JESU JUVA
When I was seventeen, my pastor at church asked me to be part of the worship team.
'I won't do it,' I said. I crossed my arms and shook my head. 'I can't do it.'
'Yes, you can,' said Peter, my pastor.
'I can't.'
'God's anointed you to do this.'
'But,' I said, taking a breath, 'I'm not good enough.'
'Start with what you have. It's the only way to grow.'
Our local church met in an old, rented building. There was nothing special to say about the building itself, except that it was a place for people to meet and worship Jesus. That is what made it special, very special. I'd discovered God in this room, as had many others. Inside these crumbling paint-peeling walls, I'd experienced the reality of the Holy Spirit's power. He'd given me hope and joy inside my heart.
But fear of standing in front of a crowd, especially in a musical fashion, remained a Goliath in my life.
I stared down at caramel tinted, stain-blotched carpet. 'But I only know a handful of chords,' I replied.
Peter rested his hands on his tummy and started jigging his right leg - a habit I'd observed before. He's becoming impatient, I thought.
'God's called you to do this,' he said. 'When God calls, you need to obey.'
He was right, of course. But I wasn't ready to admit it verbally - yet. Stubbornness dug its heels into my thoughts while I remained mute.
Peter watched me intently through spectacled eyes as the wall of silence between us grew stronger. My willpower fought to make the right decision. A sigh finally erupted past my lips, and I whispered, 'Okay.'
The following Sunday, I stood before a congregation crammed with straggly beards, tattoos and arms lifted in worship to God. Many of the people in the congregation were first-time Christians – straight off the streets and drugs. Gratefulness towards a saviour who radically saves filled their hearts.
I glanced at the keys of white and ebony resting beneath my quivering fingers. The band struck the first chord.
My Jesus, My Saviour,
Lord, there is none like you.
I should have been looking at my Saviour, but instead, I kept an eye on my fingers and an eye on my pride. I lost my way; I even turned my volume down so nobody could hear my pitiful attempts. The guitars were loud, and nobody seemed to notice. I looked across the room and inhaled deeply. Garments of praise – shining and coloured with joy – rested upon every individual present. I realised I needed to get my gaze off myself and learn to worship like them, but my focus stayed fixed. I chewed my lip, cast my sights downward and played a silent keyboard. I didn't know how to be bold.
***
When I was twenty-seven, I worked for a Christian healing ministry on the outskirts of Sydney. The kitchen was my domain, and I prepared food for every meal. On this day, however, I was asked to lead worship the following week.
'I don't want to do it,' I said with a frown. 'I'm not good enough.' While I spoke, I chopped a dozen carrots or more with a gigantic knife.
'Yes, you can,' said Paul, one of the leaders of this ministry.
I shook my head and murmured, 'I can't.' Tears crawled to the surface, and I swallowed in an attempt to push them down.
'There's no one else available. No one. You're the only one who can lead the worship this weekend.'
Paul sipped from a mug and leaned against a metallic kitchen bench.
'No, I can't.' I swallowed again, but it was already too late: the tears made their escape and trickled down my cheeks. I released the knife in my hand and heard it clang against the silver surface of the kitchen bench.
'You won't be alone. Naomi will sing with you; Simon will play the drums.'
'No.' My willpower raged into battle once again.
'We've all heard you worshipping, Sal. You think nobody is listening, but we hear. We know you have the ability.' Pastoral compassion etched Paul's face.
Tears dripped down my chin as I picked up the knife and hacked a carrot.
'Okay,' I finally muttered.
The following Friday evening, I stood before a crowd packed with nervous faces. Some eyes looked sad, and others fearful. These people were present for a healing weekend. They longed for Jesus to meet their needs and heal their souls.
My sweaty palms hovered in readiness; the microphone stood to attention, ready for my command. With a thumping heart, I glanced at my team, bobbed my head and put my foot to the pedal.
Jesus, Jesus,
Holy and Anointed One.
Fractured souls fixed their sights upon Him as the music flowed and ebbed into a gentle stream. But I lost focus and kept my eyes on myself. I'd set perfection – my perfection - as the goal, and my skill lacked polish. Nerves overtook my ability to play and sing well. I left the conference hall and collapsed onto my bed with exhaustion coursing through every vein. I vowed I would never lead worship again.
***
When I was twenty-eight, I was a student at a Christian ministry healing course in England.
'Come to the front if you'd like a fresh touch from the Holy Spirit,' said Joe, a Bible teacher from the north of England.
