Last week looked different for me—and honestly, I’m really grateful it could.
I wasn’t at Thursday rehearsal because I was at my son’s concert, sitting with my family. I didn’t pick the songs for Sunday because I wanted another leader to have the freedom to lead the whole process from start to finish. And on Sunday morning, I wasn’t on the platform at all, except to offer the benediction.
I also tried pretty intentionally not to step in. No critique. No coaching. No “hey, what if we tried this instead?”—while still letting everyone know I was available if something truly needed help.
That didn’t happen accidentally. And if I’m honest, it wasn’t easy.
Going into the week, I was more nervous than I expected to be. Part of that was practical. I didn’t want anyone to think I was checking out or avoiding responsibility. Leadership still matters, and I care deeply about that.
But part of it was more personal. I know I can be controlling. When I take my hands off something, I worry it won’t go well—or at least won’t go the way I would have done it. And there were other, quieter fears too. I realized I don’t actually know what it sounds like in our sanctuary when I’m not leading. Do people sing? Are they engaged? Or am I about to discover something discouraging?
And maybe the most honest concern of all: I didn’t know if I’d actually be able to worship. I worried I’d stay stuck in my head, analyzing and evaluating instead of being present.
What I didn’t expect was how clearly God would meet me right there.
Standing with my wife and kids and singing together did something in me. It reminded me that I don’t just lead worship—I need to receive it. I need moments where I’m not responsible for what comes next. Where my role is simply to participate. That was more meaningful than I realized it would be.
I was also struck by how supported I felt. I serve at a church where leadership doesn’t just allow that kind of moment, but celebrates it. There was no guilt attached. No tension. Just trust. And that’s a gift.
Letting go also forced me to face something humbling: our team doesn’t actually need me in the way my insecurity sometimes suggests. God is in control. He’s surrounded our church with gifted, faithful people who prepare well and lead well. Worship didn’t stall without me. It happened. And it was good.
Somewhere in the middle of all that, I realized I could actually let go. I could stop critiquing. I could stop scanning the room. I could sing without evaluating. And in that space, I met with God in a way that felt fresh and unforced.
It also became really clear that our church wants to be led in worship. People want to sing. They want to be shaped by truth. They want to meet with God. That’s not something we have to manufacture—it’s something we get to steward.
In the end, being off the platform for a week did more in me than I expected. It deepened my trust in our team, our leadership, and in God himself. It refreshed me—not because I needed to escape responsibility, but because I needed to release it.
And I’m grateful for a team and a church that made that possible.
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