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To do science, one must assume that the universe makes some kind of sense, that it behaves according to some kind of logic, that there is an intrinsic order in the universe. If there was no intrinsic order in the universe to discover, there would be no point in doing science. One big question that pops up, then, is the source of this intrinsic order.

St. Athanasius, in his Discourse Against the Pagans, gives the Christian's answer to the source of the order in the universe and insists that this intrinsic order lends support to Christian belief. Writing in the 4th century he says:

For if the movement of the universe were irrational, and the world rolled on in random fashion, one would be justified in disbelieving what we say. But if the world is founded on reason, wisdom and science, and is filled with orderly beauty, then it must owe its origin and order to none other than the Word of God.

. . .

By his eternal Word the Father created all things and implanted a nature in his creatures. He did not want to see them tossed about at the mercy of their own natures, and so be reduced to nothingness. But in his goodness he governs and sustains the whole of nature by his Word (who is himself also God), so that under the guidance, providence and ordering of that Word, the whole of nature might remain stable and coherent in his light.

There are, of course, alternatives to the notion that the universe was endowed with order by its creator. One could always take the multiverse hypothesis: that there are an infinite number of universes popping into and out of existence all the time and we just happen to be in one that appears to make sense. I mean, what with an infinite number of universes, one that makes sense would have to pop up eventually. Infinite universes, yes, that's it! No, we can't really prove their existence, but believing in them without any proof is far more reasonable than the God hypothesis.

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Reference: Excerpt from St. Athanasius, Discourse Against the Pagans, in The Liturgy of the Hours Vol. III, Office of Readings for Thursday of the first week of Ordinary Time, pp. 67–68; New York: Catholic Book Publishing Corp., 1975.

Something to think about as our Commander-in-chief who, having just accepted the Nobel Peace Prize, is escalating the war effort in Afghanistan:

This lust of sovereignty disturbs and consumes the human race with frightful ills. By this lust Rome was overcome when she triumphed over Alba, and praising her own crime, called it glory. For, as our Scriptures say, "the wicked boasteth of his heart's desire, and blesseth the covetous, whom the Lord abhorreth" [Psalm 10:3]. Away, then, with these deceitful masks, these deluding whitewashes, that things may be truthfully seen and scrutinized. Let no man tell me that this and the other was a "great" man, because he fought and conquered so and so. Gladiators fight and conquer, and this barbarism has its meed of praise; but I think it were better to take the consequences of any sloth, than to seek the glory won by such arms.

(City of God, book 3, n. 14)

In the last presidential campaign, there was much grumbling about the "Obamessiah" phenomenon—the apparent wholehearted devotion to a man who is most decidedly not "sort of God." This phenomenon has also been referred to by Mark Shea as an "Obamagasm."

However, the apotheosis of political leaders is nothing new. In ancient Rome, the emperors believed themselves to be descended from the gods. Augustine had this to say in reply (City of God, book 3, n. 4):

Some one will say, But do you believe all this? Not I indeed. For even Varro, a very learned heathen, all but admits that these stories [of the divinity of the leaders] are false, though he does not boldly and confidently say so. But he maintains it is useful for states that brave men believe, though falsely, that they are descended from the gods; for that thus the human spirit, cherishing the belief of its divine descent, will both more boldly venture into great enterprises, and will carry them out more energetically, and will therefore by its very confidence secure more abundant success. You see how wide a field is opened to falsehood by this opinion of Varro's, which I have expressed as well as I could in my own words; and how comprehensible it is, that many of the religions and sacred legends should be feigned in a community in which it was judged profitable for the citizens that lies should be told even about the gods themselves.

In other words, don't buy the hype.

Quote of the day from St. Augustine:

Christ, who teaches life-giving truth . . . and who, abominating and condemning with His divine authority those wicked and hurtful lusts of men, gradually withdraws His own people from a world that is corrupted by these vices, and is falling into ruins, to make of them an eternal city, whose glory rests not on the acclamation of vanity, but on the judgment of truth.

(City of God, book II, n. 18)

Augustine never fails to make me smile (City of God, book 2, no. 1):

If the feeble mind of man did not presume to resist the clear evidence of truth . . ., they who have just ideas, and express them in suitable language, would need to use no long discourse to refute the errors of empty conjecture. But this mental infirmity is now more prevalent and hurtful than ever, to such an extent that even after the truth has been as fully demonstrated as man can prove it to man, they hold for the very truth their own unreasonable fancies, either on account of their great blindness . . . or on account of their opinionative obstinacy, which prevents them from acknowledging the force of what they do see.

