The other day I saw a sign that captured my attention—and deeply concerned me. It said—

“Don’t go to church. Be the church.”

Now, despite the element of truth (God’s people are the church), there are all kinds of things wrong with this statement. But behind the words is obviously someone’s disappointment (and possibly disillusionment) with organized Christianity. And although I’d guess that many Christians would reject this false choice, their attitude to Sunday gatherings of the church may reveal a similar apathy.

To fight such apathy, we all need a biblical perspective on what is taking place on Sunday—a perspective that can transform our attitude toward “going to church.” And it’s this perspective that the writer of Hebrews gives us when he describes the ongoing worship service we join when we gather to worship each Sunday.

Mount Sinai and Mount Zion

In Hebrews the writer presents a striking contrast between Mount Sinai and Mount Zion, between the experience of the people of God under the old covenant and their experience under the new covenant.

In verses 18–21 the writer recounts the gathering at Mount Sinai (as recorded in Exodus 19). After their deliverance from Egypt, God gathered his people and made a covenant with them. He constituted them as a nation, his very own people.

For you have not come to what may be touched, a blazing fire and darkness and gloom and a tempest and the sound of a trumpet and a voice whose words made the hearers beg that no further messages be spoken to them. For they could not endure the order that was given, “If even a beast touches the mountain, it shall be stoned.” Indeed, so terrifying was the sight that Moses said, “I tremble with fear.”

Now look at the gathering at Mount Zion described in verses 22–24:

But you have come to Mount Zion and to the city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem, and to innumerable angels in festal gathering, and to the assembly of the firstborn who are enrolled in heaven, and to God, the judge of all, and to the spirits of the righteous made perfect, and to Jesus, the mediator of a new covenant, and to the sprinkled blood that speaks a better word than the blood of Abel.

What a contrast.

At Mount Sinai everything served to emphasize the chasm between God and these people. At Mount Zion everything encourages us to come boldly into God’s presence. There, at Mount Sinai, the scene itself is frightening—fire, darkness, gloom. Here, at Mount Zion, is a gleaming city, the New Jerusalem, the place where God dwells with his covenant people.

At Mount Sinai the sounds are frightening—whirlwind, trumpet blast, unutterable words. At Mount Zion is the sound of exuberant and celebratory praise.

At Mount Sinai was a solemn gathering filled with fear. Here at Mount Zion is a joyful assembly of those whose names are forever written in the Lamb’s book of life.

There at Mount Sinai was a picture of the unapproachability of God’s holy presence. But here at Mount Zion is a picture of full access into the presence of God through the mediator Jesus Christ.

Now think about your church. Think about the people with whom you serve, live, and worship. Have you fully grasped just what your local church is and what it’s doing on a Sunday morning? Your local church is one authentic, visible manifestation of the entire people of God for all time. It is a part of the heavenly throng that even now is worshiping before the throne of God. And we get to be part of that!

Think about this gathering, which includes—

Angels. We are worshiping with creatures before whom we would be tempted to fall down in terror and worship, if we could see them.

The spirits of the righteous-made-perfect. Here are the heroes from Hebrews 11—Abraham, Moses, Samuel, and David—mighty men of God, mighty prophets who trusted God, so endued with power that they stopped lion’s mouths and put foreign armies to flight. We are worshiping with them.

Faithful saints. These men and women endured torture and refused deliverance if it meant compromise. They chose a stoning pit or a chopping block before they would deny Jesus. And if they survived, they joyfully embraced poverty, deprivation, and persecution. They feared God and they feared sinning more than they feared man—all so that they might receive something better. And when we worship, we join them before the throne of God, who remains “a consuming fire” (v. 29).

We come to Jesus. He is there, our mediator, whose sprinkled blood cleanses us from sin. His blood “speaks a better word than the blood of Abel” (v. 24). Abel’s blood cried out for judgment, but Jesus’s blood cries out for mercy.

Sunday Morning

So back to your home church this upcoming Sunday. When you enter and the music begins, what are you more aware of? Is it the song set? the musicians? the mix? Does the worship band wow you? Does the routine bore you?

Or do you perceive something beyond all this?

Your church is one authentic manifestation of the entire people of God that right now is worshiping before the throne of God. That is the reality of new covenant worship. And when we begin to wrap our minds around that, there springs to mind a thousand reasons to rejoice, to praise, and to sing; and to renounce flippancy, self-display, selfishness, superficiality, sloppiness, and thoughtlessness.

