Worthily Magnify

It’s a terrifying feeling when you’re driving a car and something unexpected happens.

Someone starts to swerve into your lane.

A tire blows out.

You begin to hydroplane in the rain or snow.

But however the terrifying situations differ, one of the most basic pieces of driving advice remains the same: don’t overcorrect. Overcorrecting most often makes things worse.

The same principle applies to worship leading.

You can tell a song is bombing.

Your drummer is playing in 6/8 instead of 4/4.

You’re singing one verse and the screens are projecting another.

The possibilities are endless. So many things can go wrong on a Sunday morning, and since you’re not expecting them, you could instinctively overcorrect. But overcorrecting most often makes things worse.

To overcorrect in a car usually means to steer the car wildly in one direction, then realizing one’s mistake, and steering wildly in the other direction, by which point your car might be rolling over or hitting a tree.

To overcorrect in worship leading usually means to make a similarly wild direction change. You abruptly stop a song. You decide to preach a mini-sermon. You decide to sing a 4 minute spontaneous song (I did this when I was fourteen in a little Episcopal church and it did NOT go well!).

You get the idea. And you’ve experienced what I’m talking about. You can feel yourself starting to lose control and so you’re tempted to do something drastic.

Now of course you never say never. It’s not that it’s never a good idea during worship to do something drastic. Sometimes that’s exactly what the Holy Spirit is saying to you. But, in my experience, most of the time your response to the unexpected things in worship should be to keep your car in your lane, keep it moving ahead, and make sure you get to your destination.

I would much rather get through a worship set alive, and review the snot out of it later, then decide to risk everything on making it work for goodness sake! No one single worship set is worth you causing a ton of commotion. Slow and steady wins the race. You’ll get to lead worship again next Sunday. Let a day go by, and when you’ve calmed down, look back at what went wrong. This will be safer for your congregation, for you, and yes, for your job.

I usually don’t have very profound thoughts when I’m running. This is because I usually don’t really enjoy running. I do it because it’s good for me and I feel better when I exercise, but I’m not one of those guys who just loves to go out for a run. I think those guys are weird.

But a few days ago I was running on one of the beautiful wooded trails near my house and God to spoke to me. He spoke to me through the chorus of a thousand singing crickets.

I had been running for 30 or 40 minutes when it dawned on me that for the duration of my run, for 4 miles or so, there had been the constant sound of crickets singing. Loudly. Thousands of them, if not more. Enough to drive you a bit crazy if you let them. I hadn’t really noticed the cacophony of noise because I’m usually just trying to keep from collapsing, but when I did finally notice it, that’s when God broke through and spoke to me.

He said: you can’t see them but they’re singing along.

He was right. I hadn’t seen a single cricket. They were hidden in the bushes and trees and not out on the paved trail hopping around making themselves obvious. They were invisible to me. But they were definitely there.

Why was this realization so profound? Because God was telling me that it’s the same way on Sunday mornings.

All I can see on Sunday mornings is what’s physical. I see the music on my music stand, the microphone in front of my face, the congregation in the room, the band to my right and left, the words on the screen, and that guy who never ever sings along standing in the balcony. What’s with that guy, anyway?

What I can’t see is “a great multitude that no one could number, from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages, standing before the throne and before the Lamb, clothed in white robes, with palm branches in their hands, and crying out with a loud voice, ‘Salvation belongs to our God who sits on the throne, and to the Lamb!’” (Revelation 7:9-10).

I can’t see “all the angels… standing around the throne and around the elders and the four living creatures” who fall on their faces before God’s throne “saying, ‘Amen! Blessing and glory and wisdom and thanksgiving and honor and power and might be to our God forever and ever! Amen’” (Revelation 7:11-12).

I can’t see this heavenly worship just like I can’t see the crickets in the trees. I can’t see the “myriads of myriads and thousands of thousands” of angels worshipping in heaven (Revelation 5:11), but I know that they’re singing along with me as I stand at my microphone on Sunday morning.

This is awe-inspiring. This is encouraging. This is amazing. When we gather together to worship God, and when we as worship leaders stand to lead our congregation, there is a cacophony of heavenly worship that’s singing along with us.

I have a new appreciation for the invisible crickets who sing their songs invisibly from the trees. They remind me that I’m a part of something cosmic and heavenly and invisible, and that’s the unceasing worship of the Lamb upon the throne.