tskerritt's Xanga

Rockin' the Genevans

Fri, 23 May 2008 19:19:16 GMT

Someone, probably from the West Coast, rocks out to Psalm 24 in the Anglo- Genevan Psalter. It sounds decent.

Listen here.

Varia

Sun, 11 May 2008 10:52:07 GMT

It's Sunday morning, about 7am. As God would have it, I've been up for a long time reading. I remembered when I was in my undergraduate years I would read a smallish epistle or minor prophet every day for a month in order to really encompass the message of a specific book in detail. So I read First Thessalonians five times this morning and I have to say that I don't know why I ever dropped the practice. Let me commend it to you all.
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Yesterday evening I found myself with nothing to do so I went for a very long walk, about five hours to be exact. I was sauntering around the Eaton Centre and ran into a crowd listening to a man wearing a sandwich board, preaching repentance. I listened to the man and he was telling people that they should repent or they will go to Hell...nothing more. He started talking about the sexual sins, quoting liberally from the Old Testament (I had been listening for about 20 mins. at this point) when he said something that made my blood boil. "I once lived in sexual sin" he told the people "but I turned to Jesus...and have never even looked down that path." Without even thinking about it I found myself calling out to him from the crowd, easily drowning him out with my booming, loud voice "By that do you mean that you've never sinned sexually since you became a Christian?" I asked. "Not once, sir." He proclaimed without missing a beat. "Do you sometimes entertain lustful thoughts?" I asked. "Sometimes" he responded. "Well then" I intoned "perhaps you should be a little less accusatory to these people. Jesus says that if you look at a woman to lust after her, you've committed adultery. Perhaps you should be busy telling people about what Christ has actually done on the cross to destroy sin as opposed to merely telling people that they're going to Hell if only they 'repent' because it's very obvious that if He didn't die that death you're going directly to Hell too not only for adultery, but also for preaching a Christless, crossless 'gospel.'"

He said that I was preaching an easy gospel and accused me of being a liar so I left.

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I've noticed lately that in Toronto everyone and their dog is wearing a keffiyeh. During the offering at church a keffiyeh-clad youth got up and played the violin. They're even selling them at Le Chateau and Roots. Do people have no compunction about wearing an article of clothing associated with terrorism, rebelion and antisemitism?

What gets me upset is that if you ask them, they'll tell you it's only a fashion statement. If they're wearing it to identify themselves with the Palestinian plight, fine. But to wear one because it looks hip, with no regard for what it symbolizes is the height of glibness. To wear the symbol of evil men, bent on destroying civilization just because it's trendy is like wearing knee-boots with white laces and a swastika armband because it's cool.

Am Israel Chai.

Uh-oh...

Thu, 01 May 2008 01:32:05 GMT

It's 10:30pm and I'm feeling the pre-sick. I'm ill very seldom but when I am...well it's not pretty. In fact it's horrid.

I pray that God will cause this to go away.

Why I can't budge.

Tue, 29 Apr 2008 02:02:05 GMT

Preface

What follows are the details of a transforming experience I had in the Fall/Winter of '01-'02 that I've never told anyone the full details about. The reason is this: I had no idea what meant until this morning and even now I only see the implications of these events in part.

During my first year of Tyndale I applied to be a youth worker/custodian at an Anglican parish in a wealthy area of North Toronto, and got the job. Now at the time I was very Baptistic theologically but I was willing to overlook this and the fact that at the time they had a woman priest because it seemed like a good chance to gain experience in ministry; plus they were paying me close to double what I'd ever been paid before.

Due to the fact that I never really bothered to understand the situation among the mainline churches I was totally unprepared for the rank liberalism I faced as soon as I assumed my duties. The youth over whom I had charge had up until this point, I learned, were excused from the worship service, retiring to the youth lounge where they played darts and foosball and generally enjoyed themselves. Immediately I set about to change this; during my first meeting with the kids, after introducing myself and learning there names I told them that every week we'd study the Gospel of Mark until we were done the entire book. I told them that at any time they could ask me any question they wanted, but told them that while we'd do fun things, Sunday morning would generally be reserved to study. During that meeting there was about twenty people at the meeting. Over the next few months the numbers shrank and shrank until more often than not there were no youth at the service. Nonetheless every week I showed up with a lesson prepared. Even if there was only one kid, I'd give over the lesson...and more often than not it was impossible to generate any kind of discussion. On two or three Friday evenings I organized a games night, where the youth could come and pretty much have the run of the church facility. These nights, oddly enough, were attended by as much as thirty youth, all the while my Sunday morning class continued to dwindle.