Before the God who is a consuming fire, we don’t shuffle in casually. We don’t demand our artistic preferences. We don’t merely gather with our friends. We don’t merely sing together. As the people of God, we enter into the very presence of God. Encountering God in this way is the very nature of the church. By definition, to be the church is to gather in God’s presence and to worship God together. And when we begin singing, we join the glorious worship that takes place unceasingly before the throne of God.

This is true regardless of how we feel, who leads worship, what songs we sing, or how we think worship went. There is something incredible happening on Sunday morning!

Be the church and go to church. Something eternal is going on in there. Don’t miss it.

———-

Jeff Purswell serves as the Dean of the Sovereign Grace Pastors College and a pastor at Covenant Life Church in Gaithersburg, MD.

Sunday morning

Hindu blessing

Afternoon – took all my classes on trip, with only me in charge of a bus full of kids. TERRIFYING responsibility, and like i have said before, health and safety is not an issue here. No seat belts ever. No one wears motor cycle helmets. You often see whole families on the back of one motorbike, including babies and toddlers…  there are no safety guards or railings on sheer drops…All this is fine for yourself, but believe me just getting 40 kids safely across a crazy busy road with no lights…well…anyway all went well, no casualties and we even got to see the Krishna River when its not raining!!!!! and some great photo requests

…so i spotted this group crossing the road and wondered to myself,

if they would mind me photographing them as they looked so devout and all…in the end they spotted the camera, came over, surrounded me and started posing and singing and asking why i was not taking more photos. PHOTOS REQUESTED BY SUBJECT:

It has come, storytime! I love a good story and for today’s beautiful sunday sunshine I’ll be reading you a wonderful story titled ” How stones lost their hearts” by Vishaka Chanchani. The hindi title for the book is “Pushpa Nagari.” Published by Childrens Book Trust in 1992. So come along chillin’s, grab your cookies and (soy) milk and lets go frolic in story land. Two videos follow.

Part 1.

Part 2.

… when I expect nothing more than three sleepy pooches to take over the bed. Heart.

I hope your have a fabulous Sunday full of cozy socks and crackling fires.

Here’s what I’m up to today …

-Diving into the latest issues of this and this.
-Deciding whether I’m going to make this soup or this breakfast.
-Wondering if it’s time I finally visit family here.
-Opening up this box of treasure to make something pretty.
-Loving how honest this is, and really want the new book I didn’t buy yesterday.
-Editing photos of thrift stores and pancakes and lots of fun things for this week.

I wake up early every Sunday morning to jog at the park.  It’s the very first time I went to the park alone and stayed there for an hour.  Now, I do this every Sunday! thinking if I should also add Saturdays as my jogging days. The park never looked this alive before or maybe because it’s the first time  I went there with the SUN up and shining.  It really feels great MOVING again hahaha I took some photos (enhanced in photoshop) look below:
 

sitting by the park

at its greenest

scary... it looked like a cemetery na hahaha mali mali...

basketball court with some hunks (hmmm....)

I’ll be bringing Micco soon with me.  I saw dad and kuya Ryan at the court after jogging. Yay! may kasama na ako. hmmm looking forward to the next weekend. Hopefully,  may hunks na  haha

We spent Sunday talking about how to communicate love to those you love.  Gary Chapman’s Five Love Languages is always an interesting topic whether it’s a refresher course for you or you’re hearing about it for the first time.  I’d love to hear back from you how it has changed the way you communicate love to your spouse!

As the pastor of a brand new ministry it’s important to me to communicate not only love, but also warmth, and acceptance to those I see on Sundays, especially to those who are first time guests.  It’s most likely true what people say about “first impressions,” and the question is, “What are you communicating to others?”

Just as spouses often miscommunicate their true feelings to one another, I believe those already “in” the church can miscommunicate to those “outside” the church.  If you think about the love language solution for spouses, you may see that there is some similarity when it comes to church.

In a marriage the Five Love Languages would tell you to express love in the way that your spouse understands…even when it’s not your preferred way to express and receive love.  The same could be said for churchgoers…the key to communicating love the best is to view it from their perspective more than our own.

So think about it…if you were brand new to the Team Church ministry, what would communicate love, warmth, and acceptance above all else?

