There I sat. In an unfamiliar church on a Sunday morning for the first time in years. The sanctuary smaller than expected. I was hugging the back wall, in the very last pew, like any good Baptist would do. With every step, the worn hardwood floors of that old balcony creaked.
My eyes scan the room as the service begins. New faces all around. As my eyes continued to wander, I noticed someone. Someone standing in front of the left side of the altar. I continued to observe for a minute and then I realized, she was translating the announcements in sign language. As I continued to watch I noticed the people sitting in the first two pews in front of her. All of them were attentively watching her sign instead of watching the speaker on the stage. Interesting, I thought. This was a first, but a lovely sight. Even those who were deaf could come to church and hear Gods Word.
The service continued and the band started to play. I occasionally peered over to the left side of the sanctuary. Partially because I was distracted, but partially because it was such a great sight. As worship began, I saw something I will never forget.
As we began to sing, almost simultaneously, every person in those front two pews began to raise their hands. At first I couldn’t figure out what they were doing, then it was apparent. They were signing the words to the song. Upon that realization, tears began to well up in my eyes. It was such a beautiful sight.
Fifteen or twenty people worshiping in their own way, worshiping our Lord in the only way they could. They couldn’t sing, but that didn’t matter.
I lose sight of the fact that we all serve the same God on a daily basis. How amazing is it that we can worship the Almighty God every single day?
So, in an unfamiliar church on a Sunday morning for the first time in years, I came in worried about myself. Worried about acceptance. Thinking about everything but Christ, and left with a blessing. A blessing not from a song, a sermon, or a musical performance, but from hands. The hands of worship.