I got bitched out tonight.

Spiritually anyway, by my 19 year-old daughter. We were going to get some dinner at McMennimen's Pub on the way home from church when she went off. It was righteous anger. The kind that only comes from the deepest desire to see God's people be God's People. The anger wasn't really aimed at me (I was a suitable proxy), but at my church, which I love by the way. But I had to admit that the outward lack of passion for the Lord that cheesed her off does often characterize our fellowship.

It's polite. It's safe. It's comfy, and to her tender spirit, it all appeared so, so wrong.

I admire the fire in her belly. She had tears in her eyes when she asked how folks could sit in their soft suburban pews singing soft choruses, softly, while other people were dying and going to hell. At first I thought she was being a conveniently pissed, disaffected youth, but the more I listened, the more I became convinced that she really was putting pressure on sin. A complacent spirituality that showed none of the robustness of the whip-corded Temple Cleansing.

I was tempted to lecture her from 1 corinthians 12 about the one body, lots of parts. How we all need each other, and those that are fiery need the more sober among us. I would've said it too if her critique hadn't hit so close to home. Seems that there's at least one sober, mature believer that really needed a touch of fire.

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