Heart of Worship
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Heart of Worship
By MacKenzie McLemore
I Love Worship. I Love the environment and connection. Everyone is humbled to the same level to raise a chorus of voices, hands of submission and cries of servant hood.
The musical instruments mesh together to form one note, one beat, one melodious rhythm. The choir gently sways while effortlessly emitting a cadence so sweet. The congregation all gathered under one roof for a single purpose. Though their lives are unique, problems varying, they all have one steadfast and unbreakable bond; their God. The people sing in unison but praise with individuality; hearts are in various stages, minds in multiple worlds but every head is tilted up and every knee bowed.
Some clap, others drum on the seat in front of them; some kneel on the ground and others dance in the isles. Grown men silently cry as well-mannered women lay flat on their faces. Children express the innocence of joy and laughter, and for once the youth donít care what otherís think of them. The sea of faces blend to create a timeless moment of peace and acceptance.
Standing (weak-kneed) amongst the presence of my Lord is where I evermore want to stay; with my Dad by my side as our voices arise both able to predict the others next note. We dance with each other with our harmonious steps and the improv which comes so natural in uncontainable praise. My dad and I share one heart of worship, a bond that cannot be taught nor deliberately developed. It is God-given and in scripted onto our very souls, unable to be stripped from or stolen. By my Dadís side in worship, I forevermore want to stay.
But even more so above the music, the bond, and the sounds of beautiful melodies, there is one thing I love the most. And it is the old woman. The old woman who is faithful each week to sit in the front of the room. She dresses in her finest things not to be noticed nor in prideful nature but to come before her King with the best she has to offer. Would you meet the Queen of England in sweats? Certainly Not! Doesnít God deserve an unfathomable amount of more respect? Yet we do not care; we donít, but the old lady does. She comes alone when no one will join yet her arms are open if they change their minds. When the music begins she claps along, sways to the beat and smiles all the while.
Though her life may not be always good, her heart is no less grateful and her worship is no less sincere. Her manner could influence even the most iced heart to warm. And when she sings, OH! When she sings, words cannot describe the sound which emits from her mouth.
Loud, commanding, strong, passionate and savagely off-key, wretchedly sweet and inspirationally horrific, the old lady has no musical talent whatsoever. She mumbles when she doesnít know the words, shouts when the chorus gets too high and she has no regard for those around her. And it is beautiful. For she understands the heart of worship and through her noise is ear-piercing to us, it is sweet music to the Lordís ear. He enjoys her gift above all elaborate melodies that are hollow centered. The Holy Spirit finds rest in the old woman as she shouts in tongues with hands stretched out high to the heavens. She truly worships.
So though in any other situation her presence would seem obnoxious, in worship the band with their beautiful instruments, the choir with their angelic voices and my dad and I with our harmonies, we covet her position. For she at that moment is closer to our God than many of us will ever be.
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