Worship Worthy of the Name

Worship is seeing what God is worth and giving him what he’s worth.
—Tim Keller

Dan Wakefield, a writer who moved to New York in the 1950s, was originally from Indiana. When he arrived in New York, he completely overturned his Baptist roots and became a bohemian. In one of his books, he describes how he wanted nothing to do with the values of middle America. He completely rid himself of religion.

Now, however, he’s near sixty years old, ostensibly needing spiritual meaning, and attends a liturgical church. Why? Probably because to him, the church feels safe, it’s connected with history, it doesn’t feel like a fly-by-night operation, and it is more satisfying aesthetically.

Historic liturgy often appeals to a certain kind of person. It opens doors to the heart that the art of pop culture—drums and guitars—can’t.

Personally, I like both. Each form of art opens different doors into my soul. But each form must have at its core true worship. It all begins with this question: What is true worship?

Instinct run amok

At our deepest level, we were created for worship. But this instinct has gone awry.

Jonathan Edwards spoke of religious affections—that core of our being that orients our mind, will, and emotions toward an object. Sin has caused our affections to stray, propelling us to worship relationships, achievement, work—everything but God. Alfred Adler would say we gravitate toward control or power or comfort or approval.

We obsess about those things, comfort ourselves with them, fantasize about them. Biblically speaking, those things are idols. Worship is pulling our affections off our idols and putting them on God.

The word worship comes from an Old English word meaning “worth-ship.” I define worship as a private act that has two parts: seeing what God is worth and giving him what he’s worth.

Job says, “I have treasured the words of his mouth more than my daily bread” (Job 23:12 niv). When I treasure something, I longingly look at it, for example, in the store window and think about how great it would be to own it. I ponder its virtues, talk to my friends about how great it is. Then I go out and buy it.

Worship is treasuring God: I ponder his worth and then do something about it—I give him what he’s worth. Every approach to worship must have those two elements.

Harnessed worship

The only difference between private and public worship is that in public worship, individuals are doing it in concert with others. In a team of six horses, each horse is affected by the speed and direction of the other five. The same is true of corporate worship—it’s individuals worshiping God in harness.

If the minister is talking about the holiness of God, for example, I’m seeing God’s holiness in concert with the congregation. Together, God’s people are in harness, letting the worship leader guide them so they can respond to God individually by giving him what he is worth.

At Redeemer Presbyterian Church in Manhattan, we structure our service in cycles of seeing what God is worth and then giving him what he’s worth. To begin the service, I often give a devotional that focuses on some aspect of God (seeing what God is worth). The following two pieces of music and time of silence for confession allow people to respond (give back to God what he’s worth).

Scripture readings, exhortations, and sermons show people what God is worth. The offering, prayers of repentance and thanksgiving, and times of confession allow people to respond to God.

Of course, in any given service, not everyone will be worshiping. A good service is one in which a large number of those attending are seeing God’s worth and responding. A poor worship service is one in which few people are. Unfortunately, there’s no tangible way to tally the percentages. I’ve led services in which I thought few people were truly worshiping, but when I talked to my wife afterward, she sensed just the opposite.

I can, however, determine whether I have truly worshiped or merely sat through a religious activity.

In order for us to worship, our mind, will, and emotions have to be moved. They’re all organically connected.

Merely learning a truth about God is intellectual education, not worship. For example, I can know intellectually that God is good but still be worried silly about something that’s coming up this week. If the morning’s sermon is on the sovereignty and goodness of God, I haven’t worshiped unless that truth descends from my mind and touches my emotions and my will.

I worship, then, when I realize I’ve been trusting in my own abilities, not the sovereignty and goodness of God. When I pull my affections off the other things I’ve been trusting in—which is why I’m anxious—and put them on God, I will be touched emotionally. I may cry; I may not. It depends on what kind of personality I have. But the truth will affect my emotions.

My will is also affected when I decide to change the way I handle that threat next week.

Worship is grasping a truth about God and then letting that truth strike you in the center of your being. It thrills you, comforts you. That’s when the truth has moved from left to right brain—from mind to heart. On the spot, it will change the way you feel. The whole brain, the whole person, is affected.

Mistaken emotions

Not everything we feel Sunday morning can be labeled true worship. Several emotions often are mistakenly associated with true worship.

Nostalgia. Some people are moved to tears by listening to “The Old Rugged Cross” and others by “The Wind Beneath My Wings.” But those feelings are not necessarily worship. They could also be merely a sentimental connection; the song reminds people of a warm memory. This is one reason why people will say, “I can’t worship if I don’t sit in my pew,” or “I can’t worship because you rearranged the furniture,” or “I can’t worship if I don’t know the hymns.”

That’s nostalgia, a fond sentiment that people often need because everything else in life is changing. But that feeling isn’t worship, and there is no resulting impact on their whole lives.

Conscience clearing. Some people feel guilty because they haven’t gone to church for a while, or they haven’t been praying, or whatever. So because they’re in church, singing a hymn and putting something in the offering plate, they feel better. Their consciences are clear. Perhaps that feeling is better than the sentimental feeling, but it’s still not worship.

Aesthetic experiences. Other people may have only an aesthetic experience, which is still not worship. Even people hostile to the gospel can weep while listening to Handel’s Messiah. C. S. Lewis said that his imagination was baptized when he was still an atheist because of excellent Christian art.

After preaching a sermon, I’ve had people say, “Your sermon was wonderful. It made me feel terrific, but I don’t believe any of the things you said.” They liked the logic, the delivery, the overall impact, but they couldn’t believe it.

So you can withhold your intellect and your will and yet have an incredible aesthetic experience as you see the gospel presented in an artistic way.

