John Newton Made Me Cry At Work

There was a moment a couple weeks ago at work when I was scrolling through Twitter (Marlon if you’re reading this, don’t tell HR) and came across a quote by the hymn writer John Newton that said, “Even now, while I write, and while you read, they are praising the Lamb that was slain”. I don’t know the context of this quote so Newton could have been referring to either the Angels, or those who are in Heaven. Either way, both would be true. I spiraled in this obvious but novel notion and it comforted me to tears. I want to preface the reason by clarifying that I mean no idolatry, so please don’t misconstrue my point. It is a given that the sole object of our worship is our Lord alone, and I am speaking with that already presupposed. That stated, as I began to think on the unceasing worship of Heaven, two things crossed my mind.

First, I thought about the concept of praising and how much I enjoy it. I always have. Be it my Grammi’s “Story & Clark” piano echoing the many anthems of our faith throughout the house, or the excitement of turning in my hymnal at the Church of the Nazarene I grew up attending, the unfiltered joy I feel in praise is the main tool of choice the Holy Spirit wields for my progression in sanctification. It stirs me to sing the verities of the Word. It stirs me to worship in praise, and I can’t help but persevere afterwards. Secondly, I thought about my dad’s contribution to that worship. I’ve never heard him sing but the effects of his worship still ripple through my voice when I do. I take great solace in the assurance that while I write this and while you read this, even now, he is praising the Lamb.

It was there that I realized that in moments when I am praising God, in the pew or at the piano, I can actually say my dad and I are doing something together. This may not mean much to many, and it may seem obvious, but if you’ve ever experienced that level of loss, you can understand how grand of a moment that is. For me it means that I’m not only worshipping alongside the saints when I’m in church. Rather, even when I was a kid growing up in the parsonage, and would knab the church key to sneak over and play piano late at night, when I was playing until my hands hurt and my voice would crack, glorified hands and voices thus unhindered were simultaneously doing the same.