Who Let the Songs Out?

More than a handful of times, I’ve heard conservative Christian leaders opine about how uninspired their pew fillers appear—how they don’t show the excitement and enthusiasm they do at a sporting or social event. These pastors and teachers seem perplexed. Worse, sometimes, they assume their attendees’ priorities are misplaced or carnal.
Sometimes they are. Sometimes mine are.
I don’t think that all believers have a broad range of expression and emotion (vocal or physical), because not all humans do. I’ve been to ball games with people who barely clapped across their hours in the bleachers, even though intently into the game. But for those of us who do—for people who yell and cheer and banter—I wonder if the deal isn’t so much about not having those emotions or excitement but the freedom to express them.
What if the walls of church buildings surrounded an environment that allowed us to celebrate—or better yet encourage that excitement? What if worshippers didn’t have the restraints of religion. Or the trappings or the garb? What if the culture of the church invited personal improvisation and corporate cheering? What if energy and movement (physical, emotional, and/or spiritual) fit equally in front of an altar as they do in front of the 50-yard line?
True, not all spiritual moments are rowdy ones. Maybe not even most. Some are introspective. Others flow with intention, as though with holy anthems building to a statement. Personally, I’m free to go to these places, when I’ve released some of the restless excitement I bring to the encounter. Other times, it’s exactly opposite: after I’ve met quietly and intimately with God, I’m charged to exude some enthusiasm over the pleasure of his presence.
At a baseball game, both the national anthem and the rally bugles match the ambiance. The polite clapping of a player announcement coexists in harmony with the jumping, waving, and dancing for the Jumbotron cameras. Anticipation and excitement ride both in the quietness of the home plate stare down and the frenzied seconds after the crack of the bat. They’re just expressed in contrastive ways.
Both ends of the musical and emotional spectrum can and should thrive in the worship experience. The Psalms illustrate that. To allow only the pensive portion neuters the praise due to an everything God. It could even start to dull some of the powerfully-pensive effect of slower music through such monopoly.
Do you think Israel’s songs on the far banks of the Red Sea sounded like the Doxology? Do you think the palm-wafted Hosannas of Christ’s Jerusalem entry sounded reserved and careful? Do you think heaven will sound like the Kennedy Center hosting the Vienna Boys Choir? If so, by all means worry about your aging organist. Make sure your 4/4-timed hand waving is well-practiced before installing it behind a pulpit. Just don’t forget where you put the key to the box in which you’re storing your God.
God deserves our praise. He wants it. He created us exclusively for it. He’s bigger than the Super Bowl, more powerful than a pit row of NASCAR exhausts, deeper than a full count in the bottom of the ninth. Would he build us with the instinct to shout and celebrate and then disallow it, quiet it—restrain it? Would the self-proclaimed giver of life and freedom and unity cloak it in Pharisaical guidelines and factious convictions? Would he reject our worship for being inadequate?
I hope not, because he stands always worthy of more than my heart can express.
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