Good morning church family,
All during our growing up years, my father was very patient with us kids. Should we happen to break a window while playing baseball in the backyard, he’d just say, “Wow. A second-story one, huh? Nice hit.” If he caught us blowing all our money on penny candy from the dry cleaners, he’d smile and say, “I bet not ten seconds after you finished that Tootsie Roll, the taste was out of your mouth. Wouldn’t it be nice to use your money on something that lasts a little longer?” Or when our report cards sported a crescent moon or two, he’d slowly remove his glasses, lay the sad report down on the dining room table, and wrinkle up his mouth. “Well,” he’d say; solemn encouragement visible in the corners of his eyes, “I’m sure those marks can be improved upon. Can’t they, son?”
Yes, my dad was undyingly patient. Whether it was us kids bending mower blades on the roots of the backyard maple, dimpling the rear quarter panel of the family station wagon with errant Frisbie tosses, or bloodying his nose with a barrage of frozen snowballs as he trudged defenseless up the walk at the end of a long day; bags of groceries under each arm – my dad bore it all with grace. But there was one thing that would instantly exhaust our father’s vast reserve of patience. There was one bit of sloppy carelessness that he could never brook. There was one sin he simply wouldn’t suffer. Yes, my dad was a different man when any of us took the Lord’s name in vain. Should the irreverent utterance slip any of our lips, the fork and knife would instantly be laid down on the plate, the car pulled over, the TV turned off, the needle taken off the groove, or the board game put on pause. And this wasn’t just for the most egregious of offenses, such as uttering, “Good God!”, or “Oh my God,” or “Jesus Christ!”. No, this was also for any various and sundry offenses which my father called “minced oaths”. A minced oath might be anything from a “gosh” or a “golly” to a “gee-whiz”, “jeez”, or “jeezum crow”. Exclamations like these, which lived in phonetic proximity to the forbidden terms, had only been invented to skirt the prohibition and keep the commandment on a technicality. (My father had a similar dislike for words like “darn”, “heck”, and “shoot”) And my father was having none of it.
I remember feeling pretty small whenever my dad would confront me with violating the third commandment. He always made it so personal. “I’m disappointed in you, son,” he’d say; speaking with a graveness I was unaccustomed to hearing from him.
“I’m sorry,” I’d say; with my chin on my chest.
“Don’t apologize to me,” he’d quickly reply. “It’s God you’ve offended and from Him you’ll need to find forgiveness.”
Dad always made it so personal, you see. And today I’m awfully glad for that. I remember, long ago, escaping to the backyard after one such very public and embarrassing confrontation. I retreated back there to be alone and to lick my wounds. I remember picking up a tennis ball and playing catch with the brick wall at the rear of our house. As I stood there kicking the dirt and bouncing the ball against the house, my dad’s admonition to make an apology to God kept playing over and over again in my mind. Throw, bounce, bounce; catch. “I broke one of the ten commandments.” Throw, bounce, bounce; catch. “I’ve sinned against God.” Throw, bounce, bounce; catch. “My dad practically yelled at me; and in front of everybody.” Throw, bounce, bounce; catch. “I’m a terrible Christian.”
At that, I caught the ball but didn’t throw it back. Instead, I paused for a moment and exhaled a sigh of surrender. “I’m sorry, God,” I said in a whisper only Heaven could hear.
“I forgive you,” was the sum of the Lord’s blessed reply.
As my faith grew, so did the amount of time I spent praying. And the more I prayed, the more personal my faith became. And the more personal my walk with my Lord, vanities vanished off my lips.
So, if the third commandment is a problem for any of you today, take this Father’s Day to take up the practice of genuine prayer in your life. Start by placing a simple Father’s Day call to Heaven. “Good morning, God,” you might begin. “Happy Heavenly Father’s Day!”
It will be so good to gather together tomorrow for worship. With war in the Middle East once again organizing the ire and alliances of the entire world, what a profound blessing it will be to muster under the banner of Christ and His Kingdom. Maranatha! Let us pray for the peace of Jerusalem. May the Lord, mighty God, bless and continue to keep us.
- Pastor Tate
