I sometimes restrict worship to a church building. The morning gathering of Christians on a Sunday, the raising of voices with other believers in hymn and song, the diligent preaching and hearing of God’s word. The fellowship of believers afterwards, of people who deeply care for each other, of people laughing, of people praying, of people going over to so-and-so’s to eat dinner and fellowship even more.
But worship is in the day-to-day.
In the dreaded Monday morning when I glance out the window before work and exclaim to myself, “Look at that blue sky!” In the surprisingly sweaty act of scrubbing a rebellious pot after dinner because I want to keep a clean kitchen. In the simple pleasures of enjoying a Saturday afternoon in creation. In my occupation, as my fingers scramble across the keyboard. In my husband’s passion and skill in hockey. In my deep-rooted love for dance and running.
Whenever we act, work, and play in the lives God has given us, in the talents He instilled in us, in the passions He stirs in us, we worship Him. Not in the new-agey, pantheistic version of worship. We do not worship Him in our sin, in being our sinful selves, and we do not give our hobbies or our occupations or our everyday things the name of “god”.
No, we worship Him when we honor him with our gifts, when we work hard as a husband or wife, when we thoroughly but moderately enjoy the hobbies He gave us — we feel His pleasure.
God is in the every day. And sometimes, I forget that. And when I do forget, I miss a chance to worship Him.