masking & unveiling

Several years ago, Mike and I decided that Sunday mornings required such a huge chunk of our hearts that we couldn't afford to fritter little pieces away on Saturday night. So with rare exceptions, we spend our nights before worship at home, preparing our hearts and minds for the day ahead. It's become a form of worship in its own right — a way in which we bring the ancient, still peace of a sundown-to-sundown sabbath into the blur of our modern lives.

It has become a part of us, this expectant rhythm of rest and anticipation, one night a week. Our six days have been filled with long hours and big dreams about what God can do on Sunday morning; Saturday night always feels like we're standing in the wings, just behind the veil, waiting for it to roll back so we can see a glimpse of His glory.

Sabbath doesn't come cheap, though. Attempting to tune out a thousand voices often makes them louder. Sometimes, Saturday night finds us more impatient, more argumentative, more fearful than normal. In turning our backs on one war, we somehow become part of another — the great, unseen struggle between good and evil, between this world and the one to come.

This is because true worship is always a fight. It is an epic battle, one in which we rush ever forward against all our little gods, raising His banner, and crying out "There is only One!"