Unreasonable fancies? Hmmm.... The Resurrection was not an historical event, you say? The stuff that Jesus said isn't really the stuff Jesus said, you say? We've misunderstood Jesus for all these years, you say?

It's oddly comforting to know that, though they say may sound different today, the intellectually infirm have been around for 2,000 years.

St. Augustine to the pagan Romans who blamed the Christians for the fall of the empire (The City of God, book 1, n. 30.):

For why in your calamities do you complain of Christianity, unless because you desire to enjoy your luxurious licence unrestrained, and to lead an abandoned and profligate life without the interruption of any uneasiness or disaster? For certainly your desire for peace, and prosperity, and plenty is not prompted by any purpose of using these blessings honestly, that is to say, with moderation, sobriety, temperance, and piety; for your purpose rather is to run riot in an endless variety of sottish pleasures, and thus to generate from your prosperity a moral pestilence which will prove a thousandfold more disastrous than the fiercest enemies.

Hmmm... Let's see... Can I think of any modern nations who want to live unrestrained and run riot in an endless variety of sottish pleasures and who then blame the Christians when it doesn't work out so well?

Nothing comes to mind.

Oh, wait! I've got it!

In recent conversations about Catholic doctrine, it has become clear that evangelicals do not object to actual Catholic doctrine, but rather they object to what they misunderstand to be Catholic doctrine. Over the course of the next several posts, I will attempt to address these misunderstandings, misunderstandings that I myself held at one time, and will do my very best to explain what the Catholic Church really believes. In the spirit of Justin Martyr, I "have come, not to flatter you by this writing, nor please you by our address, but to beg that you pass judgment, after an accurate and searching investigation," and that you would not be influenced by "evil rumours which have long been prevalent" (First Apology, II).

One of the first objections raised against Catholics is, "But they pray to Mary!" The Blessed Virgin seems to irritate non-Catholics more than almost any other Catholic doctrine, and I'm not sure why. After all, she brought the God-man Jesus Christ into our world and for this, if for no other reason, she deserves our honor and respect. In future posts I will deal with the Marian dogmata, but presently I want to address the specific objection of "praying to Mary."

Catholics don't pray to Mary in the sense that they worship her. If anyone worships Mary they aren't being a very good Catholic; worship of anything other than God is idolatry, a grave sin. The Catechism of the Catholic Church words it this way:

Idolatry consists in divinizing what is not God. Man commits idolatry whenever he honors and reveres a creature in place of God, whether this be gods or demons (for example, satanism), power, pleasure, race, ancestors, the state, money, etc. . . . Many martyrs died for not adoring "the Beast" refusing even to simulate such worship. Idolatry rejects the unique Lordship of God; it is therefore incompatible with communion with God (CCC, no. 2113).

These are pretty strong words against idolatry and, make no mistake, the Catholic Church follows its own proscription; it does not divinize Mary or honor her in place of God. She is a creature, a very special creature to be sure, but a creature nonetheless. So how do they get away with praying to her? To put it in evangelical terms, they make prayer requests and not prayers of supplication. And to be clear, Catholics don't ask Mary to perform miracles like parting the Red Sea, changing Coke into Pepsi, or even helping them find their car keys. They make prayer requests—they ask Mary to pray for them.

The best example of this idea is the most common Marian prayer, the Hail Mary, one which evangelicals seem most offended by. The first part greets Mary in the same way as the angel Gabriel and her kinswoman Elizabeth and comes straight out of the Bible: "Hail, Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus" (cf. Luke 1:28 and 1:42)¹. The second part is the prayer request: "Holy Mary, Mother of God,² pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen." Clearly, Mary is not worshipped; she is greeted in the same way that angels and relatives greet her, then she is asked to pray for us.

