Commitment

That he was an orphaned as a twelve-year-old only adds to the story. That after attending a revival by none other than George Whitefield, that shining star of the Great Awakening, is also a fact also worth mentioning. That he had no silver spoon only makes his work more remarkable.

When John Fawcett became a preacher, a Baptist preacher, in England, in 1764, he served a woebegone church, a place called Wainsgate, for seven years, during which time he and his wife Mary had four children. His congregants were illiterate and, by some reports, not all that far down the road from their ancestral paganism. Because they had no money, the Reverend John Fawcett's salary was a pittance, most of it coming to their door in potatoes and beans.

  
So, when an opportunity arose for them to go to a bigger church in London, a place with a wholesome salary, John and Mary Fawcett determined it was time to move on. Still, they loved Wainsgate, and Wainsgate loved them; it was just that Wainsgate didn't have the wherewithal to pay him the kind of salary his growing family stood in need of. 

Must have been tough to announce his departure. I'm sure people were shocked and saddened to think their young pastor and his wonderful, growing family was leaving.

The Reverend John Fawcett sent many of the family’s meager belongings on to London however, because it seemed to him that he had no choice. What things he didn't send, he and Mary determined to take with them in the final wagon full.

When the departure day arrived, the whole church turned out to see them off.  You've heard people say, of course, that "the Devil's in the details," and sometimes that's true. But sometimes the Holy Spirit hangs out there too, and in this little story the details are just too good to have been left behind.

When the good folks of Wainsgate stood there around him, broken hearts poured out love that was radiant and unmistakable. Mary was the first to break, telling her husband with a tug on the sleeve that she just couldn't leave. At her urging, the Reverend John Fawcett looked around--maybe even a tear or two in his eye--and tallied the love all around, the love he couldn't help but witness.

And so the story goes that he stood in the wagon that would take him to London, and right then and there told the good people of Wainsgate that he and his family were not going to leave. No, they were staying.

And they did--for 54 years.  

True story, people say. 

Here’s the thing. Sometime later--not long--he wrote a hymn that is almost as widely known and treasured as "Amazing Grace," a hymn that, through the years, may have wrung more tears than any other in your hymnal or mine: "Blest Be the Tie that Binds." 

Morning dawns in our broken world. Partisanship has only rarely been so bloody evident. Everyone knows it, but no one knows what can be done. “Blest Be the Tie that Binds” seems a lyric from a time long gone. We can’t even sing together these days.

We’ll spread Covid-19.

No matter. 

If you feel the pulse of the Fawcetts sitting there in that wagon, ready to leave Wainsgate, and then turning back to people they'd come to love, hum along. Call it praise, call it therapy, call it recommitment—call it what you will.

Just this morning, go ahead a hum along.