The custodial end of my job I actually enjoyed, really enjoyed. On Friday evenings I'd show up in the morning and prepare for Sunday's worship services. I putting the hymn-numbers up on the board, printing the liturgy sheets, cleaning the silver communion ware and all the other little things I'd busy myself with. The church building itself was very old and full of interesting things to look at. In fact I enjoyed it so much I began to think I might to become a janitor (I'm serious).

One Sunday after church the priest approached me and asked if I'd like to preach in the service two weeks hence. I accepted the offer and immediately started to consult commentaries concerning the lectionary portion for that week, which had to do with the preaching of John the Baptizer in Luke 3. That Sunday I arrived in church and was startled to find that I was required to wear a big, puffy cassock with a huge oversized white t-shirt over top. Needless to say, as a Baptist I felt very silly.

The sermon, I thought, went rather well. I preached only for ten minutes, explaining from the text, utilizing three points that piety, prestige and parentage aren't what entitle people access to the Kingdom. Only the one to whom John pointed, the very substance of the Kingdom would. I have a hard copy of the sermon in front of me, and while I can't say that I was that profound, I was organized and sensitive.

No sooner than when I hung up my big, poofy dress, the priest bursts into the room, demanding to know why I was so "accusatory" and "insensitive" in my preaching. The content of my sermon, I assured her, was completely drawn from Anglican sources. She informed me that that was to be the last time I would address the congregation. I almost quit right there.

The very next Sunday I had all the motivation I needed to leave. In her sermon the minister made mention of the fact that "Christians, for the first 1,800 years of the church indeed believe that Jesus rose from the dead" then she let the cat out of the bag..."but we've got much better ways of explaining that now." After the coffee social I asked the priest to speak with me in her study. I explained that I could not continue my employment. Not satisfied to let me go, she demanded that I tell her why or I wouldn't get my final pay cheque. "1 Cor. 15 says that if Jesus didn't actually rise from the dead," I explained "everything we do here is vain and we're the most pitiable people in the entire world. When I became a Christian, I didn't sign up for that and I'm certianly not here to tell people they're losers." Seeing I was convinced, she told me that I didn't have to come back.

Life continued and I wasn't phased at all by the experience...at least not at this stage. One afternoon about a month after I left the church I was sitting in my room preparing for an exam. My phone rang and to my surprise it was the priest of the Anglican church. I had borrowed a book of hers, she told me, and that I should send it back. Now I wasn't in the mood to go back there so I said that I would mail the book back ASAP. I wanted to be polite so I asked about the church, to which she said everything was tickety-boo. I asked her how the youth programme was and after a long pause she said "They've all come back to church." I ended the discussion, and wished her a nice summer.

Neither before this experience or after have I felt something quite like what I felt after I hung up the phone. As the flaming darts of the enemy pierced my soul I was overwhelmed by a flood of sheer disappointment, fear and nausea. I ran to the bathroom and vomited, after which I showered and took a 3 hour nap. After waking up I remember praying to God that if there was something else other that my own failure working in that situation then He should let me know. I picked up a Bible and started reading 1 Corinthians and by the time I got to chapter two I found something I was sure was an answer from heaven. In 1 Cor. 2:2 Paul says "when I was among you I knew nothing but Christ and Him crucified." Paul, blessed with charisma and intelligence came to the city of Corinth and spoke to them about nothing but Jesus. It was this preaching about Jesus that brought these people to faith.

From that point I became 100% convinced that the Gospel is what God uses to bring people to salvation, not gimmicks. Yes there are times when there is no discernable harvest, but that doesn't mean the God isn't glorified. Paul came to Corinth armed with what? Jesus. It worked. Right away I asked the Lord to never let me lose sight of this truth and He hasn't. From that point on I knew that ministers of the Gospel talk about Jesus because He's Someone worth talking about.

This is why, I think, I'm so averse to liberalism or any flirtations pertaining thereto. More times than I'd like to recount I've been labeled as anachronistic but the fact remains that I believe there should be nothing in church which would shift our focus from Him. Being in a church that compromises isn't worth it therefore, even for the sake of ministry May it be that I'll never budge, at least in this regard.

A few reasons I'd be a bad Minister...(perhaps).

Fri, 25 Apr 2008 13:38:51 GMT

1. I'm brutally direct.   Growing up my dad wasn't exactly Mr. Scruples and it's rubbed off on me in a big way.   When people present me with a problem, I go directly for the solution. In the search for clarity I have committed innumerable social faux pas, much to the consternation of my female friends.