Before moving on, we should pause for a moment to consider the word "pray." For many, "pray" means directly addressing God in an act of worship, but there are other uses for the word. The Catholic Church was in England long before Protestantism and so, when talking about Mary, Catholics use it in the old English sense of the word, which is to simply ask something of someone. This is the sense that the US Supreme Court uses when they write in their opinions things like, "that court was of opinion that the law under which the prosecution was had was constitutional, and denied the relief prayed for by the petitioner;" and "Whereupon petitioner prayed for a writ of error from this court. . ." (Plessy v. Ferguson). "Pray" was especially popular in Elizabethan English. Shakespeare has Hamlet say to the players, "Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you" (Hamlet, Act III, Scene 2). And contemporary to Shakespeare is the King James Bible which quotes St. Paul as saying, "we pray you in Christ's stead, be ye reconciled to God" (2 Cor. 5:20). Catholics don't worship Mary when they pray to her in the same way that the petitioner doesn't worship Supreme Court justices, Hamlet didn't worship his actors, and St. Paul didn't worship the church at Corinth.

And that is the doctrine in a nutshell. Prayer in the old English sense of the word. Prayer requests, not worship. 'Tis very simple. However, something that divides Christianity deserves a fuller explanation, and I would be remiss in my duty indeed if I explained this in anything less than 3,000 words.

The first step in my fuller explanation is to point out what most non-Catholics may not realize—their objection to praying to Mary is too narrow in scope; the practice follows from a doctrine called the Communion of Saints and thus applies to all the saints and angels in heaven. The Communion of Saints is a belief that, by virtue of our being members of the Church, the Body of Christ as St. Paul described it, Christians are united together in such a way that not even death can separate us. If we are indeed members of the one Body of Christ, then we cannot be separated—a body is no longer a whole body if it loses an arm or a leg. A body requires all its members to function fully (see Rom. 12:4ff.). At Archdale Wesleyan, we professed a belief in the Communion of Saints at least once or twice a year when we would recite the Apostles' Creed from the back of our hymnals. The last clause in the Creed says, "I believe in the holy catholic church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting." (Of course, we would always replace "the holy catholic church" with "the holy universal church of Jesus Christ" or something similar because "catholic," which means "universal," sounded too Catholic.) Unfortunately, evangelicals too often reduce the word "communion" to mean "fellowship" and, oddly, have tended to make "fellowship" into a verb synonymous with "eating pot luck dinners together." They have even built "fellowship halls" for this very purpose. In reducing the Communion of Saints to fellowship among those of us on earth, we lose sight of the bigger picture of the Church that includes not only those of us who are on earth but also our communion in Christ with those who have gone before us. We are surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses who have gone before us in the faith (Heb. 12:1; see ch. 11 for context). It is only because of our communion with them in Christ that it makes any sense to ask Mary and all the angels and saints to pray for us.

A concise example of prayer requests made in the Communion of Saints can be found in the penitential rite at the beginning of every Mass: "I confess to Almighty God, and to you my brothers and sisters, that I have sinned. . . . And I ask Blessed Mary, ever virgin, all the angels and saints, and you my brothers and sisters, to pray for me to the Lord our God. The faithful ask for the prayers of their brothers and sisters on earth who are in their immediate physical presence, but also for the prayers of Mary, the angels, and the saints who are in heaven.

Prayers to the saints in heaven are limited to prayer requests, but it may not seem intuitive to the modern mind to ask them to pray for us. It is intuitive for us that we would ask the aspiring saints here on earth to pray for us. I ask my mother, father, wife, pastor to pray for me and they do. Likewise, they ask me to pray for them and I do. But science and empiricism are so ingrained in us that we cannot fathom how exactly we can talk to Mary and the saints to ask them to pray for us. They're dead, right? Well, if we truly believe Christian doctrine, we don't believe that those persons in heaven are dead—in fact, we believe that they are more alive than any of us here on earth simply because they are in heaven and in the direct presence of God Almighty. Furthermore, we have a share with them in the Communion of Saints through Jesus Christ our Lord. If we consider that we are addressing living persons through Christ, it isn't a huge stretch to ask them to pray for us. They are alive and we are in communion with them.

One question that often arises is that the saints are in heaven, in the presence of God, and are blissfully happy for all eternity—why would they care what is happening on earth? For that matter, do they even know what is happening on earth? Well, the Bible reveals to us that the saints in heaven are well aware of what is happening to the saints on earth and that they care:

And when he had opened the fifth seal, I saw under the altar the souls of them that were slain for the word of God, and for the testimony which they held: And they cried with a loud voice, saying, How long, O Lord, holy and true, dost thou not judge and avenge our blood on them that dwell on the earth? (Rev. 6:9–10).