Would it be that someone affirmed you with thanks, and encouraged you to return?  For some, that is everything, and for others, those are just words.
Would it be that someone spent some engaging quality time with you over a donut hole?  For some it’s too close, too soon, but for others, you’ve become the friendliest church in town.
Perhaps you’re looking for the personal touch, and handshakes or hugs may communicate it best.  Or perhaps what would make you feel most invited is noticing the sacrifices made so that church can happen.  If you’re a newcomer, maybe the biggest thing that communicated was that someone offered you a cup of coffee.

Boy, it’s tough to communicate to everyone when everyone receives love so differently!  Yep, it is. But communicating love is the greatest thing you can do.  Just remember to consider expressing your love, warmth, and acceptance with their perspective in mind. I’ll share with you my list of ways to communicate with others on Sunday morning tomorrow.

still plugging along with the self-portrait / week project.  some days it’s difficult.  other’s (like yesterday), it’s easy.  the light was amazing.  i was relaxed.  in my favorite nook of our place.  and sunday’s my favorite day of the week.  it all just clicked (pun intended).  i wish every week’s photo was this easy.  but if it was, it wouldn’t be a project or a challenge.  and what’s the point of pushing your photography if it’s not difficult sometimes?!?

When I was a kid, a lazy Sunday morning would often begin with the biscuit tin. My brother and I woke up, as kids do, long before my parents wanted to get out of bed. And we were hungry, but obviously not yet at an age when we could get our own breakfast. Or maybe it was a ploy on our behalf – because being hungry on a lazy Sunday morning meant I was sent downstairs for the biscuit tin and we would start the day munching biscuits in bed with mum and dad.

My personal favourite at the time was the Custard Cream, a mainstay of British life in the 70s (and since, for some) that’s two rectangles of biscuit sandwiched together with vanilla cream. Since the cream is the best bit, I would separate the two halves and eat the one with least cream stuck to it first.

Sometimes there would be no Custard Creams but there would be Jammy Dodgers – the original ones with both jam and cream in the middle. The jam glues them together quite firmly, so they had to be eaten in one piece.

If it was a bad week, biscuit-wise, then I might be left with the Bourbons. Cocoa-brown biscuits with chocolatey cream were far from being my favourite, but they did meet the cream filling requirement.

On rare occasions there was a biscuit disaster and we were left with the dregs of the biscuit tin. Nice biscuits, which are fondly remembered in our house for being anything but nice, or Rich Tea biscuits, which are completely useless without a cuppa (and even then are only recommended for Extreme Dunkers, due to their tendency to disintegrate if soaked for a second too long. Clumps of soggy biscuit at the bottom completely ruin a cup of tea).

Quite often my return trip to the kitchen was via the garden, leaving out for the birds the crumbs and the less-than-crunchy remains of anything past its munch-by-date. But the shops didn’t open on Sundays back then, so a biscuit tin refill would have to wait.

Emma Cooper

Morning knowledge gained

Anticipation and the

Book Review with espresso

Morning!

Taking some time to have breakfast in front of the computer and get some work done. This is how a lot of my Sunday mornings look:

Oatmeal with almond butter, cinnamon and banana slices; Colombian supremo from TJs and iTunes. Wouldn’t it be great if every work day looked like this?!

I’m procrastinating getting out and going to the grocery store because I just feel so nice and cozy here inside the house – and, despite the awesome massage I got yesterday, I’m still just a teeeeny bit stiff from the half marathon. Just going to kick back and be lazy today – you should too!

Later -

Oh, P.S. About that fin du monde I had last night…wasn’t really my style. Very malty…and fizzy – almost like champagne! Weirdy. I’m not a big fan – couldn’t finish it. I’ve been trying to branch out because I’ve been drinking IPAs almost exclusively so I thought I’d give it a try, but I definitely prefer the hops to the malts. The end!

I was determined to make it out for the first Finsbury Park Parkrun on Saturday, so we all downed our porridge and got ready to bike it over there. As we were putting on our helmets the rain came down in buckets. Edward was all set to stay behind, but Hector wasn’t (and never is) put off by a bit of rain. It was so bad we even had to shelter under a tree for a bit, but it eased as we made our way up the hill to the park. As we rounded the corner I saw a few runners huddling under the eaves of the cafe, all looking a bit bleary-eyed and with that sort of ‘what the hell am I doing here at this time on a saturday morning?’ look on their faces. Edward and Hector sauntered over to the playground and I did that runner’s loitering thing you do before a race, where you check everyone out whilst doing a daft token stretch and trying not to look to awkward.

