Blaise Pascal, the 17th century philosopher and math whiz, famously wrote: “All of humanity’s problems stem from man’s inability to sit quietly in a room alone.” To Pascal’s statement, I’d add that many of my heart’s problems stem from my inability to sit quietly before my Creator.
So, as an experiment, at the end of my day, I tried it. On the back deck, below a dark sky flecked with stars, I stood in the silence and waited. From somewhere down the road, a dog’s bark echoed. A motorbike revved by. The moon, a gold whole note, hung its mute music.
And in the midst of the cold night’s soundscape, a small but steady voice hummed through to me:
I made all this.
And I’m your Maker.
That voice—quiet, sure, unmistakably His—came like a spark to light the wick of my worship. What surged in me was an urgent need to say, “Lord, thank you”—to tip my face to the sky, that thin veil between here and eternity, and lift an overflowing heart to Him, a heart suddenly aware again of His sovereignty, His power, and His supreme love.
Let our worship be a response to God’s voice, to His love. Before the clamour of our words, His word. Before our shouts, His still, small voice. Before our litany of prayers, pleas and petitions, His generous grace that gives us room to rest. Before the song, His presence, and because of His presence, the song.