Our emotions become a legitimate part of worship when, in response to a truth about God, we give something back to God: our money, our sin, our praise. Again, the three elements must be there: mind, will, emotion.

As it relates to worship, I’d rather use the word moved than the word emotion, however. I agree with Edwards, who essentially said that if we don’t find that our affections have been moved from earthly idols toward God, we haven’t worshiped. Our affections are more than just our emotions.

Some of us, myself included, are not emotionally expressive. That’s just who I am. However, if I leave Sunday morning having had no emotional connection whatsoever, I haven’t worshiped. I must allow my heart to be touched to worship.

Baptized art

In recent years, churches have emphasized excellence in worship, especially in seeking to reach non-Christians. In general, churches that focus on excellence tend to attract more non-Christians.

Non-Christians are attracted to the art of a tight-sounding worship band or string quartet. They are not, in general, attracted to the special music of Brother Joe’s seventh-grade nephew, who gets up and plays “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God” on his clarinet. That music is meaningful for the members of Brother Joe’s church, who know and love the nephew, and who know and love the truth. But those who don’t have the relationship already are only made uncomfortable by the lack of excellence.

Aesthetics is a movement from the right brain to the left. Consequently, art is often a back door to truth. Clearly, people are brought to faith through great aesthetics. The power of the art draws people to behold it. After a while they begin to wonder if the ideas that inspired it are true.

As a general rule, the larger the church, the more important worship aesthetics become. It can be compared to the difference between two restaurants, both of which have great food. One restaurant is a dive, tucked away in a hard-to-find basement; its patrons are proud of the fact that not many people eat there. It attracts few new customers because nobody knows where it is unless you’re told by an insider.

The other restaurant, however, places a premium on good advertising and a pleasant ambiance. It’s easy to find, warm and friendly. Everything about the restaurant communicates, “Why don’t you try our food?” I would go so far as to say that when planting a church, you determine its future size in part by the importance you place on aesthetics in worship.

But it’s important to keep worship aesthetics in perspective. Frankly, I doubt that to God there’s much difference between the classically trained soloist and Brother Joe’s nephew. God is the one we want to please, and I doubt he judges on the basis of aesthetics.

To me, aesthetics are important because they remove the obstacle that bad art places in the path of the would-be worshiper. Effective evangelism has usually combined excellent aesthetics with communication. George Whitefield’s preaching was great aesthetics: he had a gripping voice, and he could weave moving stories, causing the crowd to groan and weep. His oratory attracted crowds of five to ten thousand people.

Whether Whitefield’s oratory, Willow Creek’s drama, or Redeemer Presbyterian’s more classical aesthetics—the object is to communicate a message that penetrates the head, the heart, and the will.

Easy access

Contemporary pop music is not the only art that attracts non-Christians, however. I’m always puzzled when I hear pastors suggest this.

Our largest service at Redeemer is not the one we started with the contemporary band (though that could change). It’s the one with traditional hymns and string quartets playing classical music. Perhaps that’s because New York faces Europe more than the rest of the country. I’ve found the people of Manhattan like formality. They’re used to cathedrals, art museums, symphonies. Many non-Christians feel safe in a liturgical service because they know what’s happening next. There are no surprises.

I’ve also found that many who come back to the faith often choose a liturgical church. These people tend to be intellectuals: professors, writers, musicians.

At Redeemer, with services in historical liturgy and with drums and guitars, we say that we are not targeting either believers or seekers. Ours is a worship service calling everyone to respond to the truths of God. We just do it in the vernacular.

We attempt to make our worship accessible (which, in many ways, is also good aesthetics). The words of the liturgy must be beautiful and understandable, especially since in historic liturgy, the congregation recites aloud more than in free-church styles. Our bulletin is actually a booklet, several pages thick, that includes the words to the hymns and responsive readings and folk choruses. (American folk tunes, amazingly, blend nicely in high-culture worship.)

To worship in the vernacular, I explain more. For example, I’ll say, “Let’s read this passage of Scripture and then spend a few silent moments in confession,” and explain what confession is. Or I’ll say, “At the end of the sermon, I will be calling for a life commitment. Committing our lives to God means …”

However, in reality, you can do only so much education and so much evangelism in a worship service. Therefore, a congregation needs venues outside of Sunday worship for both.

Nonnegotiables

The pressure on a pastor to create a good worship service each week can cause me to react wrongly when a service doesn’t come off the way I think it should. I’m a detail person, and occasionally, I cringe when a vocalist blows it or the microphone system goes haywire. That’s not good. It indicates an overemphasis on aesthetics.

We recently moved from a smaller facility, where we packed out the place, to an auditorium at Hunter College that seats 2,200. Our largest service, however, draws 800. That has dampened our worship energy, because acoustically, our singing cannot fill the expanses of the auditorium.

That has been frustrating. We purchased an organ, which helps, but we’ve had to accept the fact that until we fill the auditorium, our singing, aesthetically, will not meet our expectations. Some of our people were disappointed when we moved in, but we didn’t have any alternative.

Yet, just as people can have an aesthetic experience and not worship, they can also worship without good aesthetics. I need to remember that. I’m committed to excellence but don’t want to make it a nonnegotiable. Aesthetics are negotiable; truth is not.

Neither is the authenticity of the worship leader. Before Sunday, I must have been worshiping God throughout the week. I use daily Martin Luther’s scheme of “garland” meditation, which he describes in a letter. I meditate until some thought of Scripture catches fire in my heart. I collect those thoughts, which stay radioactive all week, and use them in my worship leading the next Sunday.

This prepares me to worship in concert with the congregation. My people can sense whether I am worshiping or not. I believe the church needs to see me worship, to see my affections being moved by the truth of God.