Tag: jesus

The Hinge: Saturday Night Looking at Sunday

.Reading time 12 minutes.

A collaboration between Lewis McLain & AI

There is a strange hour each week when the noise thins and the future begins to whisper.

Saturday night is not simply the end of leisure. It is not yet obligation. It is a hinge in time — a narrow corridor where the past week and the coming week briefly face each other.

You can feel it if you sit still long enough.

The music softens. The group texts slow. The sky turns darker than it needs to. And somewhere in the mind, a quiet recalculation begins.

Sunday is approaching.

And with it, something much older than us.

The Human Invention of Pause

From the earliest pages of the Hebrew Scriptures, the idea of a structured pause appears. The Sabbath was not merely rest from labor. It was a deliberate interruption of production. A command to stop building, stop harvesting, stop calculating, and stop proving oneself.

That is radical.

In a world where survival once depended on constant vigilance, stopping required trust. The soil would not vanish overnight. The sky would not collapse because the plow rested.

Across centuries and cultures, humans have reinvented this idea in different forms. Markets close. Bells ring. Families gather. Screens dim. A society chooses to breathe.

Modern neuroscience now catches up with what ancient law already knew: chronic activation of the stress response system erodes cognition and health. Cortisol — the body’s alarm hormone — rises not only when chased by predators but when anticipating spreadsheets, performance reviews, and unresolved email threads.

The brain is an imagination machine. It simulates threats to prepare for them. Useful on the savannah. Less useful when the tiger is an inbox.

Saturday night is the moment when simulation often accelerates.

You are not yet working — but you are already working in your mind.

Anticipatory Stress: The Brain Cannot Tell the Difference

Psychologists call it anticipatory stress. The body reacts to what might happen tomorrow as if it is happening now. Heart rate increases. Muscles tense. Sleep fragments.

The nervous system evolved for immediacy. It does not distinguish cleanly between physical threat and abstract evaluation. A quarterly report can activate similar pathways as a rustling in tall grass.

This is not weakness. It is design.

But design needs ritual counterweights.

The ancient answer was Sabbath. The modern answer is less coherent. We substitute entertainment for restoration. We scroll instead of stilling. We stimulate the brain that needs calming.

Saturday night becomes a tug-of-war: one part of us reaching for distraction, another part feeling the gravity of the coming week.

The hinge creaks.

The Threshold State

Anthropologists use the term liminal to describe in-between states. A wedding ceremony marks the passage from single to married. A graduation marks the crossing from student to professional. New Year’s Eve bridges one calendar to another.

Saturday night is a recurring liminal space.

You are neither fully at rest nor fully at labor. You stand between identities: the relaxed self and the responsible self.

Humans behave differently at thresholds. Reflection increases. Meaning becomes sharper. Even architecture acknowledges this — doors, arches, and stairways are rarely neutral. They signal transition.

Saturday night is a psychological doorway.

And doorways invite decision.

The Weekly Vow

What if Sunday were not simply the last day of the weekend, but the renewal of a covenant with one’s calling?

Every profession — consultant, architect, teacher, engineer — demands attention and energy. Over time, purpose erodes under repetition. Fatigue dulls clarity. Cynicism creeps in quietly.

Yet the week resets whether we like it or not.

That reset can be passive or intentional.

A passive reset is dread.
An intentional reset is recommitment.

There is something powerful about treating Sunday as a vow renewal with one’s work and relationships. Not blind enthusiasm, but conscious consent. “I choose this again.”

Even marriages survive on renewal. Even institutions depend on reaffirmed mission statements. Why would the individual psyche be any different?

Saturday night is the drafting room for that vow.

Cyclical Time and Hope

Linear time moves in one direction. But human experience is structured in cycles — days, weeks, seasons, years.

Cycles offer hope because they imply return. After exhaustion comes rest. After winter comes growth. After failure comes another attempt.

The week is a small-scale laboratory of this principle.

Each Monday is disliked because it represents demand. Yet without Monday, there would be no rhythm, no narrative arc, no opportunity for progress.

The week functions like a flywheel. Momentum builds through repetition. Progress compounds not in dramatic leaps but in disciplined recurrence.

Saturday night stands at the edge of that flywheel.

It asks quietly: will you re-engage the mechanism?

If Excel Went to Church

Humor can illuminate truth better than solemnity.

Imagine Excel attending Sunday service.

Excel demands reconciliation. Every column must balance. Every formula must resolve. Circular references are unacceptable.

Grace, by contrast, refuses strict accounting. It credits where no debit exists. It forgives entries that cannot be reconciled.

And yet both pursue order.

The week we are about to enter will require accounting — time, effort, attention. But if the ledger becomes the only measure of worth, the soul shrinks to a spreadsheet.

Sunday, in its best form, interrupts pure calculation.

Saturday night is where the two systems argue gently.

The Physics of Beginning Again

There is something almost physical about the restart of a week. It feels like gravity shifting.

Time itself does not reset — that is a human invention. But human psychology responds powerfully to perceived fresh starts. Behavioral scientists have observed the “fresh start effect,” where temporal landmarks — a new month, a birthday, a Monday — increase goal-oriented behavior.

Why?

Because beginnings carry narrative energy. A blank page invites authorship.

Saturday night is the last paragraph before the blank page.

One can enter Sunday passively, dragged by inevitability. Or actively, with intention.

The difference is subtle but decisive.

The Quiet Telescope

Saturday night allows backward and forward vision simultaneously. You can examine the week behind — successes, failures, unfinished conversations — while glimpsing the week ahead.

This dual vision is rare.

Tuesday afternoon rarely invites existential reflection. Thursday at 2:30 p.m. does not whisper philosophy.

But Saturday night does.

It invites evaluation without immediate pressure.

That is a gift.

Civilizational Design

If entire societies abandon structured pauses, what happens?

Productivity increases temporarily. Output surges. Efficiency becomes idolized. Yet burnout accelerates. Families fragment. Meaning thins.

Rest is not laziness. It is structural reinforcement.

Bridges require expansion joints to absorb stress. Without them, fractures appear. Human systems are no different.

Sunday — whether religiously observed or secularly honored — functions as a societal expansion joint.

Saturday night is the moment when we decide whether we will use it wisely.

The Moral Act of Rest

There is a subtle moral dimension to rest.

To rest is to admit limitation. To acknowledge that you are not the axis upon which the universe turns. To concede that work will resume, but not endlessly.

In hyper-competitive environments, stopping feels irresponsible. Yet unbroken labor erodes judgment. Fatigue distorts decisions. Cynicism spreads.

Rest sharpens competence.

Saturday night whispers: you are finite.

Sunday responds: and that is acceptable.

The Anxiety and the Invitation

Yes, Sunday evening dread exists. The brain anticipates challenge.

But anticipation can be redirected.

Instead of rehearsing worst-case scenarios, one might rehearse readiness. Instead of simulating failure, simulate clarity.

The same imagination that conjures stress can construct resolve.

The hinge does not force direction. It offers choice.

The Strange Gift of Recurrence

Perhaps the most remarkable thing about Saturday night is that it will return.

Every seven days, without fail, the hinge reappears. A chance to recalibrate. A recurring opportunity to decide who you will be in the coming week.

Most of life’s grand turning points are rare. Graduation happens once. Retirement happens once. Milestones scatter sparsely across decades.

But this threshold arrives weekly.

The accumulation of small renewals shapes character more reliably than dramatic reinventions.

Standing in the Doorway

Saturday night is not glamorous.

It is not a holiday. It is not a crisis.

It is simply a doorway.

Yet doorways matter.

They orient us. They slow us. They mark passage.

Right now, as the evening deepens, you are standing in one.

Behind you is a completed week.
Ahead of you is an unwritten one.

You can drag the weight of the past forward. Or you can carry forward only the lessons.

You can dread the future. Or you can consent to it.

The hinge does not demand drama. It invites deliberation.

And that is enough.

Tomorrow will come regardless.

The only question Saturday night asks is this:

Will you step through consciously?

Because the week is about to begin again — and the remarkable thing about beginning again is that it never gets old.

Have You Hugged Your Minister Recently?

.Reading time 6 minutes.

A collaboration between Lewis McLain & AI

There is a quiet assumption in most congregations: the minister is fine.

After all, they stand up every Sunday. They open the Scriptures with clarity. They pray with confidence. They speak hope into hospital rooms, steady a trembling hand at funerals, and bless newborns as if grace flows through them without effort. We assume strength because we see it.

But assumption is not the same thing as reality.

Ministers are not called to the work for applause. If they were, they chose the wrong profession. The calling to ministry is rarely glamorous. It is more often late-night phone calls, quiet counseling sessions, and wrestling alone with a text long after everyone else has gone to bed. They did not step forward seeking accolades. They stepped forward because they believed they were summoned.

And yet — the pressure is constant.

There is the subtle fear of the missed need. The member who slipped through the cracks. The hospital visit that came too late. The counseling appointment that could not be squeezed into an already crowded week. Every shepherd lives with the question: Did I miss someone?

Then there is the tug-of-war between church and family.

When a crisis erupts in the congregation, the minister’s heart runs toward the need. But sometimes, that call comes during dinner. Or during a child’s ballgame. Or on the one evening that was supposed to belong to their spouse. The congregation sees availability. The family feels absence. A minister often stands in the middle, pulled in both directions, praying not to fail either. But knowing the spouse is quietly asking, “where is my minister?”

