The fruit of William Cowper’s affliction is a call to free ourselves from trite and chipper worship. If the Christian life has become the path of ease and fun in the modern West, then corporate worship is the place of increasing entertainment. The problem is not a battle between contemporary worship music and hymns; the problem is that there aren’t enough martyrs during the week [emphasis mine]. If no soldiers are perishing, what you want on Sunday is Bob Hope and some pretty girls, not the army chaplain and surgeon.
Cowper was sick. But in his sickness he saw things that we so desperately need to see. He saw hell. And sometimes he saw heaven. He knew terror. And sometimes he knew ecstasy. When I stand to welcome the people to worship on Sunday morning, I know that there are William Cowpers in the congregation. There are spouses who can barely talk. There are sullen teenagers living double lives at home and school. There are widows who still feel the amputation of a fifty-year partner. There are single people who have not been hugged for twenty years. There are men in the prime of their lives with cancer. There are moms who have carried two tiny caskets. There are soldiers of the cross who have risked all for Jesus and bear the scars. There are tired and discouraged and lonely strugglers. Shall we come to them with a joke?
… What they need from me is not more bouncy, frisky smiles and stories. What they need is a kind of joyful earnestness [emphasis mine] that makes the broken heart feel hopeful and helps the ones who are drunk with trifles sober up for greater joys.
If you are a pastor or a teacher of God's Word in any capacity, I pray that you will help those you teach "sober up for greater joys"!
Daily roundup
By: Gina Dalfonzo|Published: March 17, 2010 6:07 PM
William Saletan of Slate observes that we're in a "war between the worlds": the world of reality and the world of virtual reality. The frightening thing is that some of the casualties in this war are not virtual casualties. They're real ones.
The compromise [Uganda] had accepted, which the president [Yoweri Museveni] presented as reconciliation, was actually something more complex and less sturdy. It was as if, having found themselves unable to forgive, his people had concentrated on forgetting, and when they’d failed at forgetting, they’d chosen to believe what they wanted to believe. So long as nothing disturbed their conception of the past or exposed them to scrutiny, the nation could continue its halting procession along Museveni’s chosen path. To the president’s way of thinking, therefore, justice was a threat to progress, not because it promised verdicts and punishments, but because it forced people to remember.
The other day I was watching Fox, where Brooklyn lawmaker Felix Ortiz was explaining his effort to pass a law banning New York restaurants from adding salt to the food they prepare. Ortiz said his law would save lives.
Today is the Feast of Saint Patrick, the saint for whom my parents named me. To many, this day calls to mind raucous celebrations and drinking. And certainly a good amount of such revelry takes place. However, in our home, as in most Irish homes, it is a holy day celebrated by attending Mass and saying prayers of thanksgiving for the life of a man whose faithful dedication to Christ led him to return to the pagan land in which he had been enslaved to proclaim the Gospel.
