I can tell my heart is off, like lunch meat starting to slime, when I crack open the Psalms and grow irritated at the instrumental excess (harps, bells, cymbals, trumpets, shofars, tambourines, lyres). I mean, I haven’t sung a single note since last Sunday. Even then, I was stuffing my toddler’s mouth with goldfish to keep her content while doubting the worship authenticity of the expensively dressed women to my right and left.  My slimy heart is reason to pause. Why don’t I feel at home in Psalms when it is a spacious four-season’s room; a place to live, whatever the weather? It meets believers situated absolutely anywhere on the…