It is a strange loneliness. Ministers are surrounded by people and yet can feel profoundly alone. They carry confidences they cannot repeat. They absorb criticism they cannot publicly answer. They lead people who sometimes expect perfection but forget that leadership is still human. The human side aches when they drive by a home with church members enjoying a Christmas party.

The irony is thick: the one who comforts others must often comfort themselves.

Scripture gives us a tender image of this reality. In the Old Testament, when Moses grew weary holding up his arms during battle, Aaron and Hur stood beside him and held his hands up until sunset. Even the strongest leader needed someone to steady him.

Ministry is no different.

So what can a parishioner do?

First, speak encouragement — specifically. Not a vague “good sermon,” but a clear word: “When you said this, it helped me. You may never know how much I needed to hear those words.” Ministers store those moments like water in a canteen. They remember them in dry seasons.

Second, guard their family time. Resist the urge to call for non-urgent matters during evenings or days off. Teach your children that the minister’s children deserve the same protected space your family values.

Third, pray for them — not abstractly, but by name. Tell them you are doing so. In fact, send them the heart-felt prayer. There is something strengthening about knowing that someone is intentionally asking God to carry what you cannot.

Fourth, write a note. In a world of quick texts and fleeting comments, a handwritten word becomes a keepsake. Many ministers quietly keep such notes in desk drawers, pulling them out on hard days.

Fifth, offer practical relief. Provide a meal during busy seasons. Volunteer to carry part of a ministry load. Show up early. Stay late. Ministry was never meant to be a one-person performance. They lead the church, but the church is the people!

And perhaps, sometimes, simply offer a hug.

Not because they need flattery. Not because they are fragile. But because they are human.

The Church is not an audience. It is a body. And when one part grows weary, the others are meant to strengthen it.

The minister may never say they feel alone. They may never admit how heavy the week has been. But beneath the robe or suit jacket is a person who chose obedience over comfort, service over applause.

A simple word. A simple prayer. A simple embrace.

You might be surprised how far it goes.

Communities rise and fall on visible leadership, but they endure because of quiet encouragement. When the shepherd is strengthened, the flock is steadied. And sometimes, the holiest act in a church hallway is not a theological debate or a polished performance — it is a reminder that the one who pours out is not forgotten.

Blessed Assurance — With Context

.Reading time 5 minutes.

A collaboration between Lewis McLain & AI

Brief Biographical Introduction

Fanny Crosby (1820–1915) was one of the most prolific hymn writers in Christian history, credited with writing more than 8,000 hymns. Blinded in infancy due to a medical error, she was educated at the New York Institution for the Blind and later became a teacher there. She memorized large portions of Scripture and developed an extraordinary poetic memory. Despite her blindness, she consistently expressed gratitude for her condition, once remarking that if she had been able to see, she might not have relied so deeply on Christ. Her hymns became central to 19th-century American revival movements and remain widely sung today.

Now, let’s revisit the meaning of the hymn with that life in mind.

Verse 1 Explained Simply

“Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine!”
She’s saying: I am deeply certain that I belong to Christ.

“O what a foretaste of glory divine!”
This present faith is like a preview of heaven.

“Heir of salvation, purchase of God,”
I inherit eternal life; my redemption cost something — Christ’s sacrifice.

“Born of His Spirit, washed in His blood.”
I’ve been spiritually renewed and forgiven.

Chorus

“This is my story, this is my song,”
My life is defined by this faith.

“Praising my Savior all the day long.”
Gratitude shapes my daily posture.

Verse 2

“Perfect submission, perfect delight,”
Trust leads to joy.

“Visions of rapture now burst on my sight;”
Moments of spiritual clarity and joy.

“Angels descending, bring from above”
Imagery of heaven’s nearness.

“Echoes of mercy, whispers of love.”
A poetic way of describing felt grace.

Verse 3

“Perfect submission, all is at rest,”
Trust quiets anxiety.

“I in my Savior am happy and blest;”
Identity and contentment are rooted in Christ.

“Watching and waiting, looking above,”
Living with eternity in view.

“Filled with His goodness, lost in His love.”
Overwhelmed by grace.

APPENDIX

A More Detailed Biography of Fanny Crosby

https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/7/74/Fanny_Crosby.jpg

Full Name: Frances Jane Crosby
Born: March 24, 1820 – Brewster, New York
Died: February 12, 1915

Early Life

At six weeks old, Crosby developed an eye infection. A local physician applied a mustard poultice — a common but misguided treatment at the time — which resulted in permanent blindness. Whether that doctor was truly responsible is debated by historians, but Crosby remained blind for life.

Her father died when she was young, and she was raised largely by her mother and grandmother, both devout Christians. Her grandmother especially shaped her spiritually by reading Scripture aloud. Crosby memorized vast portions of the Bible. Blindness did not slow her intellect; it sharpened her memory.

Education

At age 15, she enrolled at the New York Institution for the Blind. She later became a teacher there. During this period, she gained national attention for her poetry and even met several U.S. presidents.

Her memory was legendary. She reportedly memorized five chapters of the Bible per week at one point.

Hymn Writing

Crosby began writing hymns during the height of American revivalism. She collaborated frequently with composer William H. Doane and others. Because publishers worried that her name appeared too often, she used over 200 pseudonyms.

Her writing style marked a shift in Protestant hymnody. Earlier hymn writers like Isaac Watts and Charles Wesley emphasized theological poetry. Crosby emphasized personal testimony — first-person assurance, felt salvation, intimate devotion.

She once said her greatest regret was that she could not write more hymns.

Theology and Outlook

Crosby was not naive about suffering. She lived through the Civil War, economic depressions, and personal loss, including the death of her infant child.

Yet she maintained a striking perspective. She famously said:

“If perfect earthly sight were offered me tomorrow I would not accept it. I might not have sung hymns to the praise of God if I had been distracted by the beautiful and interesting things about me.”

That is either extraordinary faith or extraordinary psychological resilience — perhaps both.

Legacy

When she died in 1915 at age 94, she had shaped American evangelical worship more than almost anyone else in her era.

Her hymns endure because they are:

  • Singable
  • Personal
  • Confident
  • Theologically accessible

She turned doctrine into song.
And song travels farther than sermons.

“When You Seek Me, You Will Find Me.”

.Reading time 6 minutes.

A collaboration between Lewis McLain & AI

— Book of Jeremiah 29:13

“You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart.” (Jeremiah 29:13, NIV)

That sentence is not floating in inspirational air. It lands in the middle of a crisis.

The Setting: A Letter to the Displaced

Jeremiah writes to Israelites who have been carried off to Babylon. Their city is ruined. Their temple—gone. Their identity—shaken. They are not asking, “How do I optimize my quiet time?” They are asking, “Has God abandoned us?”

In chapter 29, Jeremiah sends a letter telling them to build houses, plant gardens, marry, have children. Stay awhile. Seventy years, in fact. This is not a quick fix. It is exile with instructions.

Then comes the promise: You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart.

Notice the sequence.
First: settle down.
Second: endure.
Third: seek.
Then: find.

The finding is not magic. It is relational.

Seeking Is Not Casual Browsing

The Hebrew word for “seek” (darash) carries the sense of inquiry, pursuit, even investigation. It is what a king does when consulting a prophet. It is what a student does when chasing wisdom. It is not a distracted scroll through spiritual headlines.

Seeking “with all your heart” does not mean emotional intensity alone. In Hebrew thought, the “heart” (lev) is the control center—mind, will, desire. God is not asking for enthusiasm; He is asking for integration. No divided loyalties. No half-measures.

That is uncomfortable. Because most of us prefer partial pursuit. We seek solutions, relief, affirmation. God says: seek Me.

There is a difference between wanting answers and wanting presence.

The Strange Certainty of the Promise

The promise is bold: you will find me.

Not “you might.” Not “if you are lucky.” Not “if you decode the spiritual algorithm.” The certainty is startling.

This is not because humans are brilliant spiritual detectives. It is because the One being sought is not hiding maliciously. Scripture consistently portrays God as responsive to pursuit. Across the biblical arc—from Moses at the burning bush to the prodigal son returning home—the pattern holds: earnest seeking meets divine response.

This is not a laboratory guarantee. It is covenant language. It assumes relationship. It assumes humility. It assumes time.

Exile as Spiritual Catalyst

The promise is given in exile, not prosperity.

That matters.

Exile strips illusions. When everything comfortable collapses, people finally ask better questions. Comfort often dulls pursuit; disruption sharpens it.

This theme runs through Scripture. Israel in the wilderness. David in caves. Daniel in Babylon. Seeking intensifies when distractions thin out.

The unsettling thought: sometimes the season we resent becomes the soil where seeking grows.

Finding God: What Does That Mean?

Finding God does not mean physically locating Him like misplaced keys. It means restored awareness. Renewed alignment. Relational nearness.

The exiles would not immediately return home. The temple would not instantly rise from rubble. Yet God promises Himself in the meantime.

Presence before circumstances.

That reorders expectations.

The Danger of Transactional Seeking

There is a counterfeit version of this verse: “If I perform enough spiritual effort, God owes me results.” That is not Jeremiah 29. The broader passage emphasizes repentance, humility, and turning from idols.

Seeking with all the heart implies relinquishing competing loyalties. That is the hard part.

