door of heaven, will Jesus say, ‘Go away. I never knew you.’?
What looks like the real thing isn’t always.
