Exodus 20:8-11 Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy. Six days you shall labor and do all your work, but the seventh day is a Sabbath of the LORD your God; in it you shall not do any work, you or your son or your daughter, your male or your female servant or your cattle or your sojourner who stays with you.
Exodus 35:2 For six days work may be done, but on the seventh day you shall have a holy day, a sabbath of complete rest to the LORD; whoever does any work on it shall be put to death.
I have read these more times than I can count. I have heard teachings on them. I have even taught on them.
And. Still. I’m like…
I mean. Who wants to die for working on a Sunday? And yet, I would have died ten thousand deaths if I lived in the days of the Old Testament.
Why? I’m glad you asked. Because:
Sunday is the morning I don’t want to get out of bed.
It is the day the kids decide waking us up at 6:30 am to ASK us if we are going to church (when we don’t have to be there until 10:30). Yes. We’re going. God, help me. Literally.
It is the day we finally have nothing to do and it sounds. so. nice.
Inevitably, it is the day our kids opt to spill cereal all over.
It is the day they opt to argue so loud and so much that more than one of them ends up crying. Because hitting each other sounds like extra special goodness on a Sunday.
It is the day I am typically running low on groceries and leftovers, so quesadillas it is. Again. And don’t tell me you don’t like melted cheese, pizza LOVERS.
It is the day I look around my house and think…MONKEYS LIVE HERE. Not four children who are old enough to pick up after themselves and two adults who can remind them to. NO. It can’t be. Because my house looks like the zoo lost a few mammals and they are taking up residence in my kitchen and living room. But the stairs are clean. I guess that’s a Sunday bonus.
It is the day my husband and I fight the most. It’s like a ‘thing.’ Wake up. Check. Make coffee. Check. Breakfast. Check. Pick a fight with the husband. Crushed it.
It is the day my hair is sitting stupid on my head and my clothes don’t fit. Or they are wrinkled. And I have no time to iron…
It is the day we are running late. Every. Time. See? No time to iron.
Oh, Sunday! How I dddrrrrrrrrreaddddd you.
Until we enter those doors. The kids are off (finally!) to their classes with no signs of the hurt hearts or bruised arms they’ve inflicted on each other. And the music is playing about God is holding my head up…or how I am free.
And I know.
No matter what has happened that morning, no matter how mad I may still be at the man whose hand I am readily holding, this is a place where I feel at home in a different sense. I have community. I have family here. I feel hope here.
And I know I can meet with God anywhere and everywhere and at any time. And I do.
But there is something about Sunday church service.
There is something about God’s people coming together to corporately worship and be in one accord as we lift our voices and open our ears and hearts to His word. People are healed. The Spirit moves. God is known. Jesus is proclaimed. Lost are saved. Believers are encouraged.
When it is over, we talk with friends, we discuss the teaching, we plan a get-together with friends. And we walk to get the kids who rush up to us, smiling and content, handing us fliers and telling us about their service.
And it’s then I know what a hectic morning hasn’t let me focus on:
Sunday is the day our hearts can find their rest.