Many want God added to their existing blueprint. Scripture suggests a reversal: seek Him, and let Him redraw the blueprint.

Continuity Across the Canon

The pattern of seeking and finding echoes elsewhere:

  • “Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find.” (Matthew 7:7)
  • “Draw near to God, and He will draw near to you.” (James 4:8)

The consistency is striking. The Bible presents God not as an evasive cosmic puzzle, but as a personal being who responds to sincere pursuit.

Philosophically, that makes sense within a relational framework. If God is personal, He is found in relationship, not mere speculation.

A Working Hypothesis for Life

Consider this as a working theory: human restlessness is a compass. It points somewhere. When directed toward possessions, status, or control, it fragments. When directed toward God, it integrates.

The verse suggests a spiritual law: wholehearted pursuit aligns perception with reality.

Partial seeking produces partial clarity.

Wholehearted seeking produces encounter.

The Invitation

This verse is not sentimental. It is demanding.

Seek. Fully.
Persist. Through exile.
Align heart and will.
Expect response.

The promise does not eliminate suffering. It reframes it. Even in displacement, God is discoverable.

The exile eventually ended. Jerusalem was rebuilt. But the deeper rebuilding happened first—in hearts that learned to seek.

The universe is vast and often bewildering. Yet this ancient sentence offers a counterintuitive claim: the ultimate reality is not hidden beyond reach. It is relationally responsive.

Seek—not casually, not transactionally, but wholly—and you will find.

That is either the most hopeful promise ever written or the most audacious one. Either way, it demands to be tested not merely in thought, but in lived pursuit.

25 Questions to Ask Your Sweetheart Before Valentine’s Day

.Reading time 5 minutes.

A collaboration between Lewis McLain & AI

  1. What does love look like to you in everyday life? Not the grand gestures — the ordinary Tuesday version. The way the kitchen feels. The tone of voice. The small loyalties.
  2. How do you experience God? Formal faith? Quiet prayer? Wrestling? Doubt? Indifference? If faith matters deeply to one of you and not the other, that isn’t a minor detail.
  3. How do you want faith (or non-faith) to shape our home? Public church life? Private belief? Spiritual exploration? Moral framework? You’re not just marrying a person — you’re marrying their worldview.
  4. What did money mean in your childhood home? Security? Scarcity? Power? Stress? Most financial conflict is emotional archaeology.
  5. What does “financial peace” look like to you? No debt? Aggressive investing? Generosity? Margin? Romance fades quickly under chronic money anxiety.
  6. Who handles money better — and are we honest about that? Ego ruins budgets. Humility builds them.
  7. When life disappoints you, how do you react? Withdraw? Blame? Rebuild? Spiritualize it? Every couple must learn how to walk through disillusionment instead of turning on each other.
  8. What disillusioned you in past relationships? Expectations unspoken become expectations weaponized later.
  9. What would make you feel disillusioned with me? Hard question. Necessary question. Better discussed before resentment hardens.
  10. What does forgiveness mean when something truly hurts? Quick apology? Slow rebuild? Outside counsel? Love survives injury only if both understand repair.
  11. What role should extended family play in our life? Weekly dinners? Holidays only? Healthy distance? You don’t marry a person. You marry a family system.
  12. What boundaries do we need with our families? Kindness and clarity are not enemies. Boundaries protect love; they don’t diminish it.
  13. How do you handle loyalty conflicts between spouse and family? This one decides decades of peace or tension.
  14. What traditions from your family do you want to keep? And which ones should end with you? Every marriage edits history.
  15. What does success as a couple mean? Status? Stability? Impact? Quiet faithfulness? You need a shared definition or you’ll chase different scoreboards.
  16. How important is career ambition? Is work identity? Provision? Calling? Temporary necessity? Misaligned expectations here create silent friction.
  17. When one of us changes — and we will — how do we stay curious instead of critical? Growth is guaranteed. Alignment requires intention.
  18. What makes you feel respected? Respect is oxygen in long-term love.
  19. What do you need when you’re overwhelmed? Solutions? Silence? Prayer? Humor? Physical closeness? Guessing poorly creates unnecessary distance.
  20. How should we handle conflict? Never raise voices? Take breaks? Seek counsel? Pray together? You need a conflict philosophy before conflict arrives.
  21. What does physical intimacy mean emotionally to you? Bonding? Reassurance? Celebration? Obligation? Mismatch here quietly erodes connection.
  22. How do we protect our relationship from resentment? Date nights? Financial transparency? Shared spiritual rhythms? Honest check-ins? Protection requires planning.
  23. If God gives us children, how should faith and discipline shape that home? You are building a worldview laboratory, not just raising humans.
  24. What do you hope we’re laughing about 20 years from now? Joy is predictive. Shared humor is relational glue.
  25. If everything falls apart — finances, health, expectations — what anchors you? Faith? Character? Covenant? Community? This is the foundation question.

Disillusionment is not proof you chose wrong.

It’s the moment fantasy dissolves and reality asks, “Will you build something durable?”

Love that includes God isn’t magically easier — it’s deeper, because it requires humility and forgiveness.

Love that includes money conversations isn’t less romantic — it’s safer.

Love that acknowledges the whole family isn’t less passionate — it’s realistic.

Light the candle.
Eat the chocolate.
But also build the architecture.

The couples who last are not the ones who avoid hard questions.
They are the ones who ask them before the storm hits — and keep asking them long after February ends. 💫

The Best of Both: Today’s Praise Music and Traditional Hymns

.Reading time 5 minutes.

A collaboration between Lewis McLain & AI

The church has always sung its theology. Long before statements of faith were printed and sermons were streamed, belief was carried on melody. That simple fact makes the current conversation about today’s praise music versus traditional hymns feel louder than it needs to be. This isn’t a battle between old truth and new sound. It’s a conversation about how truth travels—through time, language, culture, and the human heart.

When we listen carefully, the best of both traditions are not rivals. They are partners, each carrying something the other needs.

What Hymns Give Us: Weight, Memory, and Doctrine

Traditional hymns were forged in eras when literacy was uneven and theology had to be remembered. The result is astonishing density. A single verse can carry Scripture, creed, and lived experience all at once.

Think of Amazing Grace. In four short stanzas it compresses repentance, redemption, perseverance, and hope beyond death. Hymns are often:

  • Doctrinally explicit – sin, grace, atonement, resurrection are named, not implied.
  • Lyrically economical – every word earns its place.
  • Communal by design – written for rooms without amplification, meant to be sung together, not performed.

Hymns teach believers how to speak to God with precision. They train the tongue and the mind. Over time, they build a shared theological vocabulary that survives when emotions fluctuate or circumstances darken.

What Praise Music Brings: Immediacy, Vulnerability, and Presence

Modern praise and worship music emerges from a different pressure point. It speaks to people formed by playlists, microphones, and a culture fluent in emotional expression. Where hymns often declare, praise songs frequently respond.

Contemporary worship—shaped in part by movements like Hillsong—tends to emphasize:

  • Relational language – “You are with me,” “I need You,” “I surrender.”
  • Extended musical space – repetition that allows reflection rather than information transfer.
  • Accessibility – fewer metaphors, more everyday speech.

This music excels at helping people enter worship. It lowers the threshold for those who do not yet speak the older dialect of faith. It meets believers where they are emotionally and invites them forward.

Where the Tension Comes From

The friction is not really about guitars versus organs. It’s about formation.

  • Hymns shape belief over decades.
  • Praise songs shape attention in the moment.

When either is asked to do the other’s job exclusively, the system strains. A church built only on hymns may feel distant to newcomers. A church built only on praise music may struggle to pass on theological depth over generations.

The problem isn’t modern music. The problem is thin worship, whatever its style.

https://www.plough.com/-/media/images/plough/quarterly/2022/31springmusic/31crosby/31crosbysocial.jpg?la=en
https://www.churchproduction.com/downloads/13438/download/hope%20fellowship%20worship2.jpg?cb=d688db8102bb983676165ff1badc5bb5&w=1024
https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/e/ef/Organ_and_Choir_Loft.jpg

4

The Best of Both: A Fuller Ecology of Worship

Healthy worship traditions borrow wisely.

From hymns, contemporary worship can reclaim lyrical rigor—songs that say something true even when the feeling fades. From praise music, hymnody can rediscover emotional honesty—permission to bring weakness, doubt, and longing before God without polish.

Some churches already live in this overlap: a historic hymn reframed with a new arrangement; a modern song that quotes Scripture as carefully as a psalm; a service where declaration and response take turns.

This isn’t compromise. It’s continuity.

A Final Thought: What We Sing Becomes What We Believe

Music lodges belief in places sermons rarely reach. At hospital bedsides. At graves. In moments when words run out. That makes the question of what we sing more important than how we sing it.

The best worship does not choose between old and new. It chooses truth, beauty, and endurance—songs sturdy enough to carry faith forward and tender enough to meet the present moment.

The church has always sung its way through history. The wisest congregations will keep doing so, drawing from the deep wells behind them while still listening for new songs worth carrying into the future.

The Prophets and Our Age of Political–Religious War

.Reading time 9 minutes.

A collaboration between Lewis McLain & AI

The prophets are not museum pieces. They are not ancient scolds yelling at vanished empires. They are a diagnostic tradition—a long, demanding conversation in which God refuses to let belief, power, or suffering drift away from moral meaning. When societies fracture into political and religious camps convinced that the other side is the real problem, the prophetic voice does not retreat. Historically, it intensifies.

