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The Australian Pocket Oxford Dictionary defines worship as “homage or service paid to God, adoration felt or shown for person or principal”.

When I was a teenager, worship wasn’t a word I understood. The image in my head of worship was rows of men, clothed in dull robes falling on their faces in unison before an altar or idol. I disliked that image so much that I ditched the entire idea of worship. I was a Christian, and Christians are supposed to worship but if I did, I never called it that. I talked to God a lot, and I loved to sing. That was all I thought related to my Christian life. The rest of my lifestyle didn’t look very Christian. For various reasons I had come to a place where I didn’t like myself very much. I lived a self destructive life and didn’t really care what happened to me, but somehow I kept turning up to church. I had asked Jesus to be my friend when I was 9 years old, and He hadn’t forgotten it. Coincidences kept drawing me back.

One coincidence that brought me back to church was that I could sing. My mother had invested in singing lessons for me for several years and it was one thing I still enjoyed and felt confident about. The evening service at the local church needed someone to sing with their band. I had been turning up to church fairly regularly and for some reason they asked me to sing on Sunday nights.

Whether it was desperation or charity, I don’t know, but they welcomed me, prayed with me, and encouraged me to sing. It was the highlight of my week. I never thought of it as worship. I sang out of a heart that was just grateful to be there, but someone said to me after church one night “when you sing up there on that stage, you glow.” It was the best encouragement I had ever had.

Bob the Tomato says that “worship is when you do something that shows God how much you love Him, like using your voice to sing about how great He is.”

I heard this definition of worship one morning, a few years ago. I was driving our late model 4WD to our children’s private Christian school. I was playing a Vegetales worship album, and yes all five of us were singing along. I think the children were clapping. The only thing that was missing was the Jesus sticker on the back window of the car. Apart from being a bit shocked at myself for fitting the stereo type so well, I liked Bob’s definition of worship. I still didn’t think that I worshipped. Jesus had stayed with me through everything and He was my best friend but I still didn’t relate to the idea of worship. But Bob’s words got me thinking.

Since I was a child I had wanted to be a writer. I had just finished my degree in English Literature with a view to becoming a writer, but somehow I kept getting discouraged. At 33 my lifestyle looked very Christian, but I still had moments when I didn’t like myself and I struggled to see where I fitted at church. It occurred to me that maybe I could worship God with my writing. Through that I could show Him how much I loved Him. That could be my act of worship.

Rick Warren, in his book A Purpose Driven Life says that “anything you do that brings pleasure to God is an act of worship.”

From the age of 5 until I was 15 my mother paid for piano lessons for me. For the most part it was a chore but 10 years of tuition had brought me to a reasonable level of competence and enjoyment. Then I quit and forgot about it for nearly 20 years. At 34 however, I had a moment of nostalgia, and asked God for a piano. Miraculously, he provided one, and I began to play again. For a few months I enjoyed it but then I began to get discouraged. One thing that really messed with my mind was that I didn’t have any worship songs in my repertoire. I play classical music, not songs. Everyone else I knew played Christian songs or hymns. I began to feel that my music was selfish. It didn’t show God that I loved Him and it took time from my family. I stopped playing again.

Then one day I was doing the dishes and watching my son in the back yard. He was lying on his stomach in the sand pit creating an imaginary world with his matchbox cars. He was so engrossed. It was a pleasure for me to watch him and know that he was expressing a gift that God had given him. It occurred to me - if I feel that way about my kids, does God perhaps feel that way about me? My understanding of worship was beginning to change. It was becoming something I felt I could be part of. My kids bring pleasure to me by just being themselves. They aren’t trying particularly to please me. They are just living and I am pleased with them. Did God really feel that way about me? When I played my classical music, I brought Him pleasure as He watched and listened.

Amy Grant’s song Better Than a Hallelujah speaks this truth “We pour out our misery, God just hears a melody. Beautiful the mess we are, the honest cries of breaking hearts. Better than a hallelujah.”

For most of this year, I have been in a worship slump. Unable to keep up with my writing, or find time to play the piano, I had also stopped singing. Every Sunday I stood during worship with my hands in my pockets, without opening my mouth. I didn’t particularly like myself and the Devil was having a field day.

“Why don’t you sing any more?”

Good question. “I guess I’m not a worshipper.”

“But all Christians worship. Why don’t you sing any more?”

“I don’t know.” Why did I feel so bad about myself?

The next morning I was driving the kids to school and I heard Amy Grant’s song on the radio for the first time. It made me cry. If there’s one thing I do well, it’s talk honestly to God. When I was a teenager, I mostly yelled at him, but I have always brought all my struggles to Him and dumped them in His lap. I would never say that I worship. Joy has always been an elusive concept. But God was talking to me through that song and teaching me about worship. He said to me “you are enough. You have always been enough.”

My life is no longer a mess. I have come a very long way in my understanding of God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit, and how they feel about me, and who I am. But I still hadn’t got that bit about worship. I didn’t think I did worship, or that I could. I felt like I wasn’t enough.

The next Sunday I stood up to worship and I opened my mouth. I sang against the discouragement. I sang against the Devil who was trying to put me down and say I didn’t worship, that my offering wasn’t enough. I sang to the God who loves me and says that I am enough, whether I sing or play or write, or do nothing at all. I don’t even have to be happy, though I’m sure God wants me to be.