When My Picture Deceived Me

This weekend, I’m in Brooklyn, New York, to preach at the 101st anniversary celebration of Beulah Church. It’s a milestone event, and the celebration kicked off with a powerful worship explosion on Friday night.

As Fili and I walked toward the church, something unexpected happened. He spotted a huge banner hanging on the wall with my picture on it. He got excited, snapped a photo, and called me over to see it. The moment I saw my face on that wall, I froze. A wave of panic hit me. Expectation. Pressure. Inadequacy. This is a major moment for this church, I thought. And they invited me to speak. What if I can’t deliver?

I walked into the sanctuary carrying that weight. I joined the worship, but my heart struggled to engage. My body swayed to the rhythm of the drums; my lips formed words of faith, but it all felt like drops of dew evaporating on hot tar. Then they sang King of Glory by CeCe Winans.

King of Glory, fill this place.

We just want to be with You.

That’s when God whispered to me:

“Why do you think these people are here? Did they come for you?”

I had no answer.

“They came because they want to be with Me.”

Then He asked:

“And why are you here?”

“To preach Your Word,” I thought.

“No. I brought you here so you could hear My Word.”

And I did. I heard it in every song declaring dependence and desperation. In every cry for intervention. In every lyric of gratitude for His provision. Then the youth dance team performed an expressive prayer to I Speak Jesus. Their movements embodied intercession, for mental health, healing, restoration, and their families. I found myself praying with them, Lord, answer quickly. People just need Jesus.

I’ve been called to teach, preach, and proclaim the good news of Jesus, but sometimes I get confused. Sometimes I start to think it’s about me; my gifts, my content, my abilities… even my appearance. Sometimes I feel the pull of expectations: “Preach this. Avoid that. Tell us what we want to hear, and we’ll invite you again. We’ll promote you.” Sometimes I’m tempted by my own questions: Will they accept me? Will they pay me?

But last night, I worshipped, for three hours, until my feet hurt. And one truth was branded on my heart: I am just a worshipper. No different from anyone else in that room. I may not sing. I may not dance. I may not paint. But I can preach, and I’ll do it with all my might. Not for approval. Not for applause. But as worship. Because I am the recipient of abundant grace, Good measure, pressed down, shaken together, and running over.

I’m sure this won’t be the last time my picture tries to deceive me. The enemy doesn’t take vacations. But now I know what to do when he attacks. I’ll worship.