The Spiritual Practice of Worship

To write about worship feels like writing about the ocean. Vast. Deep. Immense.

Lehmann wrote: “Could we with ink the ocean fill, / and were the skies of parchment made; / were every stalk on earth a quill, / and everyone a scribe by trade; / to write the love of God above, / would drain the ocean dry; / nor could the scroll contain the whole, / though stretched from sky to sky.”

Worship should be remarkable and overwhelming. At its most basic, worship is reverent honor and homage due God. How exactly do you practice a spiritual discipline celebrating a subject who is omnipotent, omnipresent, omniscient…?

I suppose it is safe to say, there is no wrong way to worship God so long as God is the object of your effort to recognize and celebrate Him.

Moses took off his shoes. David danced—naked. He also sang and played an instrument. Job repented. Isaiah worshipped with obedience. Ezekiel laid on his face. Thomas renounced doubt. Mary uttered her Magnificat, Zacharias his Benedictus, and Simeon his Nunc Dimittis. The Centurion simply believed, and the woman with the hemorrhage—she crawled through the crowd to touch the hem of Jesus’ garment.  

Once upon a time, a young church on the island of Barbados asked if I would assist them in crafting a ministry strategy for their island. My years working alongside these dear saints contain some of the grandest memories of my life.

The church gathered in an open-air pavilion each Sunday for worship and teaching. As they set up the chairs, they left the back of the pavilion open for dancing. It was the natural outpouring of the redeemed, people whose music and dance fill their culture as expressions of joy and celebration.

I dance if I must—or if alone while cooking dinner and listening to a waltz. Believe me, God would not be honored if I attempted to worship Him by dancing—and certainly not naked!

I remember hearing my friends’ voices change as we entered puberty. Mine never did. I have a bass voice now and I had a bass voice in elementary school. My second-grade teacher gave me the “honor” of opening and closing the curtain during the musical program for our parents. I realize now I got to pull the curtain because she didn’t want my low voice violating an entire class of sopranos.

I worship with singing, but if anyone is around, I throttle my voice for fear I’ll disrupt. But put me in the garage, or alone in my truck, and I joyfully sing to my Father in heaven. It’s just one or two octaves below normal.

I love music. In fact, when I was a kid our home was filled with music. By day, there was jazz. By night, Dad’s radio picked up the wave-hop from WRR in Dallas, the classical station.

In the early 70s I had a job working at the First Presbyterian Church of San Clemente, California. On Monday nights, we drove to Costa Mesa for music night at Calvary Chapel. I didn’t know it at the time, but what we know today as contemporary Christian music was being born.

I listen to contemporary Christian music, and sing along to my favorite songs. If I think about it, I can hear the melodies, but rarely recall the lyrics. This is interesting: If I think about the melodies. When I’m laboring to summon resolve, or to keep my wits about me in a tumult, or reassure my soul’s disposition, the melodies that surface spontaneously are the grand hymns of the faith, complete with lyrics.

I’m not saying contemporary Christian music is inferior worship music. I am noting that music is moving, powerful, and the utilization of it is important for reassurance, determination, unification, and an offering of worship to God.

I’ve pondered if my inclination to the hymns versus the choruses is preference or importance: I say po-ta’-to, you say po-tah’-to; long hair, short hair; shirt tail in, shirt tail out? As I’ve considered the question, there’s more substance here than style I believe.

In his book, Life Together, Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote, “Why do Christians sing when they are together? The reason is, quite simply, because in singing together it is possible for them to speak and pray the same Word at the same time.” The emphasis is mine, the capitalization his.

Bonhoeffer is asserting that unified singing of a biblical truth is a key component in building a life together as Christians.

This assumes of course that I know the song, that you know the song, that we all know the song. If I don’t know the song, or don’t recognize the tune, then I’m a spectator of your worship. Unless of course, you don’t know the song either. Then we are both observers. At some point, if there are sufficient numbers in the room who don’t know the chorus, then whatever inspiration is occurring is not corporate worship

Again, don’t get me wrong. I’m not being critical of contemporary Christian music, but I am critiquing its efficacy in facilitating a group of individual’s ability to reliably participate in corporate worship.

I’m not quite a musician. I play and read music, but I don’t hear music well enough to naturally sing my part. Give me a piece of music with notes, not chords, and I can read and sing and participate.

By the time a worship chorus has been repeated, I’ve got the general melody. But it’s still new, which means I’m concentrating on not making my joyful noise when those who know the song are resting from theirs. In other words, I’m concentrating to learn a song without making sour notes. I’m not worshipping.

