It was late last night when my daughter walked through the door after a worship concert.
I had bought her the tickets, so I stayed up long enough to ask the obvious question:
“How was it?”
Her face lit up.
She told me about the lights, the energy and the way they mixed pop music with worship. She is an artist herself. She wants to make music, but she also loves leading worship. That night, she saw those two parts of herself occupying the same stage.
“You could tell he wanted to be a pop star,” she said, “but now he’s leading worship.”
She meant it positively.
Here was someone bringing all of that creativity, energy and showmanship into an expression of worship. It showed her that Christians could love Jesus and have fun. Worship didn’t have to fit neatly inside the usual Sunday-morning box.
I understood exactly what she meant.
But I could also imagine someone else walking into the same room and being appalled.
Too many lights.
Too much energy.
Too much attention on the person leading.
He clearly wants to be a star.
It is easy to look at someone else’s expression and decide that we know what is happening in their heart.
Perhaps that unsettled me because I have asked the same questions about myself.
I lead worship with a lot of energy. I move. I get loud. I sing with my whole body. Maybe it’s the African in me. Maybe it’s the extrovert. Maybe it’s the performer.
It’s simply how I respond.
But sometimes I wonder:
Am I drawing too much attention to myself?
Should I tone it down?
Should I dim my light so people can see Jesus?
Those are worthwhile questions. Anyone standing on a stage should remain honest about what is happening inside them.
But I’m beginning to see how quickly honest reflection can become judgment—both of ourselves and of others.
We measure worship by what we know.
In a charismatic church, silence can feel like something is missing. In a quieter tradition, singing the same chorus for twenty minutes might feel excessive. One room has stained glass and stillness. Another has smoke machines and subwoofers.
Every tradition has its own liturgy, even the churches that insist they don’t have one.
And somehow, our familiar pattern becomes the pattern we believe God prefers.
That night, talking with my daughter, I started thinking about gifts.
If someone gave me a vacuum cleaner for Christmas, I might wonder what I had done to offend them. Someone else might open a Dyson and lose their mind with joy.
One person wants an iPad. Another would trade it immediately for a weekend hiking trip.
The people watching cannot determine the value of the gift.
Only the recipient can.
And often, what makes the gift meaningful isn’t the object itself. It is the intimacy between the giver and the receiver.
You know me.
You noticed.
You remembered what matters to me.
That is what makes the woman with the perfume so striking.
She poured something expensive over Jesus, and the people watching immediately reviewed her offering.
What a waste.
That money could have been used for something better.
They saw irresponsibility. Jesus received love.
The difference was not in the perfume.
It was in who was evaluating the gift.
I wonder how often we stand beside someone else’s offering and behave as though it was addressed to us.
We call it too loud.
Too quiet.
Too emotional.
Too restrained.
Too rehearsed.
Too spontaneous.
Too Catholic.
Too charismatic.
Too much like a concert.
Too much like a funeral.
But the gift was never addressed to us.
That doesn’t mean every expression automatically pleases God. Scripture gives us offerings that were received and offerings that were not. Abel offered by faith. David refused to give God something that cost him nothing.
The heart still matters.
Truth still matters.
What we offer still matters.
But the form alone cannot reveal the heart behind it.
Expression is a vehicle. Culture helps give that vehicle its shape. The deeper substance is our response to who God has revealed Himself to be.
When Jesus spoke with the Samaritan woman, the argument was about the correct place to worship.
This mountain or Jerusalem?
Jesus moved the conversation beyond both locations. The Father is seeking people who will worship in spirit and truth.
He is not merely seeking worship.
He is seeking worshippers.
People who know Him and respond to Him.
People whose offering grows out of relationship rather than religious obligation.
So perhaps the most important question is not whether worship looks right, sounds right or feels familiar.
Perhaps it is:
Father, did this come from knowing You?
Was I responding to what I have seen of You—or simply repeating what I have always done?
Did I bring You my heart, or only the worship culture that taught me how to look like I did?
(gulp)
I’m tying to become slower at reviewing other people’s gifts.
After all, I’m standing beside the altar.
I’m not the One receiving them.
see you next Friday