Phil Thomson pulverises modern worship songs which have deteriorated into "sycophantic chants or happy-go-lucky rounds."

The little girl's bear

We live in a very metaphysical state. Not that we'd notice, with interest rates soaring, petrol up, and the daily grind seeking to remove us still further from a life of victory and overcoming.

Theorists propound that the desire to escape is in direct proportion to the depth of the socio-economic quagmire in which we wallow. I'm convinced that one way in which this manifests itself among Christians is the proliferation of worship and praise material. It is becoming an industry in it own right, and for some, the only meaningful way of life.

I blame leadership; the decision-makers who sanction it all. Their singular lack of discrimination threatens the integrity and ultimately lowers the standard of praise and worship material. They fail to recognise that, as with the hymns of history, there are few true writers of quality. Anything and everything is endorsed; discernment is swept aside in an egotistical and misguided sense of mission, encouraged by national bodies set up to police the use of what they sing I believe that for a fee of, say, £50 per year, your fellowship can be 'granted' a licence which covers copyright of 'approved' songs. It is a clever device; a guilt tax. By implication, if you don't sign up, you are using the work without permission. If 2000 churches pay out £50 each just in case, you are going to clean up, even after you've paid out to the writers. Of course, there are yawning gaps in national monitoring of performed works, with church exemptions being a convenient let out, but MCPS and PRS are legitimately the service agents of any member-writer. There-in lies a professional bottom-line on standards.

Educating the user and protecting the livelihood of the writer/ publisher is not the same thing as legitimising into an industry what is, after all, only one of the many ways of worshipping Cod through music.

I know we are commanded to praise: our natural desire is to worship. Yet, with Islam screaming for a separate parliament and every second knock on the door a |W, we practice our choruses and pass round the hat so that we can go on record. Even the smallest fellowship has one guitar-playing aspirant to whom Cod has given a word in song. It's a cliché. It has to be the easiest formula to repeat and the hardest to write from the heart. Consensus is no substitute for quality; sincerity should never be mistaken for inspiration. Much worship writing has deteriorated into sycophantic chants or happy-go-lucky rounds - unimaginative, safe; using fearful phrases and the same tired old rhymes and rhythms. The result is panacea praise. Nobody is paying attention any more.

Remember the little girl who Christened her beat-up teddy 'Gladly', much to the bafflement of her mother? The bear had seen better days, with its button-eyes at funny angles, and torn patches everywhere. After church one Sunday, her mother managed to solicit an explanation. "Well, mummy, in church we sing this hymn, and I named her after that". Puzzled, her mother encourages her to go on until she finally spelt it out - "Gladly, mummy...you see, we sing gladly my cross I'd bear"

There's a difference between what we listen to and what we hear.

Phil Thomson