That is why the prophets feel uncomfortably contemporary.

Across Scripture, prophets arise not when faith disappears, but when faith becomes useful—useful to kings, movements, institutions, and identities. They appear when moral language is plentiful but moral coherence is thin; when worship continues, but trust is gone; when people still believe in God yet quietly suspect He is no longer doing anything.

That description fits our moment with unsettling accuracy.

Prophetic Times Are Always War Times

Every major prophetic era emerges amid conditions strikingly similar to our own:

Deep polarization.
Competing moral absolutes.
Religious institutions entangled with power.
A sense that everything important is at stake and nothing can be conceded.

In Scripture, prophets are not sent to calm those conditions. They are sent to interpret them.

They insist that history is not merely a contest of forces but a moral field in which actions accumulate consequences. They deny the comforting illusion that righteousness automatically belongs to one camp. Instead, they interrogate everyone—especially those most convinced of their own purity.

This is why prophets are never embraced by movements. Movements require loyalty. Prophets require truth.

The Prophets Would Not Choose Sides—They Would Examine Them

One of the most persistent modern misreadings of Scripture is the assumption that, if the prophets were alive today, they would be obviously aligned with our cause.

History says otherwise.

The prophets consistently rebuke:

  • Kings who invoke God while consolidating power
  • Priests who protect institutions at the expense of truth
  • Nations that confuse election with exemption
  • Movements that justify injustice by pointing to worse enemies

They oppose not only wicked outcomes but wicked reasoning. They dismantle the logic that says, “Because our cause is right, our methods are justified.”

In today’s terms, that means the prophets would unsettle:

  • The religious right when faith becomes a shield for power
  • The secular left when justice becomes unmoored from truth
  • Nationalists who confuse country with covenant
  • Activists who confuse outrage with righteousness

The prophetic voice is not left or right. It is vertical—aimed upward toward God and downward toward human behavior at the same time.

Our Moment Is Closest to Malachi’s

Among all prophetic settings, the moment of Malachi may be the closest parallel to our own.

Malachi does not speak into rebellion or exile. He speaks after the crisis has passed—after judgment, after return, after rebuilding. The Temple stands. Worship resumes. The people are back where they were supposed to be.

And yet something essential is missing.

What Malachi confronts is not unbelief, but disillusionment. A people who still practice faith but no longer expect transformation. A community that keeps the rituals while quietly renegotiating commitments—truth, marriage, leadership, justice—downward.

This is the most dangerous spiritual condition Scripture knows: not defiance, but cynical compliance.

That posture produces predictable results:

  • Leaders cut corners
  • Teaching becomes selective
  • Moral compromise becomes pragmatic
  • Faithfulness becomes negotiable

Malachi’s calm, disputational tone—“I have loved you.” “How?”—is precisely what a weary, post-trauma society requires. And it is precisely what our own moment resembles.

Prophets Versus the Politics of Absolute Innocence

Modern political and religious conflict is fueled by a single, corrosive assumption:
“Our side is righteous; therefore our actions require no restraint.”

The prophets exist to destroy that assumption.

They insist that:

  • You can be right in cause and wrong in conduct
  • You can oppose injustice unjustly
  • You can speak truth while violating covenant
  • God does not grade morality on a curve based on enemies

This is why prophets are hated by ideologues. Ideology requires moral immunity. Prophecy removes it.

In war times—cultural or literal—this makes prophets sound naïve to hardliners and cruel to idealists. They refuse the lie that hatred can be sanctified by the correctness of its target.

The Prophetic Warning About Religious Capture

One of the prophets’ most consistent warnings is this:
When religion fuses too tightly with political power, truth is the first casualty.

This does not mean faith should withdraw from public life. The prophets never advocate that. It means faith must never become dependent on power for relevance or protection.

They oppose:

  • State-approved righteousness
  • Temple systems that protect elites
  • Moral language used to silence critique

They would warn us today that:

  • When faith becomes a brand, it loses authority
  • When churches become political echo chambers, they stop being prophetic
  • When moral language is reduced to slogans, conscience atrophies

The prophets are not anti-institution. They are anti-corruption of institutions by fear and ambition.

Enemies, Evil, and Moral Restraint

In times of conflict, the prophets do something radical and deeply unpopular: they humanize enemies without excusing evil.

They condemn injustice.
They warn of judgment.
They call for repentance.

And still, they insist on restraint.

They refuse to let the existence of real evil justify the abandonment of moral coherence. They will not allow cruelty to masquerade as courage, or vengeance to pass as justice.

This is why prophetic ethics feel impractical during conflict. They slow down what war logic wants to accelerate.

What the Prophets Would Say to Religious People Today

Not “be louder.”
Not “take back the country.”
Not “withdraw and wait it out.”

They would say:

  • Guard truth more carefully than influence
  • Measure success by faithfulness, not victory
  • Stop explaining away moral compromise
  • Remember that God outlasts every regime
  • Refuse to mirror the behavior you condemn

This posture costs something. It always has. Prophets are rarely rewarded in their own time.

Why Prophetic Voices Are Rare in War Times

Because war—cultural or otherwise—rewards:

  • Certainty over humility
  • Loyalty over truth
  • Victory over integrity

Prophets offer none of these rewards. They offer clarity, accountability, and long memory.

That is why societies in conflict silence them, mock them, or domesticate them into harmless historical figures.

The Most Uncomfortable Prophetic Insight

Here it is, distilled:

The prophets were not sent because the wrong people were winning—
but because the right people were becoming unrecognizable.

That sentence applies with surgical accuracy to modern religious and political life.

How to Read the Prophets Faithfully Now

To read the prophets today is not to:

  • Find ammunition for culture-war arguments
  • Claim divine endorsement for policies
  • Prove that history is on your side

It is to ask:

  • Where have we confused conviction with cruelty?
  • Where have we defended truth while violating covenant?
  • Where have we mistaken being right for being faithful?

The prophets do not tell us how to win wars.

They tell us how to remain truthful, accountable, and human while living through them.

That, in every age—including ours—is the harder victory.

This is what I read on MLK’s Birthday

.Reading time 57 minutes.
 AFRICAN STUDIES CENTER – UNIVERSITY OF PENNSYLVANIA 

“Letter from a Birmingham Jail”
Martin Luther King, Jr.

16 April 1963

My Dear Fellow Clergymen:

While confined here in the Birmingham city jail, I came across your recent statement calling my present activities “unwise and untimely.” Seldom do I pause to answer criticism of my work and ideas. If I sought to answer all the criticisms that cross my desk, my secretaries would have little time for anything other than such correspondence in the course of the day, and I would have no time for constructive work. But since I feel that you are men of genuine good will and that your criticisms are sincerely set forth, I want to try to answer your statement in what I hope will be patient and reasonable terms.

I think I should indicate why I am here in Birmingham, since you have been influenced by the view which argues against “outsiders coming in.” I have the honor of serving as president of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, an organization operating in every southern state, with headquarters in Atlanta, Georgia. We have some eighty five affiliated organizations across the South, and one of them is the Alabama Christian Movement for Human Rights. Frequently we share staff, educational and financial resources with our affiliates. Several months ago the affiliate here in Birmingham asked us to be on call to engage in a nonviolent direct action program if such were deemed necessary. We readily consented, and when the hour came we lived up to our promise. So I, along with several members of my staff, am here because I was invited here. I am here because I have organizational ties here.

But more basically, I am in Birmingham because injustice is here. Just as the prophets of the eighth century B.C. left their villages and carried their “thus saith the Lord” far beyond the boundaries of their home towns, and just as the Apostle Paul left his village of Tarsus and carried the gospel of Jesus Christ to the far corners of the Greco Roman world, so am I compelled to carry the gospel of freedom beyond my own home town. Like Paul, I must constantly respond to the Macedonian call for aid.

Moreover, I am cognizant of the interrelatedness of all communities and states. I cannot sit idly by in Atlanta and not be concerned about what happens in Birmingham. Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly. Never again can we afford to live with the narrow, provincial “outside agitator” idea. Anyone who lives inside the United States can never be considered an outsider anywhere within its bounds.

You deplore the demonstrations taking place in Birmingham. But your statement, I am sorry to say, fails to express a similar concern for the conditions that brought about the demonstrations. I am sure that none of you would want to rest content with the superficial kind of social analysis that deals merely with effects and does not grapple with underlying causes. It is unfortunate that demonstrations are taking place in Birmingham, but it is even more unfortunate that the city’s white power structure left the Negro community with no alternative.

In any nonviolent campaign there are four basic steps: collection of the facts to determine whether injustices exist; negotiation; self purification; and direct action. We have gone through all these steps in Birmingham. There can be no gainsaying the fact that racial injustice engulfs this community. Birmingham is probably the most thoroughly segregated city in the United States. Its ugly record of brutality is widely known. Negroes have experienced grossly unjust treatment in the courts. There have been more unsolved bombings of Negro homes and churches in Birmingham than in any other city in the nation. These are the hard, brutal facts of the case. On the basis of these conditions, Negro leaders sought to negotiate with the city fathers. But the latter consistently refused to engage in good faith negotiation.