Now a minister should be relatively BS free, I believe. But let me give you an example. I remember when I was in Tyndale, one afternoon I was sitting in my room preparing for a test the next day. My roommate and his friend were listening to some kind of Christian Hardcore Metal music that was physically attacking me.   Seeing that I was obviously annoyed my roommate's friend asked me what I thought of the music, poking fun at me in an innocent way. "I think it's godless, depraved crap." I said "I could pull better music out of my rear end." Now I was totally sincere in expressing my unadulterated hatred for this music but my friends were less then impressed. Thank God I'm a lot better in my regard and lately some people have come to me for an honest appraisal of specific things but there's still some major work to be done.

2. I'm naturally resistant to changes in the church.   You wouldn't know it from my blog but I'm very conservative theologically and in praxis (this is probably why I love Rev. Berends so much). Deep in my heart-of-hearts I know that women deacons (yes, women deacons) are the worst thing since the Counsel of Trent (note the hyperbole). The "Joint Songbook Committee" should realize that near-perfection has already been attained and should adopt the Book of Praise, minus the four ugly-sounding hymns. This would be problematic because sometimes there are good reasons to change things, but like 98% of the time I don't understand the need for change and have a hard time sympathizing with those who do.

3. Dutch-Canadian culture completely mystifies me. There's this older gentleman in my church; every time I speak with him he asks me if I've found a girlfriend (I wasn't aware I was looking) or if I've found work (I didn't know I was unemployed). I also find the general disdain for education to be quite strange. When I told people that I was pursuing a Master's Degree they'd look at me with quizzical eyes and ask "What are you going to do with that?" Also, I'm sure you've noticed, among the Dutch Canadians the small talk stage of the discussion/relationship is quite protracted. This may be because all their relational needs are met by their huge families but I can only talk about Junior A hockey and mortgages for so long.

Dutch Canadians can also be very insular. In many churches people have many family members, all the kids go to the same Christian school and many adults work at the same places. So very often people socialize in groups, unaware of the fact that there's a 20-something from downtown standing there with no one to talk to. In my church, which is becoming increasingly non-Dutch, I see an interesting thing happening. The Dutch-folk do their thing, and the non-Dutch-folk do theirs. Now the church is still 75% Dutch but over the course of a Sunday 85% of the people I talk to are non-Dutch. So we have a "Dutch Crew" and a "Non-Dutch Crew." Whenever a Dutch person joins us, they fall in with the other Dutch people. Whenever a Non-Dutch person arrives, we take care of him.

Now if I were a non-Dutch pastor in a Dutch church, would I still be considered an outsider? I tend to think so.

4. I intimidate people. I don't smile a lot. I have a deep, booming voice. I'm told I walk like I'm on my way to kill someone. People have told me that they were intimidated by me when we first met, so much so that they thought I hated them. It sometimes surprises people that I like to have fun and that I love Kareoke.

Varia.

Thu, 10 Apr 2008 19:12:26 GMT

An understanding of the proper division of Law & Gospel is urgently needed by the church, especially by today's Christians who are constantly bombarded with new and conflicting information about how to "get in touch" with God through the use of certian techniques or by adjusting our attitudes in some kind of way. This sermon tells us a bit about how we ought to respond to this kind of erroneous teaching.
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If ever there were an age where Christians need preachers who know what they're talking about, it's now. Case in point: this past Monday I was at a good friend's home for dinner along with his other friends, one of whom attends a home church founded by lay-people in Mississauga. We were discussing certian traces of humour found in the Bible when the member of the home church brought up something he had heard in the sermon this past Sunday. According to the preacher "El Shaddai" means "Multi Breasted." I restrained myself from commenting as I felt my blood pressure rising to a rolling boil. I checked several sources when I got home and it's true, the word bears some similarity to the word for breast in a few semitic tongues. To say, however, that because of this slight correlation we can think of the LORD as being ample, or even multi-busomed is clear eisegesis of the most obvious kind.

Not everyone with a concordance, a Hebrew/Greek dictionary and the gift of gab ought to be allowed to preach. Good preaching takes work and knowledge. That's why preachers who are worth listening to take the time to learn what they need to know to preach to the edification of the Church of Christ.
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I've been doing some reading in various commentaries by Baptistic thinkers about what Paul says about baptism. I have to say I'm somewhat surprised at how they seem to explain away the many passages about being "baptized into His death" etc, all to maintain a "pattern" in the Acts which would seem to suggest that conversion is followed by baptism even though there are three exceptions to that pattern, each of which require their own individual "explaining away" in order that the pattern be maintained.

