P.D.A.

The need for trust and freedom in corporate Worship

I've been thinking about worship lately. Particularly, about how I worship alone in my room verses how I worship in a corporate setting. There are two vital elements, without which I find it almost impossible to fully engage in and join a worship atmosphere: freedom and trust.

Worship, for me, is about seeking Dad's face and drawing into intimate communion with him; about giving and receiving love, honor, glory. I don't need to sing or raise my hands with my eyes closed, cry about how unworthy I am or clap my palms - I can do these things, but the only time I'm limited to them is in corporate environments.

On my own, I can be doing dishes, painting, writing, dancing, yoga-ing - and be swept into worship. There's freedom in my worship closet to express my love to Dad in whatever way I feel compelled. I can make messes and dissonant noise and a fool of myself. There are no expectations, no attention to attract but my Dad's. I'm completely free.

There has been a few unique occasions when I walked into a worship service in a church building at a Sunday service and felt freedom to step publicly into my prayer closet. One was a recent experience at a church in a big red barn.

"I found a mustard seed of trust..."

Though I was a stranger in this church community, I felt a sense of unity in leaving my shoes piled at the chapel door along with everyone else. For the first hour or so, I simply sat watching and soaking. Space was open in the center for laying out, dancing, flag twirling. Tissues were available throughout the room, which I thought odd until I needed them later and realized how brilliant they were.

Eventually I noticed I was the only person in the room observing, the only person whose eyes weren't intently focused on Dad; the freedom became clearly visible. There were no words on the screen, the band played without a plan and the singers sang without lyrics. There were no expectations - people sang or prayed or laid flat on their faces. Individuals, worshiping at once in solitude and unity fully abandoned to the love of God.

I could see the freedom, but I couldn't enter into it. I wasn't thinking in these terms at the time, but I I didn't trust the people I was worshiping with. Not that they'd done anything to warrant my mistrust, but I didn't know them. I had no relationship with them. And the baggage of past religious experiences was weighing on me. To bring my intimate relationship with God into view of a barn full of strangers? For me, it took guts. And it took trust.


The realization that no one expected me to do anything was the mustard seed of trust I  needed. With it, I took time to write. This brought me into a state of personal worship with Dad, which enabled me to eventually step into the communal atmosphere at hand. As I wrote, I got a sudden urge to dance. In fact, the words "dance party" popped into my head and I felt like a kid in a candy shop. I gazed apprehensively at the open space in the middle. "When you go over there, we'll have a dance party," Dad said.

Still, I remained seated toward the back where I felt out of the way and safe. Despite the longing in my spirit, it took a great deal of self-motivation and courage-building to stand, step into the open space, and wait for the party. Every time I though about standing, my heart raced. "Go ahead, you'll like it over there," Dad assured.

A crowd surfer finds himself onstage holding a drum for
the crowd to beat during The Chariot's set.
Photo by: Kaylin Roback, 2011

In a sudden moment of resolute determination to trust Dad, I stood and strode to a space where there was room to move. The moment I did, the apprehension in my chest disappeared. Dad was right, I did like it there. And I couldn't help but sway and step to the music. I was reminded of worship I've shared with Jeremiah at The Chariot shows we've been to. Visceral, gritty, extremely loud with lots of stomping and shoving and jumping. My hunger for a dance party grew.

A minute or an hour later (time, at that point, was irrelevant and hard to keep track of), a young man walked into the open space next to me and began stomping. Rhythmic, passionate, purposeful stomping.

Another young man strode into the center and joined. Then another. This is it! And along with several others, I joined the stomping. The floor shook, our heartbeats synchronized, and we were the Church.

I don't know how long we stomped and flailed, but by the end I was a puddle on the floor. Once the tears and drool were confined to a modicum of modesty, I lifted my head enough to find those brilliant tissues.

Freedom and trust are vital to worship on so many levels, I'm convinced we can't simply ignore the need or assume the need is met. Freedom opens the door to trust; trust opens the door to freedom. The two go hand in hand and are in mutual need of each other. Though the responsibility was mine to receive the freedom and step into the trust at the red barn, the community had clearly fostered an atmosphere thick with both and readily available.

It's occurred to me that in my own Church family, we've not spent much time in worship together. We worship individually, and occasionally we come together and realize afterward, that was worship. It's been a long time, however, since we gathered intentionally. Though a great deal of trust and freedom has grown in relationships, I'm beginning to see a need for a platform from which that trust and freedom can blossom.