Then, last September, came the opportunity to talk with leaders of Birmingham’s economic community. In the course of the negotiations, certain promises were made by the merchants–for example, to remove the stores’ humiliating racial signs. On the basis of these promises, the Reverend Fred Shuttlesworth and the leaders of the Alabama Christian Movement for Human Rights agreed to a moratorium on all demonstrations. As the weeks and months went by, we realized that we were the victims of a broken promise. A few signs, briefly removed, returned; the others remained. As in so many past experiences, our hopes had been blasted, and the shadow of deep disappointment settled upon us. We had no alternative except to prepare for direct action, whereby we would present our very bodies as a means of laying our case before the conscience of the local and the national community. Mindful of the difficulties involved, we decided to undertake a process of self purification. We began a series of workshops on nonviolence, and we repeatedly asked ourselves: “Are you able to accept blows without retaliating?” “Are you able to endure the ordeal of jail?” We decided to schedule our direct action program for the Easter season, realizing that except for Christmas, this is the main shopping period of the year. Knowing that a strong economic-withdrawal program would be the by product of direct action, we felt that this would be the best time to bring pressure to bear on the merchants for the needed change.

Then it occurred to us that Birmingham’s mayoral election was coming up in March, and we speedily decided to postpone action until after election day. When we discovered that the Commissioner of Public Safety, Eugene “Bull” Connor, had piled up enough votes to be in the run off, we decided again to postpone action until the day after the run off so that the demonstrations could not be used to cloud the issues. Like many others, we waited to see Mr. Connor defeated, and to this end we endured postponement after postponement. Having aided in this community need, we felt that our direct action program could be delayed no longer.

You may well ask: “Why direct action? Why sit ins, marches and so forth? Isn’t negotiation a better path?” You are quite right in calling for negotiation. Indeed, this is the very purpose of direct action. Nonviolent direct action seeks to create such a crisis and foster such a tension that a community which has constantly refused to negotiate is forced to confront the issue. It seeks so to dramatize the issue that it can no longer be ignored. My citing the creation of tension as part of the work of the nonviolent resister may sound rather shocking. But I must confess that I am not afraid of the word “tension.” I have earnestly opposed violent tension, but there is a type of constructive, nonviolent tension which is necessary for growth. Just as Socrates felt that it was necessary to create a tension in the mind so that individuals could rise from the bondage of myths and half truths to the unfettered realm of creative analysis and objective appraisal, so must we see the need for nonviolent gadflies to create the kind of tension in society that will help men rise from the dark depths of prejudice and racism to the majestic heights of understanding and brotherhood. The purpose of our direct action program is to create a situation so crisis packed that it will inevitably open the door to negotiation. I therefore concur with you in your call for negotiation. Too long has our beloved Southland been bogged down in a tragic effort to live in monologue rather than dialogue.

One of the basic points in your statement is that the action that I and my associates have taken in Birmingham is untimely. Some have asked: “Why didn’t you give the new city administration time to act?” The only answer that I can give to this query is that the new Birmingham administration must be prodded about as much as the outgoing one, before it will act. We are sadly mistaken if we feel that the election of Albert Boutwell as mayor will bring the millennium to Birmingham. While Mr. Boutwell is a much more gentle person than Mr. Connor, they are both segregationists, dedicated to maintenance of the status quo. I have hope that Mr. Boutwell will be reasonable enough to see the futility of massive resistance to desegregation. But he will not see this without pressure from devotees of civil rights. My friends, I must say to you that we have not made a single gain in civil rights without determined legal and nonviolent pressure. Lamentably, it is an historical fact that privileged groups seldom give up their privileges voluntarily. Individuals may see the moral light and voluntarily give up their unjust posture; but, as Reinhold Niebuhr has reminded us, groups tend to be more immoral than individuals.

We know through painful experience that freedom is never voluntarily given by the oppressor; it must be demanded by the oppressed. Frankly, I have yet to engage in a direct action campaign that was “well timed” in the view of those who have not suffered unduly from the disease of segregation. For years now I have heard the word “Wait!” It rings in the ear of every Negro with piercing familiarity. This “Wait” has almost always meant “Never.” We must come to see, with one of our distinguished jurists, that “justice too long delayed is justice denied.”

We have waited for more than 340 years for our constitutional and God given rights. The nations of Asia and Africa are moving with jetlike speed toward gaining political independence, but we still creep at horse and buggy pace toward gaining a cup of coffee at a lunch counter. Perhaps it is easy for those who have never felt the stinging darts of segregation to say, “Wait.” But when you have seen vicious mobs lynch your mothers and fathers at will and drown your sisters and brothers at whim; when you have seen hate filled policemen curse, kick and even kill your black brothers and sisters; when you see the vast majority of your twenty million Negro brothers smothering in an airtight cage of poverty in the midst of an affluent society; when you suddenly find your tongue twisted and your speech stammering as you seek to explain to your six year old daughter why she can’t go to the public amusement park that has just been advertised on television, and see tears welling up in her eyes when she is told that Funtown is closed to colored children, and see ominous clouds of inferiority beginning to form in her little mental sky, and see her beginning to distort her personality by developing an unconscious bitterness toward white people; when you have to concoct an answer for a five year old son who is asking: “Daddy, why do white people treat colored people so mean?”; when you take a cross county drive and find it necessary to sleep night after night in the uncomfortable corners of your automobile because no motel will accept you; when you are humiliated day in and day out by nagging signs reading “white” and “colored”; when your first name becomes “nigger,” your middle name becomes “boy” (however old you are) and your last name becomes “John,” and your wife and mother are never given the respected title “Mrs.”; when you are harried by day and haunted by night by the fact that you are a Negro, living constantly at tiptoe stance, never quite knowing what to expect next, and are plagued with inner fears and outer resentments; when you are forever fighting a degenerating sense of “nobodiness”–then you will understand why we find it difficult to wait. There comes a time when the cup of endurance runs over, and men are no longer willing to be plunged into the abyss of despair. I hope, sirs, you can understand our legitimate and unavoidable impatience. You express a great deal of anxiety over our willingness to break laws. This is certainly a legitimate concern. Since we so diligently urge people to obey the Supreme Court’s decision of 1954 outlawing segregation in the public schools, at first glance it may seem rather paradoxical for us consciously to break laws. One may well ask: “How can you advocate breaking some laws and obeying others?” The answer lies in the fact that there are two types of laws: just and unjust. I would be the first to advocate obeying just laws. One has not only a legal but a moral responsibility to obey just laws. Conversely, one has a moral responsibility to disobey unjust laws. I would agree with St. Augustine that “an unjust law is no law at all.”

Now, what is the difference between the two? How does one determine whether a law is just or unjust? A just law is a man made code that squares with the moral law or the law of God. An unjust law is a code that is out of harmony with the moral law. To put it in the terms of St. Thomas Aquinas: An unjust law is a human law that is not rooted in eternal law and natural law. Any law that uplifts human personality is just. Any law that degrades human personality is unjust. All segregation statutes are unjust because segregation distorts the soul and damages the personality. It gives the segregator a false sense of superiority and the segregated a false sense of inferiority. Segregation, to use the terminology of the Jewish philosopher Martin Buber, substitutes an “I it” relationship for an “I thou” relationship and ends up relegating persons to the status of things. Hence segregation is not only politically, economically and sociologically unsound, it is morally wrong and sinful. Paul Tillich has said that sin is separation. Is not segregation an existential expression of man’s tragic separation, his awful estrangement, his terrible sinfulness? Thus it is that I can urge men to obey the 1954 decision of the Supreme Court, for it is morally right; and I can urge them to disobey segregation ordinances, for they are morally wrong.

Let us consider a more concrete example of just and unjust laws. An unjust law is a code that a numerical or power majority group compels a minority group to obey but does not make binding on itself. This is difference made legal. By the same token, a just law is a code that a majority compels a minority to follow and that it is willing to follow itself. This is sameness made legal. Let me give another explanation. A law is unjust if it is inflicted on a minority that, as a result of being denied the right to vote, had no part in enacting or devising the law. Who can say that the legislature of Alabama which set up that state’s segregation laws was democratically elected? Throughout Alabama all sorts of devious methods are used to prevent Negroes from becoming registered voters, and there are some counties in which, even though Negroes constitute a majority of the population, not a single Negro is registered. Can any law enacted under such circumstances be considered democratically structured?

Sometimes a law is just on its face and unjust in its application. For instance, I have been arrested on a charge of parading without a permit. Now, there is nothing wrong in having an ordinance which requires a permit for a parade. But such an ordinance becomes unjust when it is used to maintain segregation and to deny citizens the First-Amendment privilege of peaceful assembly and protest.

I hope you are able to see the distinction I am trying to point out. In no sense do I advocate evading or defying the law, as would the rabid segregationist. That would lead to anarchy. One who breaks an unjust law must do so openly, lovingly, and with a willingness to accept the penalty. I submit that an individual who breaks a law that conscience tells him is unjust, and who willingly accepts the penalty of imprisonment in order to arouse the conscience of the community over its injustice, is in reality expressing the highest respect for law.

Of course, there is nothing new about this kind of civil disobedience. It was evidenced sublimely in the refusal of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego to obey the laws of Nebuchadnezzar, on the ground that a higher moral law was at stake. It was practiced superbly by the early Christians, who were willing to face hungry lions and the excruciating pain of chopping blocks rather than submit to certain unjust laws of the Roman Empire. To a degree, academic freedom is a reality today because Socrates practiced civil disobedience. In our own nation, the Boston Tea Party represented a massive act of civil disobedience.