At the end of the day the Infant Baptist too can ask "But what does the text say?"

Teachers I remember.

Wed, 02 Apr 2008 13:29:41 GMT

I've been in school a long time; longer than most. In the eighteen years I've been a student I've had a lot of teachers, those who have inspired me, those who made me miserable and those who made me laugh. Here are the ones I remember...

Mrs. Wilma Norris, grade 3. When I entered Mrs. Norris' grade 3 behavioural classroom I was an extremely agitated and irritable seven-year-old. My mother was in the hospital with terminal cancer and life was far to difficult for a young boy to deal with. Although I didn't know it at the time Mrs. Norris nurtured me back into the world of normality. She did so in very subtle and effective ways, making sure I had enough to eat at lunch, assigning me the special job of monitoring the class hampster's water and food and even letting me do my work in the library all day if it suited me. To this day I send her a Christmas card and she always replies with a letter.

If there were any archetype for the outstanding elementary school teacher, Mrs. Norris was it.

Mr. Bob Kishimoto, grade 9 gym. For me gym class has been one humiliation after another. I have always had the gross/fine motor skills of a stroke patient and to this day I recoil in terror at the idea of playing any kind of team sports. After seeing my performance in his grade 9 gym class Mr. Kishimoto knew that if I was to pass his course I'd need some help. I remember one afternoon after school Mr. Kishimoto pulled me into his office and told me that I needed help passing his course. The solution, he told me, was to volunteer for the Junior Boys Wrestling Team. I did and I soon found out that I'm a respectable wrestler, tackling my way from patheticness to mediocrity. Mr. Kishimoto was good enough to pass me with 80% and I was awarded with "Most Improved Athlete" of the year.

I never wrestled again.

Mrs. Karen Meyer, grades 4 & 5. I remember leaving grade 3 feeling pretty good about myself and optimistic about the immediate future that lay ahead of me. Mrs. Meyer did all she could to thwart the short-lived Salad Days of my boyhood. When everybody else got "normal work" I got word searches. When I would ask why Mrs. Meyer would explain in such a way that everyone in the class could hear that I wasn't capable of it. Two weeks after my mother died I was understandably dejected. Seeing that I wasn't gung-ho to finish my reading assignment about squirrels she said "Why are you so sad? I mean your mother died because she smoked so it's her fault. You should be mad at her." This little comment did more harm to my child's fragile psyche than anyone could imagine.

I could go on and on. You could imagine my horror when one day in August of '91 when my dad told me that I'd have Mrs. Meyer for another year.

Herr Rolf Richter, grades 10, 11, 12 and OAC German. Initially I signed up for German class because it was either that or a course where I'd have to take some kind of computerized baby-doll home with me and carry it around wherever I went for a week. It turned out to be one of the most satisfying courses I ever took. The teacher, Herr Richter had a thick, Bavarian accent. What's more, he typified every single stereotype commonly applied to Teutonic, Beer-sipping Deutchers. He made us sit in alphabetical order so he wouldn't have to bother learning our names when he took attendance. Every day he'd make us line up in front of his desk to check our home work. If our performance was suitable he'd bellow "Zher Gut!" and shake our hand. If our work displeased him he'd shout "Blud!" or "Schlecht!" and wave his hand dismissively.

I always looked forward to Christmas time at high school because every year in the Christmas assembly Herr Richter would assemble all the German students in every grade in a huge Teutonic Christmas Choir and sing "Stile Nacht", "Oh Tannenbaum", and other such German holiday favourites. In grades 12 and OAC he awarded me the coveted "German Prize."

If anyone ever tries to tell you that Germans have no sense of humour, tell them they're lying. Herr Richter was the funniest teacher I've ever had. The textbook we used (I don't recall the name) was basically about these German high school students and their zany adventures. There was one character in the book named "Wiebke Neidel" who was the object of Herr Richter's romantic desire. "She is zoh beauty-fool." He would exclaim. At least once a week for four years he would tell us about the various romantic rendezvous he'd enjoyed with Wiebke during the past weekend. "But don't let my wife know!" he'd exhort us (his wife was a Vice Principal). Around Valentines you could pay to have candies sent to your friends/lovers. I sent one to Herr Richter and signed Wiebke's name. A few weeks later after class I asked him if he got anything from Wiebke for Valantines Day. He smiled and said that he had, but that he and Wiebke had decided to take it slow for the time being, lest his wife find out.

