The Power of Praise

My favorite "chick band" - the Trinity women's worship team.

I was away this past weekend but Mike told me that rainfall was heavy in Wheaton on Sunday morning, and by the time our early service started there were practically more people on the platform than in the pews. Soggy attendees finally filtered in by the time by the time he got up to preach, but sadly many had missed the most critical element of the service: worship.

I know just how that feels. Due to horrible weather on the east coast, my flight into Boston was significantly delayed Friday night and I didn’t arrive at the conference center where I was due to speak until 9 pm. I made it in time to deliver my first talk BUT I missed most of the music led by one of my favorite worship teams.

Shouldn’t be any big deal, right? Not so.  Stepping onto a platform without time to quiet and center my heart towards God felt like trying to jump-start a car whose engine wouldn’t turn over.

This is why I attend both morning worship services at my home church, I thought. I love the preaching (and the preacher, yes!) but after a crowded, chaotic week I need the time of worship.  The first service refuels my tank and the second tops it off.  For a few precious hours each Sabbath, praise pries me free from my own personal circumstances a little like the way worship opened the prison doors for Paul and Silas in Acts 16.

I have come to believe that praise is the most powerful weapon we have at our disposal in the daily battle of life.

Praise provides a protective covering. Isaiah 62 speaks of putting on a “garment of praise”. I picture that as a pure white shift that goes on each morning under every article of clothing.

Praise produces spiritual soil in which God can work. I remember my dad cultivating the fields around our farm in preparation for planting. When we allow praise to cultivate our hearts, we produce the “good earth” spoken of in Matthew 13.

Praise prepares us to battle from a position of victory. 2 Chron. 20 describes the battle between the Israelites and the Moabites and Ammonites. It was going badly for the people of the covenant, but when Jehoshaphat prayed what I like to call “the prayer of all mothers” (Lord, we don’t know what to do but our eyes are on you!) the tide began to turn.

Does this mean we have to play Pollyanna and pretend to be happy all the time? Of course not. My friend Cheri Fuller puts it best: “It’s expressing your distressing emotions to God, yet choosing to keep praising in spite of how things look to you – and not postponing praise until you feel better. It’s developing a faith that goes beyond your feelings.”

I am so grateful for the worship leaders, instrumentalists and vocalists who give of themselves week after week to prepare the hearts of the people of God for the work of God.

Life is a battle, but the weapon they wield is the most powerful one of all. The power of praise.

Trinity (Nashua NH) women's worship team leading us in praise at Monadnock BIble Conference's fall "Rejuvenate" event

The Language of Welcome

We loved this cottage on the banks of Loch Lomond

As I was telling my coworkers yesterday about the highlights of our first trip to Scotland, it was tough to choose between the astoundingly beautiful scenery, with its spring-green grass, sheep- dotted hillsides, and Highlands covered with autumn heather, and the people, who rank as the friendliest we have ever met.

But much as I love sheep and Mike visualized “Brigadoon” in each photo, people trump landscape every time. Scotland may be a cool, wet country but the welcome was warm and the helpfulness genuine. Whether we were looking for a tourist attraction in the south or one of the rare petrol stations up north, we were treated courteously and with animated enthusiasm wherever we stopped. What is it about the Scots? No wonder, I thought, that we are so fond of our American friends whose names are preceded by prefixes like “Mac” or “Mc”!

We purchased few items on our trip due to the weakness of the dollar in the global economy, but all I really wanted to return with was a Scottish accent anyway. How we loved listening to the melody of their speech. Try as I might, I can’t duplicate the wonderful way they roll their R’s, but we did add some richness to our English vocabulary while there.

Many Scottish expressions are well known to Americans. A baby is a wee bairn and boys and girls of course are lads and lassies. (The latter names when applied to Scottish collies? You almost never see them there. Too high maintenance, a local told us.) And many of their highway terms are identical to those of their neighbors to the South. You open the bonnet of your car to service the engine and the boot to stow your gear. You drive your motorcar on a carriageway and hope the lumbering lorry in front of you will use a layby to allow you to overtake him before you get to the next roundabout.