Here we see that the souls of the martyrs in heaven are quite aware of what is happening on earth and that they pray to God to bring about specific ends on the earth. If they were not aware of earthly events, they would not know that God had not already avenged their blood and consequently would not bother to ask for vengeance. Moreover, those in heaven are quite aware of the prayers of the saints on earth, and in fact carry those prayers to the throne of God:

And when he had taken the book, the four beasts and four and twenty elders fell down before the Lamb, having every one of them harps, and golden vials full of odours, which are the prayers of saints (Rev. 5:8).

And even the angels get involved:

And another angel came and stood at the altar, having a golden censer; and there was given unto him much incense, that he should offer it with the prayers of all saints upon the golden altar which was before the throne. And the smoke of the incense, which came with the prayers of the saints, ascended up before God out of the angel's hand (Rev. 8:3–4).

Clearly, the inspired written Word of God tells us that the angels and saints in heaven know and care about what is happening on earth, and that they take the prayers of the saints on earth to God—they intercede on our behalf.

But the idea that saints and angels deliver our prayers to God raises another common objection: that we have but one mediator between God and man and therefore we don't need to ask for the intercession of the saints. True, there is "one mediator between God and men, the man Christ Jesus; Who gave himself a ransom for all, to be testified in due time" (1 Tim. 2:5), but this objection seems to imply that because Jesus is our one Mediator that we have no need for the prayers of anyone else. That doesn't quite follow. I could tell my mother, "Don't pray for me! I already have a mediator!" but I would sound stupid. On the contrary, James tells us that we should "pray for one another, that ye may be healed. The effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much" (Jas. 5:16). James's instruction to pray for each other requires that one intercede on behalf of another; in doing so we become mediators between our brothers and God. St. Paul throughout his letters tells his churches that he is praying for them, for instance 2 Cor. 13:7, Php. 1:9, Col. 1:9, 1 Thess. 5:23, etc. He also asks for their prayers: "Brethren, pray for us" (1 Thess. 5:25). Paul, like the rest of us, intercedes for his brothers and sisters and requests that they do the same for him. Why? Because the Church is a "holy priesthood" with a duty "to offer up spiritual sacrifices, acceptable to God by Jesus Christ" (2 Pet. 2:5). The duty of the priest is mediation between God and the people. Because we are a "royal priesthood" (2 Pet. 2:9) we have the duty and privilege to mediate on behalf of our brothers and the entire world. The letter to the Hebrews tells us that Christ is our High Priest, but "high priest" implies that there are lesser priests. In the Old Testament, the high priest would would offer the sacrifice of atonement on Yom Kippur and enter into the Most Holy Place in the temple, but all the lesser priests offered sacrifices and prayers on behalf of the people throughout the year. So it is with us; Christ has offered himself as the Sacrifice of Atonement and has ascended into heaven, but we the lesser priests still offer prayers and sacrifices on behalf of our brothers and sisters. By interceding for each other we in no way diminish Christ's mediation, we simply become participants with Him. The same is true for the saints in heaven who intercede on our behalf; they have as much a share in the royal priesthood as does any of the faithful on earth. Furthermore, James says that the prayer of a righteous man availeth much. I ask: which of us is more righteous than those saints in heaven whom God has purified and made righteous?

Another typical objection to the intercession of the saints is that communication with the dead is strictly forbidden by the Bible. For the moment, let's ignore the point I made earlier about the saints in heaven not being dead and take a careful look at what the Bible says. There are numerous commandments against occult practices such as conjuring the dead, sorcery, witchcraft, divination, familiars, reading entrails, etc. Here are a few (source):

• Leviticus 19:26 . . . neither shall ye use enchantment, nor observe times.
• Leviticus 19:31 Regard not them that have familiar spirits, neither seek after wizards, to be defiled by them: I am the LORD your God.
• Leviticus 20:6 And the soul that turneth after such as have familiar spirits, and after wizards, to go a whoring after them, I will even set my face against that soul, and will cut him off from among his people.
• Leviticus 20:27 A man also or woman that hath a familiar spirit, or that is a wizard, shall surely be put to death: they shall stone them with stones: their blood shall be upon them.
• Deuteronomy 18:10–11 There shall not be found among you any one that maketh his son or his daughter to pass through the fire, or that useth divination, or an observer of times, or an enchanter, or a witch, Or a charmer, or a consulter with familiar spirits, or a wizard, or a necromancer.
• Deuteronomy 18:14 For these nations, which thou shalt possess, hearkened unto observers of times, and unto diviners: but as for thee, the LORD thy God hath not suffered thee so to do.

