A few weeks ago, the Philippine government announced a state of national energy emergency as global conflict in the Middle East continued to create energy uncertainty and rising fuel costs. I don’t know how this has affected you where you are, but here in the Philippines, we’ve been feeling it in very ordinary ways. In our area, we’ve been experiencing more brownouts (power outages) than usual.
They’ve disrupted work, shortened office hours, and made the heat feel even heavier. I’ve realized how much of my daily life depends on electricity. So much of what I do—work, planning, writing, storing food, even resting well—runs quietly on power. And when it’s gone, I can feel strangely at a loss.
But my son sees brownouts very differently.
For him, it means Mommy is not on the computer. It means more time outside. More time to play. What feels like interruption to me feels like abundance to him.
And that has stayed with me.
Brownouts have a way of revealing what we rely on without thinking. They strip life down a little. They expose how much of our rhythm, comfort, and productivity depends on invisible support. They slow the body down. They force adjustments. They make you think twice about leftovers and notice the heat in a new way. They remind you that even ordinary things—like keeping food from spoiling or trying to nap in the afternoon—are not as simple as they seem.
And yet, hidden inside the inconvenience, there have been small gifts.
I’ve tended to the garden more than usual. I’ve spent more time outdoors. I’ve been reminded to be thankful, too, because in the place where we used to live, losing electricity also meant losing water. At least here, even when the power goes out, we still have water. That alone is mercy.
This month, brownouts made me think about worship.
So much of modern life—and modern ministry too—depends on electricity. Computers, sound systems, recordings, editing, uploading, scheduling, lights, fans, microphones. These things are useful. They help us do our work well. But they are still only supports. They are not the source.
Because worship existed before all of these things.
God’s people sang before there were sound systems. They prayed before there were projectors. They treasured truth before they could store it in apps, playlists, and digital files. A hymn does not lose its power when the electricity does. In some ways, it becomes even clearer then: worship was never meant to depend on perfect conditions.
Maybe that is one of the quiet lessons of a brownout.
When the extras fall away, what remains?
Do we still know how to be present?
Do we still know how to receive ordinary mercies?
Do we still know how to worship when life feels inconvenient, hot, interrupted, and a little uncomfortable?
A simple hymn sung with understanding is still worship.
A grateful heart in the middle of discomfort is still praise.
A mother stepping away from her screen and into the sunlight with her child is still receiving a gift from God.
Sometimes the lights go out, and what remains becomes easier to see.
Perhaps that is one reason hymns matter so much.
They do not require a perfect setup. They can live in the memory, rise from the lips, and steady the heart even when the usual supports are gone. And maybe that is a grace in itself—that when the lights go out, we are reminded that the deepest things still remain.
