Worship

It’s not about me.

It never was.

And it won’t ever be.

And no matter what I say, nothing will change the irreversible fact that worshipping God can only ever be totally about God.

It can only ever be about standing before my father (he’s my father! That’s my dad, do you see him?),
before my maker (See him there? He made me!),
before God (he’s the God!)
and proclaiming his name before mine.

More of him, less of me.

(Less selfishness, pride, arrogance, self-pity, self absorption, self, self, self.
More beauty, goodness, truth, holiness, God, God, God.)

Why?

Why bother?

Why does it matter?

Why remove myself from the picture?
Wait.

Do I get scrubbed out? Do I lose my personality in worship? Do I become a faceless, nameless, characterless blob?

As I proclaim his name, and lift my eyes, and my hands, and my voice, am I turning myself into an automaton? A robot? A worker ant, programmed, voiceless?

Valueless?

Unless…

Unless what?

Unless somehow, for some reason, I find my value in worshipping the living God.

Unless…

I was designed,
knit together,
created,
knotted,
stretched,
moulded,
melted,
crafted,
welded,

in order to worship God.

Unless worshipping God is what I’m made to do,
is my primary function,
is my purpose,
is the very reason I exist,

The very reason for my being…

The very summit of my existence.

Then, and only then does worshipping God,
(lifting him up with every little fibre of my body,
giving all I am to him)

make sense…

Because if that’s what I was made to do,
that’s where I’ll find my satisfaction.

Because that’s where the value is.

And as
I fall deeper
And deeper,
in love with Him.
Step
By little step
I come closer to him.
I see more of him.
I become more like him.

And I become more like the me he always meant me to be.

That’s worship.