Tuesday, April 9, 2013


Raising your hands in worship is something like a toddler running recklessly to his mom or dad. You've seen this run. They are running at breakneck speed. That is, breakneck for a kid. Which is to say, faster than a herd of turtles stampeding through peanut butter.  

They may fall along the way. They look very goofy. And invariably they begin to stumble and are about to fall.

But they don't fall, do they? No, because their parent catches them. Just like our Father catches us when we worship with reckless abandon.

But more often than not, our hands are not raised in this way. No, our hands are somewhat raised, or halfway raised, or in some other controlled state of being raised. 

But I don't believe this is what our Father desires from us. If being a father has taught me anything, it's that I enjoy my children depending on me. And as much fun as it is to watch people fall, that humor ends when it is my own children. 

Your children? Sure. Mine? Not so much. 

Not only do I know I am capable of caring for my children, I want them to know I am capable. It's hard for me to believe God would enjoy this any less. But when we choose to go in with only half of what we have to offer, that's not reckless. 

The run to our Father should be reckless. We should be out of control, certain to fall unless He decides to catch us. We should be awkward, not caring what we look like along the way, satisfied only with the destination of falling into our Dad's capable arms. 

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