We should never forget that everything Adolf Hitler did in Germany was “legal” and everything the Hungarian freedom fighters did in Hungary was “illegal.” It was “illegal” to aid and comfort a Jew in Hitler’s Germany. Even so, I am sure that, had I lived in Germany at the time, I would have aided and comforted my Jewish brothers. If today I lived in a Communist country where certain principles dear to the Christian faith are suppressed, I would openly advocate disobeying that country’s antireligious laws.

I must make two honest confessions to you, my Christian and Jewish brothers. First, I must confess that over the past few years I have been gravely disappointed with the white moderate. I have almost reached the regrettable conclusion that the Negro’s great stumbling block in his stride toward freedom is not the White Citizen’s Counciler or the Ku Klux Klanner, but the white moderate, who is more devoted to “order” than to justice; who prefers a negative peace which is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice; who constantly says: “I agree with you in the goal you seek, but I cannot agree with your methods of direct action”; who paternalistically believes he can set the timetable for another man’s freedom; who lives by a mythical concept of time and who constantly advises the Negro to wait for a “more convenient season.” Shallow understanding from people of good will is more frustrating than absolute misunderstanding from people of ill will. Lukewarm acceptance is much more bewildering than outright rejection.

I had hoped that the white moderate would understand that law and order exist for the purpose of establishing justice and that when they fail in this purpose they become the dangerously structured dams that block the flow of social progress. I had hoped that the white moderate would understand that the present tension in the South is a necessary phase of the transition from an obnoxious negative peace, in which the Negro passively accepted his unjust plight, to a substantive and positive peace, in which all men will respect the dignity and worth of human personality. Actually, we who engage in nonviolent direct action are not the creators of tension. We merely bring to the surface the hidden tension that is already alive. We bring it out in the open, where it can be seen and dealt with. Like a boil that can never be cured so long as it is covered up but must be opened with all its ugliness to the natural medicines of air and light, injustice must be exposed, with all the tension its exposure creates, to the light of human conscience and the air of national opinion before it can be cured.

In your statement you assert that our actions, even though peaceful, must be condemned because they precipitate violence. But is this a logical assertion? Isn’t this like condemning a robbed man because his possession of money precipitated the evil act of robbery? Isn’t this like condemning Socrates because his unswerving commitment to truth and his philosophical inquiries precipitated the act by the misguided populace in which they made him drink hemlock? Isn’t this like condemning Jesus because his unique God consciousness and never ceasing devotion to God’s will precipitated the evil act of crucifixion? We must come to see that, as the federal courts have consistently affirmed, it is wrong to urge an individual to cease his efforts to gain his basic constitutional rights because the quest may precipitate violence. Society must protect the robbed and punish the robber. I had also hoped that the white moderate would reject the myth concerning time in relation to the struggle for freedom. I have just received a letter from a white brother in Texas. He writes: “All Christians know that the colored people will receive equal rights eventually, but it is possible that you are in too great a religious hurry. It has taken Christianity almost two thousand years to accomplish what it has. The teachings of Christ take time to come to earth.” Such an attitude stems from a tragic misconception of time, from the strangely irrational notion that there is something in the very flow of time that will inevitably cure all ills. Actually, time itself is neutral; it can be used either destructively or constructively. More and more I feel that the people of ill will have used time much more effectively than have the people of good will. We will have to repent in this generation not merely for the hateful words and actions of the bad people but for the appalling silence of the good people. Human progress never rolls in on wheels of inevitability; it comes through the tireless efforts of men willing to be co workers with God, and without this hard work, time itself becomes an ally of the forces of social stagnation. We must use time creatively, in the knowledge that the time is always ripe to do right. Now is the time to make real the promise of democracy and transform our pending national elegy into a creative psalm of brotherhood. Now is the time to lift our national policy from the quicksand of racial injustice to the solid rock of human dignity.

You speak of our activity in Birmingham as extreme. At first I was rather disappointed that fellow clergymen would see my nonviolent efforts as those of an extremist. I began thinking about the fact that I stand in the middle of two opposing forces in the Negro community. One is a force of complacency, made up in part of Negroes who, as a result of long years of oppression, are so drained of self respect and a sense of “somebodiness” that they have adjusted to segregation; and in part of a few middle-class Negroes who, because of a degree of academic and economic security and because in some ways they profit by segregation, have become insensitive to the problems of the masses. The other force is one of bitterness and hatred, and it comes perilously close to advocating violence. It is expressed in the various black nationalist groups that are springing up across the nation, the largest and best known being Elijah Muhammad’s Muslim movement. Nourished by the Negro’s frustration over the continued existence of racial discrimination, this movement is made up of people who have lost faith in America, who have absolutely repudiated Christianity, and who have concluded that the white man is an incorrigible “devil.”

I have tried to stand between these two forces, saying that we need emulate neither the “do nothingism” of the complacent nor the hatred and despair of the black nationalist. For there is the more excellent way of love and nonviolent protest. I am grateful to God that, through the influence of the Negro church, the way of nonviolence became an integral part of our struggle. If this philosophy had not emerged, by now many streets of the South would, I am convinced, be flowing with blood. And I am further convinced that if our white brothers dismiss as “rabble rousers” and “outside agitators” those of us who employ nonviolent direct action, and if they refuse to support our nonviolent efforts, millions of Negroes will, out of frustration and despair, seek solace and security in black nationalist ideologies–a development that would inevitably lead to a frightening racial nightmare.

Oppressed people cannot remain oppressed forever. The yearning for freedom eventually manifests itself, and that is what has happened to the American Negro. Something within has reminded him of his birthright of freedom, and something without has reminded him that it can be gained. Consciously or unconsciously, he has been caught up by the Zeitgeist, and with his black brothers of Africa and his brown and yellow brothers of Asia, South America and the Caribbean, the United States Negro is moving with a sense of great urgency toward the promised land of racial justice. If one recognizes this vital urge that has engulfed the Negro community, one should readily understand why public demonstrations are taking place. The Negro has many pent up resentments and latent frustrations, and he must release them. So let him march; let him make prayer pilgrimages to the city hall; let him go on freedom rides -and try to understand why he must do so. If his repressed emotions are not released in nonviolent ways, they will seek expression through violence; this is not a threat but a fact of history. So I have not said to my people: “Get rid of your discontent.” Rather, I have tried to say that this normal and healthy discontent can be channeled into the creative outlet of nonviolent direct action. And now this approach is being termed extremist. But though I was initially disappointed at being categorized as an extremist, as I continued to think about the matter I gradually gained a measure of satisfaction from the label. Was not Jesus an extremist for love: “Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you.” Was not Amos an extremist for justice: “Let justice roll down like waters and righteousness like an ever flowing stream.” Was not Paul an extremist for the Christian gospel: “I bear in my body the marks of the Lord Jesus.” Was not Martin Luther an extremist: “Here I stand; I cannot do otherwise, so help me God.” And John Bunyan: “I will stay in jail to the end of my days before I make a butchery of my conscience.” And Abraham Lincoln: “This nation cannot survive half slave and half free.” And Thomas Jefferson: “We hold these truths to be self evident, that all men are created equal . . .” So the question is not whether we will be extremists, but what kind of extremists we will be. Will we be extremists for hate or for love? Will we be extremists for the preservation of injustice or for the extension of justice? In that dramatic scene on Calvary’s hill three men were crucified. We must never forget that all three were crucified for the same crime–the crime of extremism. Two were extremists for immorality, and thus fell below their environment. The other, Jesus Christ, was an extremist for love, truth and goodness, and thereby rose above his environment. Perhaps the South, the nation and the world are in dire need of creative extremists.

I had hoped that the white moderate would see this need. Perhaps I was too optimistic; perhaps I expected too much. I suppose I should have realized that few members of the oppressor race can understand the deep groans and passionate yearnings of the oppressed race, and still fewer have the vision to see that injustice must be rooted out by strong, persistent and determined action. I am thankful, however, that some of our white brothers in the South have grasped the meaning of this social revolution and committed themselves to it. They are still all too few in quantity, but they are big in quality. Some -such as Ralph McGill, Lillian Smith, Harry Golden, James McBride Dabbs, Ann Braden and Sarah Patton Boyle–have written about our struggle in eloquent and prophetic terms. Others have marched with us down nameless streets of the South. They have languished in filthy, roach infested jails, suffering the abuse and brutality of policemen who view them as “dirty nigger-lovers.” Unlike so many of their moderate brothers and sisters, they have recognized the urgency of the moment and sensed the need for powerful “action” antidotes to combat the disease of segregation. Let me take note of my other major disappointment. I have been so greatly disappointed with the white church and its leadership. Of course, there are some notable exceptions. I am not unmindful of the fact that each of you has taken some significant stands on this issue. I commend you, Reverend Stallings, for your Christian stand on this past Sunday, in welcoming Negroes to your worship service on a nonsegregated basis. I commend the Catholic leaders of this state for integrating Spring Hill College several years ago.

But despite these notable exceptions, I must honestly reiterate that I have been disappointed with the church. I do not say this as one of those negative critics who can always find something wrong with the church. I say this as a minister of the gospel, who loves the church; who was nurtured in its bosom; who has been sustained by its spiritual blessings and who will remain true to it as long as the cord of life shall lengthen.

