Last night, I went to a concert by a well-known worship artist.

And honestly, it was phenomenal.

The music was excellent.
The room was full.
The sound was huge.
The moments were powerful.

There were times when the whole room was singing, hands lifted, voices strong, and you could feel that something meaningful was happening.

This is not a critique of the artist.

Not even close.

They served the room beautifully. The songs were strong. The musicianship was excellent. The heart behind it felt sincere.

If I had to nitpick… could have been more vertical/throne room moments. It was very horizontal/testimony/thanksgiving. Which is not wrong… just a little incomplete in my opinion.

But when it was over, I walked out to my car and noticed something in me that felt uncomfortable.

I didn’t feel marked.

I didn’t feel like I had just encountered Jesus in a way that changed how I saw Him, or myself, or the world.

I felt more like I had just watched a really good movie.

Moved? Yes.
Inspired? Probably.
Impressed? Definitely.

It wasn’t entertainment.

We were definitely engaged though

But encountered?

I’m not sure. (At least not corporately)

And then, almost without thinking, I got in the car, started driving home, and put on the Spurs game.

That little detail bothered me.

It bothered me because of how quickly the moment faded.

One minute, I was in a room filled with worship.
A few minutes later, I was checking the score.

And I found myself wondering:

Is this all we mean by worship?

Not “is this all the artist gave us?”
Not “is this all the band created?”
Not “is this all the production achieved?”

But is this all I have learned to expect?

A beautiful room.
Powerful songs.
Emotional moments.
Then the parking lot.
Then life.

There must be more than this.

Not louder music or bigger moments.

I mean Him.

Jesus.

Because worship is not ultimately about singing—it’s about seeing Him.

And maybe that’s why a room can be full of music yet leave us unchanged.

It’s possible to be moved by worship and still not behold Jesus.

As a worship leader, that thought unsettles me.

We can build great arrangements, transitions, and atmospheres. None of those things are bad. Excellence matters.

But sometimes excellence becomes a curtain—something beautiful in front of something holy.

And if we’re not careful, we admire the curtain and never step through it.

The people who were transformed by Jesus weren’t changed by an event. They saw Him.

And once they did, they couldn’t go back to normal.

That’s what I’m hungry for.

Not worship that’s powerful in the room, but worship that makes Jesus harder to forget in the parking lot.

Worship that follows me into my home, my relationships, my work, and my ordinary life.

Because if I truly encounter Jesus, I don’t just leave with a memory.

I leave with Him.

That’s what David seemed to understand. While religious activity carried on around him, he centered everything around God’s presence.

Maybe that’s the invitation again.

Not to criticize artists, songs, or production.

But to ask:

Is Jesus actually before us?

Are we beholding Him, or just admiring what we’ve built around Him?

Maybe the real question after worship isn’t, “Was it good?”

Maybe it’s:

Did I see Him?

Did I leave more aware of Jesus than when I arrived?

Did His presence stay with me after the music ended?

I ask because I felt the gap in myself last night.

I left a beautiful worship night, turned on the Spurs game, and realized how quickly I can move on.

So my prayer became simple:

Jesus, I don’t want to just attend worship, enjoy it, or even lead it.

I want to see You.

Because if I see You, worship won’t have to be manufactured.

It will rise naturally.

And if I truly meet You, I won’t just leave saying, “That was amazing.”

I’ll leave changed.

With You. Into the car.

With You. On the drive home.

With You. Into the night.

Into the rest of my life.

See you next Friday.