Come bless the Lord, all you servants of the Lord, who stand by night in the house of the Lord! Lift up your hands to the holy place and bless the Lord! (Verses 1-2)
Therefore lift your drooping hands and strengthen your weak knees, and make straight paths for your feet, so that what is lame may not be put out of joint but rather be healed.
Hebrews 12
When we first were exposed to a worshipping church, it was a very new thing for Bill and me. I was raised in the Baptist church; Bill, an erstwhile Presbyterian. I was steeped in hymns, always part of the youth choir, alto section. Singing to God while wearing long red choir robes with white collars thrown around my neck. It was about the singing. About staying on key. I didn't really know worship. Had never abandoned myself to belting out "Amazing Grace" in the face of God.
There was a morning in the first year of my marriage (I was twenty-one, barely) when God called me in prayer to the side of my bed. For months I'd yearned for more of the Spirit of God to take over my heart and mind. Growing in love for Jesus, desiring more intimacy with Him. But never in my experience had I ever, ever lifted my hands to Him. Never seen it. Didn't know anyone did that sort of thing. Bill was at work that early morning, so it was only our dog, Hoover Jean (Bill named her...not my fault), and I in the room where God met me. The deepest, most sincere cry of my heart: "Jesus, give me all you want for me. Pour out Your Spirit on me."
"Lift your hands." Very clear. No mistaking the Voice.
It quieted me for a moment. It was a bit nonsensical to my mind. "Jesus, I love you so much and want everything available to me. Fill me with the Holy Spirit!" I waited.
"Lift up your hands." Clear again. My heart started to pound. A certain fear was building up. I didn't understand the imperative and was embarrassed to raise up my arms. Embarrassed though only our dog would see me do it.
This particular conversation continued for many, many minutes. Finally, just like I'd plunged a thousand times in summer into cold water, I threw up my hands in sheer obedience. What happened next stunned and shook me. Out of my mouth flew a stream of words I didn't understand. Loud. Really loud. Joy coursed in as the language streamed out. I was laughing and crying at the same time. An abandon of worship. First in the new language then in my own. I couldn't have faked it because I didn't even understand it very well at the time. And I could still be beside that bed today the experience created such a flow of genuine adoration for Jesus.
So we found ourselves in a Baptist church where many of the people had had the same experience as I. For me it was a bit of heaven. For Bill, not so much. The "hands thing" was a complete distraction for him. Some people had their hands straight up, arms extended, some only had one hand up, some waved them, some cupped their hands...Bill could barely sing. So while I was involved in the joyous rapture of corporate worship, Bill was analyzing hand gestures. Then one day, in the middle of worship, I heard God plainly say to my heart that Bill needed to go talk to the husband of a friend who was a few aisles away from us. "God asked you to talk to him, Bill. To pray with him right now." "No." My man was squeamish about such things. "Okay," I whispered. "But God said go do it."
While my eyes were closed, Bill slipped out of the pew and trod with some trepidation toward our friend, going on the blind faith that his wife had heard from God on his behalf. And the result...miraculous. The man wept at Bill's prayer. Overwhelmed that Jesus sent a friend to prayer at exactly the time he needed it. After that experience, Bill just closed his eyes, lifted his hands and went with it. With his eyes shut, he wasn't worried about what the rest of the congregation was doing nor what they thought of what he was doing. Over forty years later, that's still his way.
But I didn't live in that wonder. Not always. Life happens and kicks us in the gut. You know. It's happened to all of us who love Jesus more than life. And the admonition of the writer of Hebrews becomes the cry of our hearts. "Lift up your hands again, get up on your wobbly legs, and walk it!" I can't worship without lifting my drooping hands. Singing to the face of Jesus as He sits at the right hand of God the Father places me in the throne room. Centers me before Him. Makes me remember His might, valor, plan, purpose. Connects me to His steadfast love, never-ending faithfulness, and reminds me again of the Lamb Who makes me right with God. I acknowledge in the abandon that raising my arms signals, that I am His and He is mine. All of me. And sometimes I just dance there. Because He is my beloved and I am His and if I don't twirl, I'll just die! I am absolutely, completely, desperately and hopelessly in love with my God!