Varia

Fri, 14 Mar 2008 13:05:32 GMT

In one week two of my friends got engaged. Two guys, in one week. That's right. At the rate Reformed womenfolk are getting hitched I'll either have to get a mail order bride or do the old "flirt and convert" to some Baptist girl.

Guys, slow down for my sake, I can't keep up.

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I've pretty much settled on the Theological College of the Canadian Reformed Churches as the seminary I'd like to attend because of all the schools I've considered it's the most serious and because it's so close it just makes good sense.

BUT because the Theological College is so intense they require a fairly extensive background in the biblical languages and Latin, none of which I had at the time of my graduation. To remedy this situation in October I enrolled in a distance-ed course through University of London in Biblical Greek. I finished the first course with 96% and I just heard that I passed the second course with 96.5%. At the rate I'm going I should be ready to go in September '09.

I have to say I look forward to immersing myself in scripture, and find myself grinning like a buffoon whenever I think about the opportunity to learn fulltime in such an environment. I don't, however, relish the idea that I'll have to spend another four years in school, especially in Hamilton.

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Although I think both federations are great, and both have "edges" over the other, I can safely say that I'm more Canadian Reformed than United Reformed. I'm not going to say why here, but it has everything to do with cutting my teeth Reformedly speaking with Rev. B.J. Berends.

"Daddy" God.

Tue, 11 Mar 2008 01:15:11 GMT

For a long time I've been bothered at how many Christians will call God their "Daddy." I remember being at a prayer meeting where people called upon the Name of the LORD saying things like "You're our Heavenly Daddy" or "Fill us with your love Dada" and even "Show us your Daddy-Heart." [Shudder] I was taught that it's wrong to address our God was such dripping, saccharine langauge so I decided to conduct some research this week. I've discovered that only modern authors and commentators would translate the Hebrew word "Abba" as daddy. Without exception (at least in my research) they're all Arminian and almost always charismatic.

In researching the word "Abba" itself I've discovered that it's not at all like our word "Daddy" at all. It's not a word which is used in place of a more formal title for father, it's the only word in the Hebrew language for father. So it's not like a Hebrew child would call his father "Daddy" on Christmas morning and "Father" when he was caught reigning blows on his sister. No, in both situations he'd use the word "Abba." This being the case, to impose our use of the word daddy on "Abba" is to perform violence on the text of scripture.

It's true that "Abba" denotes a intimacy and and familiarity that father doesn't. A simple search of how scripture uses the word reveals that it's never used in the goopy, sickly-sweet way the word daddy is used.

Let's stop calling God Daddy.

[For the record I will never permit my children to call me daddy].

Tommy got mugged.

Tue, 26 Feb 2008 14:27:04 GMT

So last night I got mugged. Oddly enough I wasn't scared at all.

I was walking along a small street lined with closed stores at about 12am last night. A small, Vietnamese teenager asked me for a handout and I said "Sorry, I don't do that." For some reason I knew that he was following me about 3 metres behind and was walking to catch up with me. "Turn around" he said quietly. I swiveled sharply on the balls of my feet and discovered that my new friend had a small knife pointed at me. As I looked at his face I could see that this was probably his first time doing this and that he was probably thinking that he selected the wrong man to mess with. I knew I was in control of the situation. I looked at him strait in the eyes, "I'm assuming you want something of mine" I said. "Show me your wallet" he said. "Sure thing" I answered, noticing that I actually had a smirk on my face. I produced my wallet out of my jacket breast-pocket, opened it and handed him a twenty and said "That's all I got man." He insisted I open all of the pockets in my wallet which I gladly did, proving I had no more cash on me.

"I see your bank card, let's go to the bank." He barked mildly. "The nearest bank" I retorted "is at the corner of College and Bay, a very well lit intersection, and directly across the street from that bank is the Metro Toronto Police Headquarters. I'm sure it's not in your best interest to escort me there." My companion turned around and walked away into the cold, snowy Toronto night. As I turned around to I noticed that I was standing directly in front of a building with "Toronto Coroners Office" on it. At least they wouldn't have had to go far.

I walked the two minute walk to the police headquarters and told Constable Wendy Wright that I had just been mugged two minutes ago by an Asian teenager last seen walking north on Yonge Street on the west side. After filling out some papers and providing ID I was sent home. This morning on my voice mail was a message from Constable Wright that the criminal had been apprehended and my $20 had been recovered. I would have gladly paid $20 for the experience.