A blood-red banner stretched behind him, declaring in gold letters, 'Jesus is King of Kings and Lord of Lords.'
Joe's wrinkled and goateed face glowed with internal fire as he gazed at twenty-nine students gathered from every corner of the Earth.
Hungry souls surged forward, raised arms and tilted chins towards heaven. Soft melodies of a chorus were sung but faded into the background as hushed stillness poured inside the high-beamed room. I squeezed my eyes shut and held open arms in surrender to Jesus. My body gently swayed to a worship tune still playing inside my head.
My right hand twitched as someone's finger, dipped in oil, drew an invisible cross over my palm. I peeked through half-open eyelids and saw Joe moving his lips in silent prayer. He anointed my left hand and leaned closer to speak soft words. 'God is going to put a ministry into your hands. It's going to be very soon.'
Joe walked away, but I lingered in the room pervaded with a serene atmosphere.
'I surrender to you,' I said to Jesus. 'I accept whatever ministry you call me to.'
A week or so later, I was asked to lead worship once a week. Desire moved my heart, and I said, 'Yes, I would love to!' No reserve, no hesitation, and no terror. It was the first time I noticed a change.
The following Thursday morning, I sat in the corner of the same high-beamed room with poised hands at the keyboard and whispered a prayer under my breath. Grey winter mists hovered outside old-fashioned metal-laced windows while artificial golden light covered the inside of the room.
Astonishment soared inside my heart as I realised that a flicker of nervousness was all I felt. Paralysing timidity was gone, and calm boldness remained in its place.
'I've called you to this.' The words echoed through my spirit as we opened our mouths and started to sing:
It's all about You, Jesus
And all this is for You
For Your glory and your fame
It's not about me
As if You should do things my way
You alone are God
And I surrender to your ways
Mistakes were frequent, but nobody noticed, and I forgot about myself. My amplified voice blended with the voices of everyone present. Warm electricity streamed through my hands and wrists as I played. The music crescendoed, lifted by the presence of one Holy invisible person. Without any effort on my part - except through complete surrender to His ways - the Spirit dispelled fear and baptised me with His courage.
At that moment, I learnt a powerful secret about why I worship: It's all about Jesus. It's never about me.
SOLI DEO GLORIA
'I won't do it,' I said. I crossed my arms and shook my head. 'I can't do it.'
'Yes, you can,' said Peter, my pastor.
'I can't.'
'God's anointed you to do this.'
'But,' I said, taking a breath, 'I'm not good enough.'
'Start with what you have. It's the only way to grow.'
Our local church met in an old, rented building. There was nothing special to say about the building itself, except that it was a place for people to meet and worship Jesus. That is what made it special, very special. I'd discovered God in this room, as had many others. Inside these crumbling paint-peeling walls, I'd experienced the reality of the Holy Spirit's power. He'd given me hope and joy inside my heart.
But fear of standing in front of a crowd, especially in a musical fashion, remained a Goliath in my life.
I stared down at caramel tinted, stain-blotched carpet. 'But I only know a handful of chords,' I replied.
Peter rested his hands on his tummy and started jigging his right leg - a habit I'd observed before. He's becoming impatient, I thought.
'God's called you to do this,' he said. 'When God calls, you need to obey.'
He was right, of course. But I wasn't ready to admit it verbally - yet. Stubbornness dug its heels into my thoughts while I remained mute.
Peter watched me intently through spectacled eyes as the wall of silence between us grew stronger. My willpower fought to make the right decision. A sigh finally erupted past my lips, and I whispered, 'Okay.'
The following Sunday, I stood before a congregation crammed with straggly beards, tattoos and arms lifted in worship to God. Many of the people in the congregation were first-time Christians – straight off the streets and drugs. Gratefulness towards a saviour who radically saves filled their hearts.
I glanced at the keys of white and ebony resting beneath my quivering fingers. The band struck the first chord.
My Jesus, My Saviour,
Lord, there is none like you.
I should have been looking at my Saviour, but instead, I kept an eye on my fingers and an eye on my pride. I lost my way; I even turned my volume down so nobody could hear my pitiful attempts. The guitars were loud, and nobody seemed to notice. I looked across the room and inhaled deeply. Garments of praise – shining and coloured with joy – rested upon every individual present. I realised I needed to get my gaze off myself and learn to worship like them, but my focus stayed fixed. I chewed my lip, cast my sights downward and played a silent keyboard. I didn't know how to be bold.