If you haven't in a while...or ever...shot those drooping hands up, do it! Give yourself away today to the One Who gave Himself away for you!
Therefore lift your drooping hands and strengthen your weak knees, and make straight paths for your feet, so that what is lame may not be put out of joint but rather be healed.
Hebrews 12
When we first were exposed to a worshipping church, it was a very new thing for Bill and me. I was raised in the Baptist church; Bill, an erstwhile Presbyterian. I was steeped in hymns, always part of the youth choir, alto section. Singing to God while wearing long red choir robes with white collars thrown around my neck. It was about the singing. About staying on key. I didn't really know worship. Had never abandoned myself to belting out "Amazing Grace" in the face of God.
There was a morning in the first year of my marriage (I was twenty-one, barely) when God called me in prayer to the side of my bed. For months I'd yearned for more of the Spirit of God to take over my heart and mind. Growing in love for Jesus, desiring more intimacy with Him. But never in my experience had I ever, ever lifted my hands to Him. Never seen it. Didn't know anyone did that sort of thing. Bill was at work that early morning, so it was only our dog, Hoover Jean (Bill named her...not my fault), and I in the room where God met me. The deepest, most sincere cry of my heart: "Jesus, give me all you want for me. Pour out Your Spirit on me."
"Lift your hands." Very clear. No mistaking the Voice.
It quieted me for a moment. It was a bit nonsensical to my mind. "Jesus, I love you so much and want everything available to me. Fill me with the Holy Spirit!" I waited.
"Lift up your hands." Clear again. My heart started to pound. A certain fear was building up. I didn't understand the imperative and was embarrassed to raise up my arms. Embarrassed though only our dog would see me do it.
This particular conversation continued for many, many minutes. Finally, just like I'd plunged a thousand times in summer into cold water, I threw up my hands in sheer obedience. What happened next stunned and shook me. Out of my mouth flew a stream of words I didn't understand. Loud. Really loud. Joy coursed in as the language streamed out. I was laughing and crying at the same time. An abandon of worship. First in the new language then in my own. I couldn't have faked it because I didn't even understand it very well at the time. And I could still be beside that bed today the experience created such a flow of genuine adoration for Jesus.
So we found ourselves in a Baptist church where many of the people had had the same experience as I. For me it was a bit of heaven. For Bill, not so much. The "hands thing" was a complete distraction for him. Some people had their hands straight up, arms extended, some only had one hand up, some waved them, some cupped their hands...Bill could barely sing. So while I was involved in the joyous rapture of corporate worship, Bill was analyzing hand gestures. Then one day, in the middle of worship, I heard God plainly say to my heart that Bill needed to go talk to the husband of a friend who was a few aisles away from us. "God asked you to talk to him, Bill. To pray with him right now." "No." My man was squeamish about such things. "Okay," I whispered. "But God said go do it."
While my eyes were closed, Bill slipped out of the pew and trod with some trepidation toward our friend, going on the blind faith that his wife had heard from God on his behalf. And the result...miraculous. The man wept at Bill's prayer. Overwhelmed that Jesus sent a friend to prayer at exactly the time he needed it. After that experience, Bill just closed his eyes, lifted his hands and went with it. With his eyes shut, he wasn't worried about what the rest of the congregation was doing nor what they thought of what he was doing. Over forty years later, that's still his way.
But I didn't live in that wonder. Not always. Life happens and kicks us in the gut. You know. It's happened to all of us who love Jesus more than life. And the admonition of the writer of Hebrews becomes the cry of our hearts. "Lift up your hands again, get up on your wobbly legs, and walk it!" I can't worship without lifting my drooping hands. Singing to the face of Jesus as He sits at the right hand of God the Father places me in the throne room. Centers me before Him. Makes me remember His might, valor, plan, purpose. Connects me to His steadfast love, never-ending faithfulness, and reminds me again of the Lamb Who makes me right with God. I acknowledge in the abandon that raising my arms signals, that I am His and He is mine. All of me. And sometimes I just dance there. Because He is my beloved and I am His and if I don't twirl, I'll just die! I am absolutely, completely, desperately and hopelessly in love with my God!
If you haven't in a while...or ever...shot those drooping hands up, do it! Give yourself away today to the One Who gave Himself away for you!
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