The most famous example of the kind of occult practice forbidden by God is recorded in 1 Samuel 28:5ff. King Saul was terrified of what the Philistine army might do to his kindgom. Saul asked God what would happen, but God had turned away from Saul because of his disobedience and did not answer. So Saul has his servants bring him a woman with a familiar spirit; they deliver to him a woman from Endor (not the moon where the Ewoks live) whom he asks to call forth Samuel, the prophet who had anointed him king and was now dead. Samuel, of course, is upset from having been awakened at such an ungodly hour but Saul is terrified and wants to know what he should do. Samuel tells Saul that because he had disobeyed God, God had already ordered his punishment and would give the kingdom to David. The woman was worried because she knew she had violated the law, even though she had done so at Saul's command; Saul apparently had a reputation for having "cut off those that have familiar spirits" (vs. 9). Finally, Saul, not having eaten for a few days because of his distress, gives into the woman and his servants and eats, then they all go away. To sum up, Saul a) used a woman with a familiar spirit to b) conjure the dead in order to c) know the future so he could decide what he should do. He violated three very specific commandments: a) using familiars, b) necromancy, and c) divination, all three found in Deut. 18:10. (If we want to be picky, he also violated Lev. 20:27 because he protected the woman and did not put her to death.)

Fortunately, asking the saints for prayers in no way resembles Saul's little incident, any of the occult practices forbidden in the Bible, or any occult practice not specifically mentioned in the Bible. To ask a saint for his prayers does not involve whoring with familiars (wording like that is why I love the KJV!), wizardry, enchantment, astrology, necromancy, divination, etc. When participating in the Communion of Saints, Catholics do not seek to know the future through occult practices but instead rely on the intercession of their brothers and sisters on earth, those in heaven, and most importantly the intercession of Jesus Christ our Lord, all of whom ultimately pray for the mercy of God Almighty.

The Catechism, quoting the document Lumen Gentium from the Second Vatican Council, sums up far more eloquently than can I the Communion of Saints and the point in asking for their prayers:

It is not merely by the title of example that we cherish the memory of those in heaven; we seek, rather, that by this devotion to the exercise of fraternal charity the union of the whole Church in the Spirit may be strengthened. Exactly as Christian communion among our fellow pilgrims brings us closer to Christ, so our communion with the saints joins us to Christ, from whom as from its fountain and head issues all grace, and the life of the People of God itself (CCC, no. 957).

If we can fully understand the actual Catholic teaching on the Communion of Saints, a doctrine that even evangelicals profess, we can all make the prayer of the Church our own:

May [Christ] make us an everlasting gift to you [Father] and enable us to share in the inheritance of your saints, with Mary the virgin Mother of God; with the apostles, the martyrs, and all your saints on whose constant intercession we rely for help (Eucharistic Prayer III).

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All scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.

Notes

1. Most English translations render "full of grace" in Luke 1:28 as "highly favoured." However, the original Greek word used is kecharitomene (κεχαριτωμενη), the root of which is charis (χαρις) which means "grace," and it is especially hard to translate well. Greek grammar is rich and can thus express complicated ideas in fewer words than English. Kecharitomene is one such complex word which suggests a permanent condition of having grace. In context it implies that Mary received grace from God at some time in the past, presently has God's grace, and will have it in the future. There is no good equivalent for kecharitomene in English or in most other languages. The best St. Jerome could do in the 4th century with his Latin translation was gratia plena, literally "full of grace." The first English Bibles were translated from Jerome's Latin and thus "full of grace" stuck. This word is found in very little Greek literature outside of the New Testament, and is found nowhere else in the Bible; it applies singularly to Mary.
2. Mother of God is a title given to Mary by the fathers of the early Church and is a dogma I will address in an upcoming post. In Greek the fathers called her theotokos (θεοτοκος), literally the "God-bearer." Personally, I think "Mother of God" works better in English; it's more poetic and provides a fuller sense of her duty in raising and caring for God in the flesh.