Eventually we were directed over to the gate where the race will start each week, and were given a few pointers before the start was called. I was delighted to see that the first stretch was down hill so we could generate some speed, but soon found myself overtaken by pretty much everyone. Quite quickly I settled into a pace alongside another woman whom I plodded beside for the rest of the race. I had been very excited about this new race and have dreams of cracking my PB here in the future, but I soon realised this is not really a PB sort of race. About a third of the way round, the path takes a sharp turn up a steep hill. During the first lap I found some incredible grit from somewhere and glided up no problem, leaving my fellow runner behind, but during the second lap I thought I was going to throw up! I had to pause for a moment and lean over before resuming my trek to the top. How embarrassing. Shortly after the hill I was on the home straight, so picked up the pace, gasping and panting all the way. As you cross the line you are given a token with a number on it to hand to the computer-wielding volunteers at the end, who scan your personal barcode and add your finish time to the website later in the day; all very high-tech.

This was my Garmin’s reading of it all:

Time: 27 minutes 41 seconds

Distance: 3.16 miles

Average Pace: 8.46

Best Pace: 5.28

Calories: 329

Not a PB, in fact a little bit slower than  my last 5k race at Trent Park, but not so bad considering I stopped to avert a pukey disaster.

On Sunday I headed out for a ‘long’ run, but this was cut short by not being able to see where I was going due to the rain being horizontal and mostly directed at my eyes.

Time: 41 minutes 20 seconds

Distance: 4.37 miles

Average Pace: 9.27

Best Pace: 6.55

Calories: 445

November 1 2009 these are new adventures.

i’m sitting in my parent’s front garden with coffee and a reese’s peanut butter cup. i woke up this morning and checked the time on my phone: 9:03 a.m., november 1 2009.
that date is breath, sweet releasing breath. nanowrimo begins today.
i listen to monsters of folk for a little bit, then decide i’m ready to get up (this is a big step), i’m hungry. i typically delay leaving my bedroom on sundays before 11a.m. as to avoid having the “why don’t you come to church with us?” conversation with the parent-folk. explaining that answer could take years. anyways, i waltz into the den in plaid pajama pants and a ‘college’ t-shirt and step promptly into my mother’s single-strap high-heels sitting on the rug. they’re still too big for me, so i smile like a four-year-old, who would probably do the same. my mother and i talk about toe-nail-polish and she laughs at something my dad says. i walk to the kitchen (sans heels) to make coffee, my dad says he’ll have a cup.
three minutes later, they’re walking out of the door,
said “have fun, meg” and
the coffee pot is still full (my dad oh my dad)
i realize it’s time to start writing – this – now. so i moved out to the garden with my coffee and reese’s and here i am. here.

i’ve thought a lot about what i would like to write about, and i could go into further analyzation of that (i was planning on going into further analyzation of that),but i’ve fully changed my mind sitting here.

i remembered something this morning that i haven’t thought about in awhile. summer 1996. i was nine-years-old. the olympics were in atlanta. they did that running thing – you know the one with the torch? – through tallahassee before the games started and my dad took my brother and i to watch it. i remember wearing my favorite t-shirt. it was white and it had little flags on the front from probably fifteen different countries, all in a row. each one had the word “soccer” underneath in it’s respective language. the back of it was decorated with a huge soccer ball made up of the flags on the front. i loved it. it was the best t-shirt i’ve ever had. to this day, i have no idea where i acquired it, why i had it, or where has seemingly disappeared to around age 14.  the only other thing i remember from that summer is going to atlanta and traipsing around centennial park with my cousins. we took pictures and i remember thinking about how much older they are, how experienced they seemed. looking back now we were all so little.
i don’t remember my brother being there but i’m almost certain he was — he had to be. he would have been seven at the time. it’s strange – even though i can’t remember anything, i do remember distinctly liking the fact that my younger brother was seven years old. i was proud of him for making it that far.