It’s a tricky business to teach individuals a song in the moment. To do so consistently and create corporate worship is more challenging yet, perhaps even improbable. If this model is the default, then the capacity of the church to worship corporately is impeded. Over time, the church’s ability to enjoy the compounding benefits of corporate worship is compromised because the style constantly reboots the practice of corporate worship. The spiritual discipline that is intended to bring us collectively together in worship instead fractures individuals into solitary, isolated attendees.

Yes, there is benefit to listening to others worship. But only for so long. If you feel like an outsider each time you stand in the pew, it won’t be long before corporate worship becomes pithy, irrelevant, and eventually a pointless expense of time.

Not to be ugly, but if you are destined to be an observer by design, why would you not stay home and listen to Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir, or the Gaither Band, or simply worship with your playlist?

Bluntly, if you can’t sing with the church, and alongside your faith family declare lyrics in harmony that carry a strong message from the Word, then corporate worship is absent. What’s labeled as corporate worship is practically irrelevant.

As I’ve repeated during this series, the unified criticism of the church today by those leaving its rosters is that church is no longer relevant. This is a shame. A significant aspect of worship is corporate singing, yet we sabotage our collectivity by hamstringing the individual’s ability to participate. Is it any wonder that the committed are fleeing the organized church like rats jumping from a burning ship?

But that’s not all there is to worship because that’s not all there is to God.

I sing. Oh do I ever sing. I lift my voice to God. I lift my hands to God. I sing in an octave that vibrates the windows, and I’m certain God hears my joyful noise—and He has yet to make me pull the curtain.

I also worship by listening. When I’m awake in the night, I sometimes step outside. Did you know that the Mockingbirds sing throughout the night? I go outside to listen. Their song helps me recognize my heavenly Father’s creative ability—and I worship barefoot on the patio.

Scripture declares that Jesus Christ created everything in existence. I love a full moon. An aspect of my worship is stopping to stare, and say, “Nicely done, Older Brother. Nicely done.”

Two weeks ago, I spent a week at an off-the-grid ranch in central Colorado. No electricity, no running water, only a spring about thirty yards from the cabin I rented.

I purposely drink more water than normal as bedtime approaches. This ensures that around 2:00 AM my bladder will awaken me. Before I go to bed, I lay out my shoes, my down coat, my stocking hat, my glasses, and my headlamp that has a flip-down red filter over the light. The red light doesn’t ruin my night vision as I make my way out of the cabin. I stand in awe of the night sky. Not even when I rode my mountain bike through Arches National Park were there as many stars as I can see when I’m at the ranch—and celebrate, and recognize my Older Brother’s creativity.

This summer, I followed a baby horned toad/lizard to see where he went. Watching him/her was a treat. Holding him a thrill. This inspired my worship of Father God.

Here in Texas, we have thunder and lightening storms that can be raucous, unruly, wild events. I stand on the porch, relishing the storm’s transportation of my soul to worship Father’s power.

There is poetry that I read that gives voice to my admiration of God:

“I fled Him down the nights and down the days / I fled Him down the arches of the years / I fled Him down the labyrinthine ways / Of my own mind, and in the midst of tears / I hid from him, and under running laughter. / Up vistaed hopes I sped and shot precipitated / Adown titanic glooms of chasmed hears / From those strong feet that followed, followed after / But with unhurrying chase and unperturbed pace, / Deliberate speed, majestic instancy, / They beat, and a Voice beat, / More instant than the feet: / All things betray thee who betrayest me.”

Father God, thank you for pursuing, for never breaking, never failing, never flinching, never stopping, and never losing track of me. I worship this quality in you.

I’m a writer. An artist with words. Not only do I make every attempt to select the right word, the perfect word, but I am also conscious of how my words appear on the page. Glance through this article. The paragraphing varies to make them appealing to your eye. There are no words repeated in the same sentence—likely in the same paragraph. Scripture says to do my work heartily, as unto the Lord. Thus, I consider my writing an act of worship.

Certainly, God is magnificent. His work phenomenal. His creativity is unmatched and His plans beyond ingenious. There is no question but that He is worthy of my worship. He has innumerable qualities named with glorious monikers conveying profound aspects of Him: omniscient, omnipotent, self-contained, immutable, sovereign, and the list goes on. I have no reservation declaring my worship.

I struggle to conceptualize the previous paragraph. I don’t doubt it an iota. The concepts are beyond, large, and imposing. God is great, distant; I am small and frail.