But it’s the cheerful Scottish way of identifying silly people that tickled us the most. You might hear in a pub, “I’ve beaten ye tonight, ya big eejit!” Or while waiting for the bus, “Hey ya numpty you just missed yer bus.”  Or the person talking too much on that bus? “What’s she yattering on about now?”

I now have a new expression for my current jetlagged state: I’m feeling wabbit, which means tired or run down.

But best of all was the sign posted over the terminal as we reached Edinburgh (pronounced Edin-burra) Airport in the wee dawn hours Sunday morning: “Haste ye back!”

Aye, isnae likely, but we will hold the Scots in our heart. And we’ll remember them whenever we bid farewell to departing guests by saying “Haste ye back!”

“Ye’ll take the high road, and I’ll take the low road;

And I’ll be in Scotland afore ye –

For me and my true love will never meet again,

On the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond!”

Driving through the remote Scottish Highlands

On the Bonnie, Bonnie Banks of Loch Lomond

 

Have you ever stepped foot into a place and immediately knew you were home? Sure you have, just like we did yesterday in Drymen, Loch Lomond, Scotland.

Mike and I are visiting Scotland for the very first time this week “on holiday”, as the British say. We’re celebrating a milestone anniversary this year and we also have dear friends in Edinburgh where we’ll conclude our trip this coming weekend.

Mike’s paternal grandparents were natives of Cornwall, England and mine immigrated to the US from Norway so neither of us can claim Scottish blood. The feeling of being at home yesterday morning came instead the moment we entered the local kirk (church) and were greeted by people whom we instantly sensed were truly family.

Drymen is a village so small we have not yet found it on ANY map of Scotland, but it was large enough to hold our B&B and a few shops. After we arrived Saturday from the States we overcame our jetlag  long enough to ask the reception clerk if there might be a village church we could visit on Sunday. He directed us just down the road to the only Protestant church within a 30 minute radius, the Drymen Church of Scotland.

The service did not begin until 11:30 am but we arrived early and squeezed our rental car into one of only four spaces in the tiny “car park” (parking lot) out front. It was raining, as it has been most of our three days in this beautiful country, and we sat outside waiting for others to arrive. We saw two or three senior citizens pick their way through the cemetery beside the church, bent low under umbrellas, and we assumed we would be on the younger side of those worshipping within.

What a wonderful surprise awaited us! In a village like Drymen, many parishioners walk to church, and dozens had arrived from the other direction including a number of families with young children. As soon as we entered the fellowship hall where pre-service coffee was being served, we were so warmly greeted it was like being home at First Baptist of Wheaton. And when we finally entered the sanctuary, we were thrilled to find a vital, believing congregation of over 100 people of all ages.

“This is not a typical Scottish kirk,” the session clerk told us with a twinkle in his eye. “This place preaches the Word of God, is filled with the Holy Spirit, and practices prayer. And do you know how many ministers we’ve had since this church was founded after the Reformation? Only 19!”

19 ministers whose pastorates averaged 25-50 years EACH?!  Mike and I looked at each other in amazement. In America a typical pastorate might be four years. “Ah, but don’t ye see,” Bill explained, “there’s nowhere to go from here. Our communion service dates back to the days of Bonnie Prince Charlie!”

Following the service, Bill led us through their cemetery and we stopped at a grave marked “Liddel.”

“You’ve seen Chariots of Fire, haven’t you now?” Bill asked us. “Well, Eric’s parents were part of our church and they are buried right here. He died in a prison camp in China, you remember.”

We enjoyed our time with the Drymen church so much we traveled 30 minutes in the other direction yesterday evening to join a regional praise gathering led by one of their members. As the evening ended, Mike was asked to offer the final prayer.

“It’s odd to be so far from home,” Mike acknowledged in his blessing, “but not far from family. What a privilege to pray for both at the same time. Lord, bless your church in Scotland and your children in America. Thank you that we are one in Christ.”

We may never visit Scotland again, but we know we’ll see our kin from Drymen one day in a place far more beautiful than this.