"Worship is the free offering of ourselves to God; ever renewed, because ever imperfect. Worship expresses the consciousness that we are His by right, yet have not duly passed into His hand; that the soul has no true rest but in Him, yet has wandered in strange flights until her wing is tired. 

It is at once the lowliest and loftiest attitude of our nature. Breaking into strains, now penitential, and now jubilant; this twofold aspect of devotion must ever have, pale with weeping, flushed with joy; deploring the past, trusting for the future; ashamed of what it is, kindled by what is meant to be; shadow behind, and light before." 

James Martineau.  

 I don’t want to be a Christian

who forgets how to feel—

who hides behind answers,

quotes verses like shields,

and silences sorrow

with a song.

I don’t want a faith

of romanticized abstraction,

where resurrection is polished

and the cross is theory.

Give me something real—

flesh and blood,

grief and grace.

I want to weep

with eyes wide open.

Tears that speak truth.

Tears that rise

from the ground of compassion,

from the jagged knowledge

that the world is not

as it was meant to be.

I have seen it—

the wounded souls,

the haunted eyes,

the bruises beneath the surface.

I have felt the weight

of injustice

that crushes and isolates,

while the world looks away.

These are not tears of despair—

but of resistance,

of aching love,

of holding the pain

when no one else will.

I want a hope

that isn’t saccharine.

Not hopium.

Not denial in disguise.

But a defiant, dirt-under-the-fingernails

kind of hope—

the kind that walks through the valley,

sits in the ashes,

and still whispers,

“Even here… God.”

I want a gospel

that holds the wound.

A Christ who draws close,

a Spirit who groans,

a God who gathers every tear

in a bottle,

holds every sorrow

like a fragile flame,

and knows

what it is to break.

I want to believe—

not cheaply,

not loudly—

but with trembling trust,

that one day,

every tear

will be wiped away.

Not erased,

but remembered,

redeemed,

and transfigured.

Until then,

let me be the kind

who weeps.

Who walks in holy realism.

Who holds vigil

in the shadow of the cross

and waits,

with aching hope,

for the dawn.

- Rev'd Jon Swales

 

The following quote by James Martineau is written eloquently; his grasp on the English language is amazing; but it makes it hard to understand if you don't read much of it. 

Because of that, I ran it through ChatGPT which helps summarize it because it is so important to the Christian walk. 

Original 

"Our natural faculties and affections are graduated then to objects greater, better, fairer and more enduring, than the order of Nature gives us here. 

They demand a scale and depth of being which outwardly they do not meet, 

yet inwardly they are the organ for apprehending. 

Hence a certain glorious sorrow must ever mingle with our life: 

our actual is transcended by our possible; 

our visionary faculty is an overmatch for our experience: 

like the caged bird, we break ourselves against the bars of the finite, 

with a wing that quivers for the infinite. 

To stifle this struggle, to give up the higher aspirations, and be content with making our small lodgings snug, is to cut off the summit of our nature, and live upon the flat of a mutilated humanity."

 A.I. explanation - 

Our minds and hearts are drawn to things greater and more lasting than what the world offers. Though the outer world falls short, inwardly we’re built to grasp deeper meaning. This creates a beautiful sorrow in life—our reality is outpaced by our potential; 

our imagination exceeds our experience. 

Like a caged bird longing for the sky, we strain against our limits. To stop striving, to settle for comfort alone, is to deny the heights of our nature and live a diminished life.