Recently I had a conversation with a friend about the significance of the first song played on our stereos each day.  For us, as for many others, that first, self-selected track is just as essential a part of our morning routine as tea or coffee, a hot shower and a bite to eat.  Properly chosen, the first tune of the day helps set the mood for the day ahead.  On those truly bad days it can even help provide a lifeline to follow back home.  This is why music radio is never the first thing I switch on in the morning and why, in the days when I had a clock radio for an alarm it was always tuned to talk radio.  How could I dream of letting someone else start my musical day for me?

For reasons I’m not entirely sure I comprehend Sundays are especially significant for me.  I’ll often start thinking about what to play first as I drift off to sleep on a Saturday night.  It’s not uncommon for me to wait an hour before playing any music on a Sunday simply because I want to feel sure I’ve made the right choice to break my aural fast with.  A good number of my Sunday morning songs have a brightness and clarity about them even if some of their lyrics, rhythms and tempos aren’t of the sunniest disposition.

There is, I believe, one major, identifiable reason that my first musical selection on a Sunday morning is so important to me.  The first musical sounds to come out of my stereo on a Sunday morning don’t just constitute the first song of the day, they also amount to the first song of the week.  Ideally on a Sunday morning, I’ve had a chance to let my hair down on Friday and Saturday nights, I’m feeling recharged, I don’t have too much work to do and I have a suspicion that there are at least a few things right or beautiful in the world.  That first song therefore represents the vessel I’m leaving port in and it’s up to me to make sure it’s carefully chosen and up to the task of sailing through the week ahead as unscathed as possible.  The songs I play on Monday through Saturday mornings represent the minor ports I call at for repairs and fresh supplies during my journey.

Sometimes I even wonder if there’s some sort of genetic impulse to revere my Sunday mornings at work within me, some sort of familial memory compelling me to create and observe the quasi ritual of selecting and playing that first song.  Could it be that the generations of my protestant ancestors who dutifully observed their Sabbath somehow contributed to my own observances on a Sunday morning?  Is my obsession actually just an expression of some social pattern passed down through my family that’s just happened find an outlet in my listening habits?  Somehow I doubt it, although that doesn’t stop me from entertaining the possibility.

Because I exercise so much care in choosing the first song I hear on a Sunday morning I’ve also come to recognise that those choices constitute a good portion of what I see as the best, most enduring music in my collection.  If you asked me to choose the best songs I have, I’d be flummoxed.  I wouldn’t be able to decide on a final answer.  The tunes I put on first on a Sunday, however, provide me with a readily identifiable body of  the music that is most important to me and that has an enduring power to set my imagination running and emotions tumbling.  I might play a relatively recent addition to my collection first thing on any other day of the week without much thought.  That very, very rarely happens on a Sunday.

The last song to achieve a quick elevation into my Sunday morning club was “The State I Am In” off the Belle and Sebastian album Tigermilk.  This surprised me because although I knew I liked the album and was grateful to my wife and brother-in-law for sharing it with me I didn’t realise how beautiful this song is.  Instead I found myself putting it on one Sunday morning with little hesitation.  It was only when it had ended that I realised I had rarely, if ever, started playing a song first thing on a Sunday morning after such a brief acquaintance.  Over the past 4 or 5 years I’ve probably played “The State I Am In” more times on a Sunday morning than any other track in my collection.

I’m sure that over some period a different song will supplant the Belle and Sebastian tune as my most played piece of Sunday morning music, but that doesn’t mean I will value it less or that it will lose its power to make me feel, to remind me that I’m alive and human while setting me up for the week ahead.  All of my Sunday morning songs are important to me personally, and, though I can’t really be the judge of this, brilliant pieces of music.  For example, I’ll often play Ryan Adams’s “Gonna Make You Love Me” one of three songs played as part of my wedding ceremony and taken from his second solo album Gold.

The list of songs worthy of being the first musical thing I hear on a Sunday morning is fairly extensive and also rather diverse in terms of style, genre, theme, tempo, rhythm and just about any other criterion you might use to classify music.  At the same time it represents a very small fraction of the music I own, an essential kernel of the best, most powerful and most beautiful tracks in my collection.  As such my selection of Sunday morning songs does more than just put me in a good mood for the day and week ahead.  It also provides me with a vital  mental and emotional sustenance.

If anyone out there feels like sharing the first song they listened to today or on any other significant morning I’d be interested to read about it.  With any luck I’ll get some good ideas for tracks I need to add to my own collection.