Many of us are used to gathering in the chapel sanctuary every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning. However, on Sunday nights, all the lights are off. The sun has gone down. The curtains are drawn over the windows, and other than the electric candles that dimly flicker as you walk in, there is barely enough light to see the faces of people next to you.

For three semesters now, I have spent Sunday nights on the chapel stage with my guitar, watching silhouettes find their seats at 9 pm. During my time as a band member, I have played more than a few wrong chords, helped coordinate band member meetings, made new friends, started songs in the wrong tempo, planned worship sets, and nearly face-planted on stage in the dark. (More than once, but who’s counting?)

Over the span of so many Sundays, I have come to love that no two Catacombs are the same. Well, apart from the fact that I always seem to walk onto the stage with an anxious heart. No matter how confident I feel in knowing the music, there is always one part of me, hidden behind my guitar, that tries to keep me from worshiping.

But I know the chords, I say.

But your heart’s not ready, I hear.

Growing up, although it wasn’t necessarily at the forefront of my mind, and even though I couldn’t quite put words to it, I often felt a subtle yet uncomfortable twinge of guilt when I sang worship music in church. What if I did not quite mean the words enough? Did I really love the Lord as much as the words I was singing said? Was I just trying to look good?

In youth group, I would look around during worship time. People my age would be on their knees, hands in the air, as if they had no doubts about themselves or what they were singing. I compared myself to them, assuming they must be more secure in Jesus than me, farther along in their own faith journeys and more mature. I envied what they felt–and I thought I had to feel it too.

So I spent time during worship songs in my own head, attempting to convince my gut to feel something — to feel the deep love toward the Lord that everyone else so clearly had. Just focus on the words more, I told myself. Just stop being distracted. Muster up the willpower and mean the words, for once. Just sing them from your heart.

I have spent so many worship songs tied up in a head-heart battle, trying, fighting to make myself believe in my own belief. But, even when I did feel the Spirit working in my heart, even when I was truly touched or convicted by certain words in a song, I was never quite convinced of my own authenticity—never quite able to decide whether my heart was ready to worship.

Throughout my time at Gordon, I have come face to face with this guilt in my heart in a variety of ways. Mostly, this has involved many teary-eyed walks around Gull Pond while I ask God what is wrong with me and deliberate how to fix it on my own. However, it has also involved a lot of these questions going unanswered, because God is slowly answering a different question I never knew my heart was asking:

What is keeping me from you, Lord?

And even though I don’t know if I have ever directly asked this, I am hearing His answer more and more clearly:

Yourself.

I am slowly coming to realize the veracity with which I hold on to my own heart—the ways I have set my own standards and defined faith in my own way My struggles with worship are just one example. In my mental straining, I have been attempting to praise God through my own strength. I have been trying to control my feelings and purify my heart before God without His help. I have depended on myself for saving rather than on the all-sufficiency of Christ.

The more I define my faith by the feelings of “devotion” I somehow muster—or don’t muster—on my own, the more inauthentic and detached it will become.

A lot of Gordon students appreciate Catacombs because it is held in the dark. There are fewer distractions — less of a temptation to look around and compare yourself with others. The worship itself is also acoustic, meaning none of the instruments are amplified.

This lack of distraction forces me to face my doubt, my lack of desire, and my self-sufficiency which always starts to sink in on Sunday at 9 pm. But instead of turning to myself, I have started asking for help in the face of this anxiety.

You’re heart’s not ready for worship, I hear.

That’s true, I say. Jesus, only you can make my heart worthy of you. Please help me worship you well.

Then, as I let go, I hear more clearly the voices being lifted in unison to mine. The electric candles are not bright enough to show me whose they are, but, I know in my heart they belong to my brothers and sisters. They are those of a people set free from sin, redeemed, and striving to worship the King — and this will not be the last time we sing together.