Do you ever consider that sometimes the most selfless thing you can do on a Sunday morning is sing? Do you consider that sometimes singing is the most important way you will serve others during any given worship service? This is true whether you’re one of the musicians at the front or one of the members in the pews.

Some of my most memorable moments of public worship have been in settings where I did not speak the language. I have stood with a congregation in rural Zambia as they’ve clapped and moved and praised the Lord in Bemba, a language that is utterly unknown to me. I’ve sat with a congregation in the far reaches of Cambodia as they’ve sung in Tampuan accompanied by instruments scratched together with boxes and gourds and other bits and pieces. I’ve known neither the language nor the musical style. I’ve worshipped with megachurches in South Korea and house churches in North Africa, knowing not a word of Korean or of Arabic. Yet in every case, I have worshipped.

In every case, I have worshipped because even though I haven’t been able to sing, I’ve been sung to. Colossians 3:16 commands us to sing for the benefit of one another even as we sing ultimately to the Lord. Whenever we sing, we direct our hearts vertically toward our God, but we also direct our words horizontally toward our brothers and sisters. We sing from the gospel, for one another, to the Lord.

These are not the only occasions in which I’ve been unable to sing. I remember the early days after Nick’s death in which I found myself almost incapable of it. When I tried, I would often just break down and cry. The loss was too raw, the lyrics too poignant, the emotions too overwhelming. But though I couldn’t bring myself to sing, it was a tremendous blessing to be sung to. I would often just stand in silence with my arm around Aileen, tears spilling down our cheeks, as the church sang around us, as they sang for us. Their words became our words, their faith shored up our faith. Their words washed over us like God’s own.

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