Certainly, He is high and lifted up and the train of His robe fills the temple, just as Isaiah declared. The angels gather around His throne myriad upon myriad and continually worship the King of kings and Lord of lords, God the Almighty. Without reservation, I worship.

But the message of Christianity is also that God left heaven and came to us. He incarnated and took on human form. We celebrate—worship—His advent every December starting with the first Sunday after Thanksgiving. And taking on human form, He identified with our struggles, our sorrows, and our simple systems as destitute souls.

In Jesus Christ, God is hungry, crying, sweating, tired; laughing, carrying on, kidding, and jousting; betrayed, misjudged, misunderstood, and ultimately, done inestimable wrong.

Me too.

And when I come to Him, I celebrate that He is close, that I am brought close, that He understands, and that I have every reason to worship with my trust. My simple, struggling trust.

Thank you, Father. Brother Jesus, thank you for coming, for living, for understanding. Spirit, I celebrate your presence within me. I honor you.

I run to you, as you invite. I gladly call you Father, Papa, Abba-Dad. I worship you for telling me this is how you would like to be approached and addressed.

But when I go to the football game on Friday night and the announcer calls for a moment of silence “…to pray to the god of our choice,” I worship magnificently. In my soul, I bow my knee under the Friday-night lights and say to God, I declare you my Lord. I recognize you as King of kings and above you there is no other. I gratefully submit my life to you, yield my will to yours, and declare my unfettered allegiance to you, my Lord and my God. Amen

After Paul penned, “Oh, the depth of the riches both of the wisdom and knowledge of God! How unsearchable are His judgments and unfathomable His ways!” he draws the simple conclusion, “I urge you therefore, brethren, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies a living and holy sacrifice, acceptable to God, which is your spiritual service of worship.”

Even the way we dress, carry ourselves, and maintain our physical health is an act of worship.

Whatever advances your ability to honor, recognize, and celebrate God’s divinity, character, love, mercy, and grace constitutes and qualifies as worship.

Contemporary choruses have their place in our worship. Obviously! But so do the hymns of the faith and the musical resources undergirding them to make corporate worship truly corporate.

Anything either hampering or facilitating the church’s ability to unify and give robust expression of worship, together, as a collective of the divine family, is noteworthy and merits critical evaluation.

The corporate gathering of the church is in rapid decline.

My thesis in revisiting the disciplines of the faith is that we have drifted from our foundational fundamentals. Consequently, we are adrift from our moorings and suffering as a result.

The church as a bellwether for society is in grave question. Our outside reputation is that we are identified with a political party, not as the people of God. We are a voting block, not lights in the dark sea of humanity. Our spiritual leaders endorse political candidates as opposed to advancing the cause of Christ to address the existential questions of humanity.

When something is fundamentally wrong, the diagnosis must be fundamental, and the solution must be a return to the disciplined practice of our fundamentals.

I didn’t come up with these twelve spiritual disciplines. These are practices formed over two-thousand years of church history. They are rooted in Christ’s life, not a book by Willard, or Foster, or Gillham. These disciplines are the best-practices our predecessors in the faith identified to help the individual as well as the church corporate maintain fidelity to the faith, to their hearts, to each other, and to God.

The logic is simple: If the church is not healthy, then it only makes sense that we must return to the practice of our fundamentals. If society’s critical concern is existential—acceptance, worth, significance, importance—then society’s critical concern is not political, financial, or governmental; society’s crisis is spiritual. If this logic holds, then this must be the church’s finest hour.  

The criticism of the church is that it is no longer relevant to daily life. Of course, the Gospel has not become irrelevant, so what the criticism is telling us is that the practice of the church has lost its ability to facilitate the Gospel in daily practice.

Of the twelve disciplines, the spiritual discipline of worship is the foremost practice of how the church functions corporately. That this corporate act of worship is impeded, even compromised, by style should capture our attention.

I’m not advocating for an either/or choice in corporate worship. Perhaps a blend is feasible. If you are a leader of worship, experiment. But keep in mind: What fails to unify us, divides us.

The practice of the spiritual discipline of worship is an historic discipline because it advances both individually and corporately our joy, celebration, and affirmation of who God is, who He has declared us to be, and what His Word is to us. Worship unifies us as we declare together, at the same time, the wonder and glory of God and His Word.

Richard Foster says, “Without joyous celebration to infuse the other disciplines, we will sooner or later abandon them. Joy produces energy. Joy makes us strong.”

Next, we look at the spiritual discipline of prayer. Until then.