***
When I was twenty-seven, I worked for a Christian healing ministry on the outskirts of Sydney. The kitchen was my domain, and I prepared food for every meal. On this day, however, I was asked to lead worship the following week.
'I don't want to do it,' I said with a frown. 'I'm not good enough.' While I spoke, I chopped a dozen carrots or more with a gigantic knife.
'Yes, you can,' said Paul, one of the leaders of this ministry.
I shook my head and murmured, 'I can't.' Tears crawled to the surface, and I swallowed in an attempt to push them down.
'There's no one else available. No one. You're the only one who can lead the worship this weekend.'
Paul sipped from a mug and leaned against a metallic kitchen bench.
'No, I can't.' I swallowed again, but it was already too late: the tears made their escape and trickled down my cheeks. I released the knife in my hand and heard it clang against the silver surface of the kitchen bench.
'You won't be alone. Naomi will sing with you; Simon will play the drums.'
'No.' My willpower raged into battle once again.
'We've all heard you worshipping, Sal. You think nobody is listening, but we hear. We know you have the ability.' Pastoral compassion etched Paul's face.
Tears dripped down my chin as I picked up the knife and hacked a carrot.
'Okay,' I finally muttered.
The following Friday evening, I stood before a crowd packed with nervous faces. Some eyes looked sad, and others fearful. These people were present for a healing weekend. They longed for Jesus to meet their needs and heal their souls.
My sweaty palms hovered in readiness; the microphone stood to attention, ready for my command. With a thumping heart, I glanced at my team, bobbed my head and put my foot to the pedal.
Jesus, Jesus,
Holy and Anointed One.
Fractured souls fixed their sights upon Him as the music flowed and ebbed into a gentle stream. But I lost focus and kept my eyes on myself. I'd set perfection – my perfection - as the goal, and my skill lacked polish. Nerves overtook my ability to play and sing well. I left the conference hall and collapsed onto my bed with exhaustion coursing through every vein. I vowed I would never lead worship again.
***
When I was twenty-eight, I was a student at a Christian ministry healing course in England.
'Come to the front if you'd like a fresh touch from the Holy Spirit,' said Joe, a Bible teacher from the north of England.
A blood-red banner stretched behind him, declaring in gold letters, 'Jesus is King of Kings and Lord of Lords.'
Joe's wrinkled and goateed face glowed with internal fire as he gazed at twenty-nine students gathered from every corner of the Earth.
Hungry souls surged forward, raised arms and tilted chins towards heaven. Soft melodies of a chorus were sung but faded into the background as hushed stillness poured inside the high-beamed room. I squeezed my eyes shut and held open arms in surrender to Jesus. My body gently swayed to a worship tune still playing inside my head.
My right hand twitched as someone's finger, dipped in oil, drew an invisible cross over my palm. I peeked through half-open eyelids and saw Joe moving his lips in silent prayer. He anointed my left hand and leaned closer to speak soft words. 'God is going to put a ministry into your hands. It's going to be very soon.'
Joe walked away, but I lingered in the room pervaded with a serene atmosphere.
'I surrender to you,' I said to Jesus. 'I accept whatever ministry you call me to.'
A week or so later, I was asked to lead worship once a week. Desire moved my heart, and I said, 'Yes, I would love to!' No reserve, no hesitation, and no terror. It was the first time I noticed a change.
The following Thursday morning, I sat in the corner of the same high-beamed room with poised hands at the keyboard and whispered a prayer under my breath. Grey winter mists hovered outside old-fashioned metal-laced windows while artificial golden light covered the inside of the room.
Astonishment soared inside my heart as I realised that a flicker of nervousness was all I felt. Paralysing timidity was gone, and calm boldness remained in its place.
'I've called you to this.' The words echoed through my spirit as we opened our mouths and started to sing:
It's all about You, Jesus
And all this is for You
For Your glory and your fame
It's not about me
As if You should do things my way
You alone are God
And I surrender to your ways
Mistakes were frequent, but nobody noticed, and I forgot about myself. My amplified voice blended with the voices of everyone present. Warm electricity streamed through my hands and wrists as I played. The music crescendoed, lifted by the presence of one Holy invisible person. Without any effort on my part - except through complete surrender to His ways - the Spirit dispelled fear and baptised me with His courage.
At that moment, I learnt a powerful secret about why I worship: It's all about Jesus. It's never about me.
SOLI DEO GLORIA
© Sally Dixon Creations
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