My wife and I recently brought home an old croquet set from her parents’ house in Nashville.  She remembers playing croquet with her family in Paraguay when she was a young girl.  In fact, they played with that very croquet set with traces of Paraguayan mud still present on the balls and mallets.  My children also remembered playing croquet when we visited Peggy’s parents in the summertime, after they retired from their missionary work and moved back to Tennessee.  Our girls have vivid and happy memories of those croquet matches with the cousins in the Skinner’s backyard.  Grandpa was always the one who set it up.  He knew all the rules and took time to oversee every game, making sure all the grandkids played fairly and correctly.  It was great fun for all the cousins, and usually ended with Grandma inviting everyone in for cookies and ice cream, or maybe even fresh, cold watermelon.

I also remember there being a croquet set at the Sims house in Ashland.  But we usually didn’t play croquet with it.  We used it to play army!  The mallets were perfect machine guns, and the croquet balls made incredible hand grenades.  In the imagination of a young boy, one wooden croquet ball could clear out a fox hole full of Nazis.  It was a painful proposition for the kids who had to play the role of the enemy.

When we DID play croquet, we made up our own rules.  Of course if Dad was involved, he tried to enforce the rules, although I’m sure we lost the original rulebook.  He probably even taught us to play correctly at some point, but when it was just “us” kids playing we made up our own rules.  We preferred not to bring Dad into it if possible.  One of our jackleg rules was, “If someone messes up your shot, you can use the mallet to smash their foot.”  In other words, anarchy reigned in our back yard croquet matches.  They usually ended in chaos.  That’s where our war games began, and they too often ended with a fight, or with one of the kids crying “that’s not fair,” then running home to tattle on the others.

It’s a tale of two cities.  One city plays by the rules, and the other makes up their own rules– one resulting in pleasant memories, and the other in anarchy and tears.  The difference in the two was the presence of Grandpa Skinner– the ultimate authority, the prince of fairness, and the undisputed owner of the croquet set.  Things went so much better for the kids when the actual owner was present.  He made sure the croquet set was used to play croquet, and not war.

As much as God’s children on earth would like to pretend that we own the croquet set, we don’t.  Our Father in heaven owns it and wrote the rule book.  When we try to change His rules, or His original intentions, it will ultimately end in anarchy and chaos, with everyone crying “foul.”  It always does.  And the rule book wasn’t written to make the owner feel good, but so that His children might have the best possible experience in this life–and an incredible reward when all is done.

I don’t have to explain the meaning of this Parable of the Croquet Set.  It’s kind of obvious.

The precepts of the Lord are right, giving joy to the heart.
The commands of the Lord are radiant, giving light to the eyes.
The fear of the Lord is pure, enduring forever.
The decrees of the Lord are firm, and all of them are righteous.                                                                                                         
They are more precious than gold,than much pure gold;
they are sweeter than honey, than honey from the honeycomb.
By them your servant is warned; in keeping them there is great reward

Psalm 19:8-11