True worship

Hands dripping, I reached for a paper towel, then stopped, surprised. How refreshing! This wasn’t one of those blowers that practically lifts the building off the ground, the ones that sound like a jet plane accelerating down a runway, scaring kids and adults alike. And it wasn’t one of those with the big silver button that weakly emits lukewarm air in which you rub and turn your hands for a minute before you give up and wipe them dry on your jeans. Nor was it the big plastic box with a sensor that only works about half the time, eliciting contortions and frantic waving and requiring you to team up with strangers to try to outsmart it, only to finally be presented with a paper towel about half the size of what you needed in the first place. (The good news is it takes so long to get that kind to work that, by the time you give up, your hands have very nearly dried on their own.) Nor was it a catawampus, skewed, rusted, broken, or hanging-from-one-screw paper towel dispenser. No, I was looking at the most humble, pure, old-fashioned thing: a shiny white metal box with a nondescript crank handle on the side. With minimal effort, the towel rolled out, smoothly, as long or as short as I wanted. The roll was even full. I smiled fondly at the neat, immaculate form dutifully hanging on the wall, doing its simple job very well. Exactly what was needed, at exactly the right time, with just the right amount of effort and result.

I attended a meeting recently at which a man opened with prayer and then asked us to join him in singing a worship song. There were eight of us in the room, and the others were all people whose faith guides their lives. The song was beautiful; it brought goosebumps to my arms and tears to my eyes. The harmony was inspired, the song anointed, the emotions genuine, the mood intimate and lovely. The scene was more intensely spiritual than anything else I’ve experienced in a long time, including church services with hundreds of people. Don’t get me wrong; there’s absolutely nothing wrong with those services. I love them. They’ve been very good, and the speakers have been anointed, and I’ve felt God there, too. But there was just something special about this moment. It was pared down to the basics. It was real, genuine, true. No complicated music, no special clothes required, no distractions or interruptions or schedules or plans. Nothing but us and our God. Nothing else was needed.

The very fact that it caught me off guard tells me I’ve put my relationship with God on the back burner. These moments are available to us all the time. No iPod required with just the right music downloaded; no best-selling self-help books needed; no choir or worship leader necessary. Just you. And Him. Pure and simple and so, so good. Maybe, at least for me, it’s time to remember what it’s all about. To go back to the basics, to return to what is simple — and what, without fail, always works.

Drink deeply

And he went a little farther, and fell on his face,
and prayed, saying, O my Father,
if it be possible, let this cup pass from me:
nevertheless not as I will, but as thou wilt.
~ Matthew 26:39

In the Garden, Jesus prayed, “Let this cup pass from me.” Much has been written about the cup, and what it entails — the suffering involved with taking on all of mankind’s sins. But one day, as I was listening to one of my favorite worship songs, God showed me something new. In Kari Jobe’s song “The More I Seek You,” she says, “I want to sit at your feet, drink from the cup in your hand, lay back against you and breathe, feel your heart beat…”

Drink from the cup in your hand. It could mean many things — spiritual nourishment, for example. But the “cup” Jesus refers to is about suffering and temporary separation from the Father — in other words, the critical purpose of Jesus’ life. In order for us to come to a place so intimate that we can rest at the Lord’s feet, we need to be willing to drink from the cup He has for each of us. That doesn’t mean that we will necessarily have to suffer — some of us might, many of us won’t. But it does mean accepting what the Lord has for us.

He made each of us for a specific purpose. No one else could have fulfilled Jesus’ purpose. I can’t fulfill yours, and you can’t fulfill mine. But if we draw close enough to the Lord — if we offer ourselves to do God’s will, as Jesus did — then we will be drinking from the cup He has for us. We’ll be using our talents. Raising our kids with gentleness and kindness. Singing if we can sing, writing if we can write, loving, nurturing, praying, worshipping, hoping, helping, showing, shining. We’ll be drawing closer and closer to God, feeling more and more thankful that He drank from that cup 2000 years ago, understanding more and more clearly just what that meant. When He drank, He knew all that you would do, but He also knew what you are capable of overcoming. And who you are capable of becoming. He thought of you that day, overflowing with an unbelievable love for you. Yes, you. Honor Him today by accepting. Say, “Yes, Lord, I want what You have for me,” then drink. Deeply and fully and thirstily. Every last drop. You'll be glad you did.