This past weekend marked the first time in at least three years that I had a full week off from leading worship—and honestly, it was beautiful. Not in the flashy, high-energy, mountaintop kind of way, but in the quiet, restful, healing kind of way. For the first time in a long time, I was able to breathe. To sit. To just be. And to worship.
If you’ve been involved in worship ministry for any length of time, you probably know what I mean when I say it’s easy to get caught up in everything that comes with it. The setlists, the planning meetings, the tech checks, the rehearsals, the expectations, the Sunday pressure. All good things, and all important in their own way—but sometimes they start to crowd out the one thing that matters most: worship itself.
It’s ironic, isn’t it? The very thing we are called to lead others in is often the area we ourselves quietly start to drift from. Not in theology or conviction, but in posture. In intimacy. In hunger.
This past Sunday, for one of the first times in my marriage, I had the rare and sacred gift of worshiping next to my wife instead of in front of her. We sang with no responsibility other than to respond to God. And I got emotional —not because I was overwhelmed, but because I was finally unburdened.
The reason I wasn’t leading wasn’t because of a planned break or a sabbatical. The truth is, my church recently merged with another church, and I’m no longer employed as a worship leader. There’s a grief in that, one I’m still processing. But even in the loss, I’ve been surprised by the grace.
I wouldn’t have chosen this season. But I also wouldn’t trade it.
Because for the first time in a long time, I’m able to worship God with everything I have…because, in a strange way, I have nothing.
No stage. No plan. No production. Just a raw heart and the presence of God.
And isn’t that what worship has always been about?
This isn’t the end of my calling. I still believe God has placed worship ministry deep in my bones. But I’m learning that before we can lead others to the feet of Jesus, we have to go there ourselves. And sometimes, He lets us go there not as leaders, but simply as sons and daughters.
So if you find yourself in a similar place—empty, uncertain, stripped back—I just want to say this: it’s okay. God is not done with you. In fact, He might be doing some of His deepest work in the silence, the stillness, and the surrender.
Worship doesn’t start on a stage. It starts in the valley. It starts when you have nothing left but Him.
And maybe that’s exactly where we need to be.
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