When I was suddenly catapulted into the leadership of the bus protest in Montgomery, Alabama, a few years ago, I felt we would be supported by the white church. I felt that the white ministers, priests and rabbis of the South would be among our strongest allies. Instead, some have been outright opponents, refusing to understand the freedom movement and misrepresenting its leaders; all too many others have been more cautious than courageous and have remained silent behind the anesthetizing security of stained glass windows.

In spite of my shattered dreams, I came to Birmingham with the hope that the white religious leadership of this community would see the justice of our cause and, with deep moral concern, would serve as the channel through which our just grievances could reach the power structure. I had hoped that each of you would understand. But again I have been disappointed.

I have heard numerous southern religious leaders admonish their worshipers to comply with a desegregation decision because it is the law, but I have longed to hear white ministers declare: “Follow this decree because integration is morally right and because the Negro is your brother.” In the midst of blatant injustices inflicted upon the Negro, I have watched white churchmen stand on the sideline and mouth pious irrelevancies and sanctimonious trivialities. In the midst of a mighty struggle to rid our nation of racial and economic injustice, I have heard many ministers say: “Those are social issues, with which the gospel has no real concern.” And I have watched many churches commit themselves to a completely other worldly religion which makes a strange, un-Biblical distinction between body and soul, between the sacred and the secular.

I have traveled the length and breadth of Alabama, Mississippi and all the other southern states. On sweltering summer days and crisp autumn mornings I have looked at the South’s beautiful churches with their lofty spires pointing heavenward. I have beheld the impressive outlines of her massive religious education buildings. Over and over I have found myself asking: “What kind of people worship here? Who is their God? Where were their voices when the lips of Governor Barnett dripped with words of interposition and nullification? Where were they when Governor Wallace gave a clarion call for defiance and hatred? Where were their voices of support when bruised and weary Negro men and women decided to rise from the dark dungeons of complacency to the bright hills of creative protest?”

Yes, these questions are still in my mind. In deep disappointment I have wept over the laxity of the church. But be assured that my tears have been tears of love. There can be no deep disappointment where there is not deep love. Yes, I love the church. How could I do otherwise? I am in the rather unique position of being the son, the grandson and the great grandson of preachers. Yes, I see the church as the body of Christ. But, oh! How we have blemished and scarred that body through social neglect and through fear of being nonconformists.

There was a time when the church was very powerful–in the time when the early Christians rejoiced at being deemed worthy to suffer for what they believed. In those days the church was not merely a thermometer that recorded the ideas and principles of popular opinion; it was a thermostat that transformed the mores of society. Whenever the early Christians entered a town, the people in power became disturbed and immediately sought to convict the Christians for being “disturbers of the peace” and “outside agitators.”‘ But the Christians pressed on, in the conviction that they were “a colony of heaven,” called to obey God rather than man. Small in number, they were big in commitment. They were too God-intoxicated to be “astronomically intimidated.” By their effort and example they brought an end to such ancient evils as infanticide and gladiatorial contests. Things are different now. So often the contemporary church is a weak, ineffectual voice with an uncertain sound. So often it is an archdefender of the status quo. Far from being disturbed by the presence of the church, the power structure of the average community is consoled by the church’s silent–and often even vocal–sanction of things as they are.

But the judgment of God is upon the church as never before. If today’s church does not recapture the sacrificial spirit of the early church, it will lose its authenticity, forfeit the loyalty of millions, and be dismissed as an irrelevant social club with no meaning for the twentieth century. Every day I meet young people whose disappointment with the church has turned into outright disgust.
Perhaps I have once again been too optimistic. Is organized religion too inextricably bound to the status quo to save our nation and the world? Perhaps I must turn my faith to the inner spiritual church, the church within the church, as the true ekklesia and the hope of the world. But again I am thankful to God that some noble souls from the ranks of organized religion have broken loose from the paralyzing chains of conformity and joined us as active partners in the struggle for freedom. They have left their secure congregations and walked the streets of Albany, Georgia, with us. They have gone down the highways of the South on tortuous rides for freedom. Yes, they have gone to jail with us. Some have been dismissed from their churches, have lost the support of their bishops and fellow ministers. But they have acted in the faith that right defeated is stronger than evil triumphant. Their witness has been the spiritual salt that has preserved the true meaning of the gospel in these troubled times. They have carved a tunnel of hope through the dark mountain of disappointment. I hope the church as a whole will meet the challenge of this decisive hour. But even if the church does not come to the aid of justice, I have no despair about the future. I have no fear about the outcome of our struggle in Birmingham, even if our motives are at present misunderstood. We will reach the goal of freedom in Birmingham and all over the nation, because the goal of America is freedom. Abused and scorned though we may be, our destiny is tied up with America’s destiny. Before the pilgrims landed at Plymouth, we were here. Before the pen of Jefferson etched the majestic words of the Declaration of Independence across the pages of history, we were here. For more than two centuries our forebears labored in this country without wages; they made cotton king; they built the homes of their masters while suffering gross injustice and shameful humiliation -and yet out of a bottomless vitality they continued to thrive and develop. If the inexpressible cruelties of slavery could not stop us, the opposition we now face will surely fail. We will win our freedom because the sacred heritage of our nation and the eternal will of God are embodied in our echoing demands. Before closing I feel impelled to mention one other point in your statement that has troubled me profoundly. You warmly commended the Birmingham police force for keeping “order” and “preventing violence.” I doubt that you would have so warmly commended the police force if you had seen its dogs sinking their teeth into unarmed, nonviolent Negroes. I doubt that you would so quickly commend the policemen if you were to observe their ugly and inhumane treatment of Negroes here in the city jail; if you were to watch them push and curse old Negro women and young Negro girls; if you were to see them slap and kick old Negro men and young boys; if you were to observe them, as they did on two occasions, refuse to give us food because we wanted to sing our grace together. I cannot join you in your praise of the Birmingham police department.

It is true that the police have exercised a degree of discipline in handling the demonstrators. In this sense they have conducted themselves rather “nonviolently” in public. But for what purpose? To preserve the evil system of segregation. Over the past few years I have consistently preached that nonviolence demands that the means we use must be as pure as the ends we seek. I have tried to make clear that it is wrong to use immoral means to attain moral ends. But now I must affirm that it is just as wrong, or perhaps even more so, to use moral means to preserve immoral ends. Perhaps Mr. Connor and his policemen have been rather nonviolent in public, as was Chief Pritchett in Albany, Georgia, but they have used the moral means of nonviolence to maintain the immoral end of racial injustice. As T. S. Eliot has said: “The last temptation is the greatest treason: To do the right deed for the wrong reason.”

I wish you had commended the Negro sit inners and demonstrators of Birmingham for their sublime courage, their willingness to suffer and their amazing discipline in the midst of great provocation. One day the South will recognize its real heroes. They will be the James Merediths, with the noble sense of purpose that enables them to face jeering and hostile mobs, and with the agonizing loneliness that characterizes the life of the pioneer. They will be old, oppressed, battered Negro women, symbolized in a seventy two year old woman in Montgomery, Alabama, who rose up with a sense of dignity and with her people decided not to ride segregated buses, and who responded with ungrammatical profundity to one who inquired about her weariness: “My feets is tired, but my soul is at rest.” They will be the young high school and college students, the young ministers of the gospel and a host of their elders, courageously and nonviolently sitting in at lunch counters and willingly going to jail for conscience’ sake. One day the South will know that when these disinherited children of God sat down at lunch counters, they were in reality standing up for what is best in the American dream and for the most sacred values in our Judaeo Christian heritage, thereby bringing our nation back to those great wells of democracy which were dug deep by the founding fathers in their formulation of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence.

Never before have I written so long a letter. I’m afraid it is much too long to take your precious time. I can assure you that it would have been much shorter if I had been writing from a comfortable desk, but what else can one do when he is alone in a narrow jail cell, other than write long letters, think long thoughts and pray long prayers?
If I have said anything in this letter that overstates the truth and indicates an unreasonable impatience, I beg you to forgive me. If I have said anything that understates the truth and indicates my having a patience that allows me to settle for anything less than brotherhood, I beg God to forgive me.

I hope this letter finds you strong in the faith. I also hope that circumstances will soon make it possible for me to meet each of you, not as an integrationist or a civil-rights leader but as a fellow clergyman and a Christian brother. Let us all hope that the dark clouds of racial prejudice will soon pass away and the deep fog of misunderstanding will be lifted from our fear drenched communities, and in some not too distant tomorrow the radiant stars of love and brotherhood will shine over our great nation with all their scintillating beauty.

Yours for the cause of Peace and Brotherhood, Martin Luther King, Jr.

Published in:
King, Martin Luther Jr.

Page Editor: Ali B. Ali-Dinar, Ph.D.

The 400-Year Handoff Between the Last Prophet and the First Cry

.Reading time 9 minutes.

The 400-Year Handoff

A collaboration between Lewis McLain & AI

The space between Book of Malachi and John the Baptist is often called the 400 years of silence. That phrase is tidy—and misleading. Nothing about those centuries was empty. Empires rose and fell. Languages fused. Roads were laid. Synagogues multiplied. Expectations hardened. What fell silent was not history, but prophecy.

Malachi speaks at the far edge of the Old Testament, when the temple stands again but the heart has not returned with it. He diagnoses a subtler sickness than idolatry: weariness with God. Worship continues, but reverence has thinned. Obedience is procedural. Faith has become a habit rather than a hope. Malachi does not end with comfort. He ends with a hinge: remember the Law—and watch for the messenger. The sentence is left open on purpose.