I just took Mike Aquilina's Which Church Father Are You? quiz. It turns out that I am St. Melito of Sardis. I had always imagined myself as more of an Augustine or Justin Martyr. Oh, well.

As I sit at my kitchen table preparing my senior computer science presentation, I see a hornet on my back porch walking around on the overhang. I have no idea what he is doing, but I assume he is looking for a spot to nest. He will most likely die later this afternoon because I will kill him. Several of his friends have already died this spring. I will not have hornets nesting on my house. You would think they would get the idea.

I hate hornets and all other wasps (the insect kind, not the white Anglo-Saxon Protestants). I am sworn to destroy them wherever I find them. However, I wonder if my hatred of these and other nasty creatures is disordered. Augustine writes to God about people who hate parts of God's creation in his Confessions:

Your righteousness displeases the wicked, and they find even more fault with the viper and the little worm, which you have created good, fitting in as they do with the inferior parts of creation [7.16.22].

He goes on to define wickedness as "a perversion of the will bent aside from you, God...." I certainly do not want to count myself among the wicked. Perhaps I should re-think my aversion to hornets, the viper, and the little worm and try to bend my will back toward God. In the meantime, I hope God doesn't mind if I kill the hornets who try to nest on my back porch.

Lately I have been reading the Confessions of St. Augustine. Before you ask: No, Confessions is not a sultry romance novel set on the east coast of Florida. Augustine was the bishop of Hippo, a town near the ancient city of Carthage which is in modern-day Tunisia. Augustine wrote his Confessions around the year 400 A.D. It is an autobiography of sorts, addressed directly to God, in which he chronicles his journey to conversion and baptism in the catholic Church (yes, that is a lowercase c—at the time, there were no divisions in the Church labeled Catholic, Orthodox, or Protestant with capital letters, but to discuss that would take several posts). Augustine's flowery language and long philosophical arguments do not make the Confessions light reading. However, he sheds some light on what the early Church believed and the problems they faced. One point of interest to me is Augustine's take on music.

In the second half of book (read chapter) ten, Augustine wonders whether it is sinful to enjoy music for the sake of enjoying music, especially the sacred music sung in church. He approved of "the use of singing in the church, so that by the delights of the ear the weaker minds [those still new in the faith] may be stimulated to a devotional mood." The problem lies in when the music is prized more than the devotion it is supposed to instill. He writes that "when it happens that I am more moved by the singing than by what is sung I confess myself to have sinned wickedly, and then I would rather not have heard the singing." He sometimes wished that "all the melodies of the pleasant songs to which David's psalter [that is, the Psalms] is adapted should be banished both from my ears and from those of the church itself" (Confessions, 10.33.50). It is somehow comforting to know that the Church faced the same problems in the fourth century that she faces now.

I spent my teenage years in a church where the music was as controversial as it was for Augustine. However, the controversy was not whether music should be sung but rather the style of music that should be sung. One old man would leave the sanctuary (I use "sanctuary" here in the Protestant sense, for Catholics and Orthodox this would be the "nave") if a song with the slightest modern feel were sung. I wonder if he was aware that the old hymns that he enjoyed were set to music that was contemporary to the time in which they were written. Yes, Fanny Crosby and Charles Wesley would have heard their hymns sung to music that sounded like what would have played on Top 40 radio if Top 40 radio had existed in their day. Even Gregorian Chant, the foundation of all western music, was contemporary music in the ninth century.

My problem with the music cropping up in churches these days is not with the style in which they are sung, but the words that are actually being sung. The content of Crosby's and Wesley's hymns and Gregorian Chant had substance, was heartfelt, and was scriptural. "Pass me not, O gentle Savior, hear my humble cry" (Crosby). "O, for a thousand tongues to sing my great Redeemer's praise!" (Wesley). "For us a child is born, to us a Son is given" ("Puer natus est nobis," chant. Intro. to third Mass at Christmas). It seems like the most common line in modern worship music is "I will worship you" which is then repeated over and over ad nauseum. I have often found myself with the desire to violently shake the worship leader and say, "Well, go ahead! Start worshiping already!" but a sense of decorum and a desire to practice Christian charity restrains me. Like Augustine, I think pleasing music should instill in us a "devotional mood." I think he would likewise agree with me that what is sung should be chosen with thoughtfulness as to its content, and not simply because we enjoy it or because it is the popular thing to sing.