I think, in past blogs, we’ve sufficiently established my lack of singing ability and that it seems to be a long inherited familial deficit. As a young Christian, this often kept me from participating too vocally in corporate worship. As I grew in faith, so did my volume. Mind you, I’m still sensitive to the ears of my faith family around me, but I now recognize that in worship, I’m singing for an audience of One. And, well, He IS responsible for the voice He gave me….
But, since I’m not musically gifted, I will admit that much of my worship is done differently. In my time in the Word, in service, and in prayer. Oftentimes, in words on paper. So today I’ll combine them all.
I learned something differently this week so I’ll share it all with you, and then thank you.
I sat in the back of the sanctuary. It’s been my habit in years past to sit in the front so I’m less distracted by the people around me. So I can focus more fully on the message. Though I don’t have ADD or ADHD, I have found, in my love for all of you, I tend to look for you. To look to see how you’re doing; if you’re okay, and if you’re present. I especially love watching your kids. There’s just something about a little one with their family on a Sunday morning listening to the Word of God that makes me go all soft and fuzzy inside.
But I digress. This Sunday, I sat in the back. And it wasn’t just a mental attendance and temperature of the room I was taking. I think it’s the first time I’ve watched everyone sing in worship. And now I’m a little jealous (for probably the first and last time) of our worship team. Because it is a beautiful thing to see a church packed full of brothers and sisters praising our Lord. Want to know what’s even better? Hearing a church full of brothers and sisters praising our Lord! For a first service gathering, everyone was surprisingly awake this Sunday. And it was absolutely breathtaking!
Our pastor must have felt it too. Yes, I know how much time goes into sermon prep. But I like to think that the Spirit went before this sermon prep and then prepped the hearts and voices gathered on Sunday so that our pastor could speak accurately and passionately about the worship we’d just experienced. Referencing Colossians 3:16 he said:
Our first audience when we sing is God Himself. We perform for an audience of One. But there is another function to our worship. We’re ministering to one another. We’re teaching and admonishing one another. So when you sing…’it is well with my soul’, you’re singing for the woman that just received that cancer diagnosis…and what you’re telling her in that moment is, ‘Christ has not forgotten you. He has you. There is a firm foundation underneath your feet’. You’re singing for the man that just received the papers of divorce from his wife of fifteen years…and you’re saying, ‘no matter where you’re at, He will walk with you. This is not the end. There is hope in Jesus.’ – Patrick Mostek
Colossians 3:16 16 Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly, teaching and admonishing one another in all wisdom, singing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, with thankfulness in your hearts to God.
And then I thought of all the times you’ve sung to me. For me.
All of the times my mouth formed the words, but my heart was far behind. All of the times I knew it to be true, but needed to hear it from you.
The time I’d been the one to receive the diagnosis, but for Baby Girl. When I wept ugly tears and not a small amount of snot on your shirt. When you sang:
“Your love is, like radiant diamonds
Bursting inside us, we cannot contain
Your love will, surely come find us
Like blazing wild fires, singing Your name
God of mercy, sweet love of mine
I have surrendered, to Your design
May this offering, stretch across the skies
And these Hallelujahs, be multiplied”
And as I struggled, through sleepless, hurting, desperate tears, to even sing the words, you sang them for God and to me.
Because at that moment, His love did not feel like radiant diamonds. I couldn’t feel it at all. But you told me it was true.
You told me His love would come find me. And I wasn’t sure it would. Worse, I wasn’t sure I wanted it to.
Because at that moment, His love didn’t feel merciful. At all. But you told me, reminded me, that He is. And hugged me, through the song and your own tears, knowing it didn’t seem merciful at the time.
And at that moment, I couldn’t surrender to His design. But I looked around, and saw you, with the afflicted child, who also had every logical reason to feel the same. But who had repeatedly shown me not only that it was possible, but modeled how it was done. And if you could do it, I thought, just maybe, I could do it too.
It would be weeks yet before I felt anything like radiant diamonds. It would be weeks before I, like Job, was certain I even wanted Him to find me. And even more weeks before I could sing a heartfelt hallelujah.
And it would be years before I could hear this song again without feeling the angst that had come with it. But He who is love and mercy has brought such healing to my heart, has enabled me to sing along with you again as we sing, our hallelujahs multiplied.
So, thank you for singing. And please, continue to sing to me. Because as you sing for our audience of One, you bless me and others around you.
Lord, let me never underestimate the ways you work in corporate worship. Let me never take the incredible gift of gathering for granted. Please, continue to use me to teach, admonish, and minister to those you place around me. In spite of my lack of musical ability. For Your glory, and our good.
Lately I’ve been feeling bad for whoever sits next to me in corporate worship. I never used to. For years, I came to church and sat and stood at the appropriate times and even sang quietly with the rest of the congregation. Somewhere along the line though, it stopped becoming simply singing and became worship. I don’t know how it happened. Really, one day I was reading the words off the screen, keeping my volume to a very respectful whisper and my hands and emotions nicely contained. Then, the next thing I know, I’m standing in the front row, swaying to the music, eyes closed, arms up and “singing” like no one is watching. You see what I did there with the quotation marks? That’s because I can’t sing. This is not me practicing humility. This is me confessing. I can’t sing. At all. Which is why I suddenly feel rather sorry for the people close enough to hear me. This is also why I’m thankful for our more modern service with it’s music equipment that drowns out much of my noise. But, as my family will confirm, my concern for the ears around me hasn’t discouraged me much. Why? Because I was made to worship. I know, it may not SOUND like I was made to worship, but I was. You were too! I understand your confusion as this truth had once eluded me too. I’ll direct you to my 
But it wasn’t her appearance that would puzzle me. She seemed to fit in that garden like she was born there. Her first toddling steps squishing dirt up in between her toes. Even at her advanced age she seemed to sway along with the stems as she threaded herself between the rows. And the fruit of her labor gathered in the folds of her apron seemed to bare witness to the fact she belonged there. What seemed to me to be at odds with the whole scene was her “singing”. It was how one could locate her among the produce. You certainly couldn’t miss it. In fact, I’d venture a bet that dogs on neighboring farms a couple miles down the road could lead you straight to her. It was less like singing and more like high pitched yelling. But as long as she was in that garden, she was singing her favorite hymns. When asked, it has been reported that she said, “If God didn’t want to hear me, He’d have made me mute.”. It’s taken me a few years but I’m finally starting to understand. That brilliant lady knew a thing or two about worship. She had figured out that it wasn’t the quality of the voice raised in praise, but the heart beneath it.
Valleys & Victories 