Then the voice stops.

Four centuries pass. No canonical prophet stands up to finish Malachi’s thought. Instead, the world is quietly prepared. Persia yields to Greece; Greece yields to Rome. Greek becomes the common tongue; Roman roads knit the Mediterranean into a single nervous system. Israel learns to survive without a king, without a prophet, without obvious rescue. Scripture is read aloud in synagogues; law is studied; expectation migrates from repentance to anticipation. Judgment, many hope, will fall on others.

Into that long, loaded quiet steps a man in the wilderness.

John the Baptist does not sound new. That is the shock. He sounds ancient—abrasive, urgent, unmistakably prophetic. He does not flatter the faithful or soothe the powerful. He says what Malachi warned would need saying again: turn. Repentance first. Preparation before presence. The wilderness becomes the pulpit because the temple has grown too comfortable to hear.

To see the bridge clearly, imagine the handoff—not as a meeting in time, but as an exchange across it.

At the edge of silence, Malachi stands with the last word he was allowed to speak. Across the centuries, a voice gathers breath.

Malachi: I left the door open because it could not be closed with ink.
John: Then I will stand in the dust and finish the sentence.
Malachi: They mistook patience for absence.
John: Then I will tell them the waiting is over.
Malachi: I warned them the Lord would come suddenly.
John: And I will tell them to prepare—now.
Malachi: Fire is coming.
John: Then let it begin with cleansing.

The conversation is imagined, but the continuity is real. John does not introduce a new agenda; he reopens an unfinished one. Malachi promised a messenger “in the spirit of Elijah.” John arrives wearing that spirit plainly—unpolished, unafraid, uninterested in approval. He is not the destination; he is the threshold. His success will be measured by his disappearance.

And then comes the One John points to—Jesus Christ—the Lord Malachi said would come to His temple. Suddenly. Searching. Refining. The bridge does not end with John; it delivers history into its next act.

The genius of the 400-year handoff is that it reveals how God works when people stop listening. He does not shout louder. He prepares longer. When prophecy pauses, formation continues. When words cease, conditions ripen. The silence is not abandonment; it is orchestration.

Malachi closes the Old Testament facing backward and forward at once—anchored in Moses, aimed toward a messenger. John opens the New Testament doing the same—rooted in the prophets, pointing beyond himself. Between them stretches not a void, but a runway.

The handoff succeeds because it was never about eloquence or timing alone. It was about readiness. When John cries out, some hearts break instead of bristle. A remnant responds. The bridge holds.

And that is the quiet miracle of the 400 years: when the voice finally returns, it finds ears—scarce, imperfect, but ready enough for history to move again.

Who Wrote Book of Malachi if Not “Malachi”?

The short answer is: we don’t know—and many theologians think that’s intentional.
The longer answer is that scholars have proposed a few serious, restrained possibilities, none of which undermine the book’s authority or clarity.

The Main Scholarly Views

1. An Anonymous Prophet (“My Messenger” as a Title)

This is the majority scholarly position.

  • Malachi means “my messenger”
  • The book opens: “The oracle of the word of the Lord… by my messenger”
  • The prophet never gives a personal name, genealogy, or origin (unusual for prophets)

Many theologians believe Malachi functions more like:

  • “The Oracle according to the Messenger”
  • or “The Message of the Lord, delivered by His messenger”

In this view, the prophet deliberately recedes so the focus stays on:

  • God’s covenant lawsuit
  • the coming future messenger
  • the message rather than the man

This fits the book’s tone perfectly.

2. A Temple-Affiliated Prophet (Post-Exilic Reformer)

Another common view is that the author was:

  • a known but unnamed prophetic figure
  • closely tied to the Second Temple
  • likely contemporary with Ezra and Nehemiah

The issues Malachi addresses—
corrupt priests, improper sacrifices, divorce, tithes—
line up almost exactly with the reforms described in Nehemiah 13.

Because of this overlap, scholars often say:

Malachi sounds like the prophetic voice behind Nehemiah’s reforms.

Not the governor. Not the scribe.
But the conscience pressing them.

3. A Prophetic “School” or Editorial Tradition (Minor View)

A smaller group of scholars suggest the book may reflect:

  • a prophetic circle or school
  • preserving and shaping the message of a known preacher
  • similar to how some Psalms or wisdom texts developed

This view explains:

  • the tight structure
  • the disputation style (God speaks → people object → God answers)
  • the lack of personal narrative

But even here, scholars agree the book reflects a single coherent prophetic voice, not a patchwork.

Who It Is Probably Not

  • Not Ezra himself (different role, different literary style)
  • Not Nehemiah (administrator, not prophet)
  • Not a later Hellenistic editor (language and theology are firmly Persian-period)

Why the Anonymity May Be the Point

Malachi is the last prophetic voice before centuries of silence.

Ending the Old Testament with:

  • an unnamed messenger
  • promising another messenger
  • pointing beyond himself

is almost certainly deliberate.

The book says, in effect:

Do not look for the prophet.
Look for the One he points to.

That makes Malachi less a signature and more a signpost.

In One Clear Sentence

Most theologians believe the Book of Malachi was written by an anonymous post-exilic prophet, likely connected to the temple reforms of Ezra and Nehemiah, with “Malachi” serving as a theological title—“my messenger”—rather than a personal name, fitting for the final prophetic voice before John the Baptist.

It’s a quiet ending—on purpose.

January 11 and the Long Memory of the Church

.Reading time 6 minutes.

A collaboration between Lewis McLain & AI

January 11 is not a date that shouts. It doesn’t clang with bells like Christmas or blaze with candles like Easter. Instead, it stands quietly at the hinge of the Christian year, often bearing the Feast of the Baptism of the Lord, the moment when the Church turns from the mystery of Christ’s birth to the meaning of his mission. Historically, this date gathers together theology, liturgy, and the lived practices of the early Church in a way that is subtle—but foundational.

From Epiphany to the Jordan

In the earliest centuries, the Church did not separate Christmas, Epiphany, and the Baptism of the Lord as neatly as later calendars would. Epiphany—the “appearing” or manifestation of God in Christ—was originally a single, sweeping celebration. It included the visit of the Magi, the wedding at Cana, and, crucially, the baptism of Jesus in the Jordan River.

By late antiquity, Western Christianity began to distribute these themes across the calendar, while Eastern churches retained a more unified Epiphany focus on baptism. January 11, when it hosts the Baptism of the Lord, thus echoes this ancient layering: a reminder that Christ is revealed not only in a manger, but in water, voice, and Spirit.

The Gospel accounts describe Jesus Christ stepping into the Jordan to be baptized by John the Baptist—an act that puzzled early theologians. Why would the sinless submit to a baptism of repentance? The Church Fathers answered not with logic alone, but with poetry and paradox: Christ enters the waters not to be cleansed, but to cleanse them.

Baptism Before There Were Baptisteries

For the early Church, this event was not merely historical; it was instructional. Baptism was the doorway into Christian life, often performed in rivers, lakes, or communal baths. Converts descended naked into the water, symbolically dying to their former life, and rose to be clothed in white—an enacted theology that echoed Christ’s own descent and rising.

January 11 therefore became a catechetical moment. Sermons preached around this feast explained what baptism meant: death and rebirth, adoption into God’s family, and incorporation into a community that spanned heaven and earth. This is why ancient lectionaries pair the Baptism of the Lord with readings about light, calling, and divine sonship. The Church was teaching people who they were, not merely what they believed.

The Voice, the Dove, and the Trinity

Church history shows a growing theological depth attached to this feast. By the fourth century, writers like Gregory of Nazianzus emphasized that Christ’s baptism is one of the clearest Trinitarian moments in Scripture: the Son in the water, the Spirit descending like a dove, and the Father’s voice declaring, “You are my beloved Son.”

This mattered profoundly in centuries when the Church was clarifying doctrine against confusion and heresy. January 11 was not abstract theology; it was a calendar-anchored confession of who God is. Long before creeds were memorized by congregations, the liturgical year taught doctrine by repetition and rhythm.

Saints Who Lived the Meaning

January 11 also carries the memory of saints whose lives embodied baptismal commitment. Among them is Theodosius the Cenobiarch, a fifth-century monastic leader who organized communal monastic life in Palestine. His title, “Cenobiarch,” means ruler of the common life—a reminder that baptism was never meant to be private spirituality. It was a public reorientation of life toward discipline, service, and shared obedience.

The Church’s habit of pairing major theological feasts with saint commemorations is not accidental. Doctrine becomes flesh in people. Baptismal vows take shape in monasteries, parishes, hospitals, and households.

January 11 as a Threshold

Historically, January 11 marks a turning. The Christmas cycle closes. Ordinary Time approaches. The infant in the manger is now revealed as the Son sent into the world. In church history, this date has functioned as a kind of spiritual handoff—from wonder to work, from revelation to responsibility.

The Church has long understood that faith cannot live forever in the glow of Christmas light. It must step into colder water. January 11 reminds Christians that the story does not move from birth straight to glory, but through obedience, humility, and vocation.

In that sense, this quiet date carries enormous weight. It tells the Church, year after year, that Christianity begins not with achievement, but with descent—into water, into community, into a calling that unfolds across time.

Happy Birthday to sister-in-law, Diane!