What Orthodox worship taught me
The Divine Liturgy vs. modern worship
This reflection isn’t about saying one form of worship is better than another. I’m grateful for the churches and traditions that shaped me, and I know that God meets people in all kinds of places. This is simply a personal account of how my understanding of worship began to shift and how, through the ancient rhythms of the Divine Liturgy, I discovered something I didn’t even know I was missing.
I walk into the church auditorium with anticipation: What songs will we sing today?
As I sit down in the stadium seating, fog slowly creeps onto the stage as the countdown clock fills the screen.
It’s the anticipation for worship, something I didn’t realize in the moment was an emotional force that I would view differently in the future.
The clock hits 0:00, and the lights dim. Large video screens come to life as the worship band takes its place on the darkened stage. Drums and electric guitars suddenly blast from the speakers, and the first song kicks off in a blaze of lights – a banger that is a secular pop/rock song.
I bop my head to the rhythm and sing along – I have this song on my iPhone, in fact.
The crowd cheers as the band plays the final notes and kicks right into its worship set, continuing with two up-tempo songs. “Glorious Day” by Passion reminds me of what God has done for me, while “Our God” by Chris Tomlin has a bridge that uplifts my spirits.
I enjoy them both.
The band then delivers a slower, more deliberate song. It leads into a prayer while the band leaves the stage and the teaching pastor takes his place.
I can often do without the slow songs. They usually have melodies that are hard to sing along with and are boring.
As the service ends, I turn to my friend: “Wow, I liked that opening song! The band played it great.”
I walk out satisfied. At least the girl with the screechy singing wasn’t on the worship team this week. And I liked three of the four songs, so overall, it was a worthwhile service.
I judged the success of a worship service by how much it affected me or what I got from it.
Don’t get me wrong. I needed to hear many of those song messages of God’s love for me after all of my mess-ups. I’m not at all putting that style down or saying there’s something inherently wrong with it.
Frankly, it works.
Those emotional ups and downs kept me engaged and moving forward.
Until, at least, they didn’t. I started getting a nagging feeling I needed something... more… from worship, even if I couldn’t put my finger on what that might be.
Exploring Eastern Orthodoxy gave me a new perspective to consider. Its Divine Liturgy – rich in tradition and ritual – was the polar opposite of the modern worship experience. Could I connect with it? Could I even make sense of it?
During my first several Divine Liturgies, I gathered that I wasn’t supposed to necessarily “feel” something. It’s so structured and layered, I could only ask: What was the purpose of it all?
In my last church, it was easy to understand what was expected of you; it was easy to follow along: Stand when told, sit when told, pray when told, read the big lyrics on the screens. But stepping into a purposefully crafted reverent Liturgy— one that unfolds with its own logic and rhythm without any real direction—required me to become comfortable with mystery, patience, and even discomfort.
While the Liturgy structure became more familiar over the weeks, I continued to struggle with seeing the bigger picture. And then I read “Thirsting for God In a Land of Shallow Wells” by Matthew Gallatin. Gallatin, a former charismatic, expressed similar thoughts about judging the quality of service by what he personally gained from it.
A light bulb finally went off: Maybe I wasn’t looking at things from the right vantage point.
“When the primary goal of a worshipper is to gain inspiration, ritual worship may seem pointless,” Gallatin wrote. “But when his objective is to give obedient reverence, ritual worship is the only type of worship that makes sense.”
I read that passage several times, letting it sink in. This was a perspective I hadn’t considered before. I always saw traditional worship as old and stodgy; modern worship as vibrant and exciting.
But maybe I had missed the point. Maybe I shouldn’t be thinking about how worship affected me. Maybe I had the relationship reversed.
It’s what I give to God.
The Divine Liturgy glorifies God and is a slice of heaven on Earth, a window into the constant worship of the angels and saints.
And then, there’s the mystery. That’s something I’m still learning to lean into. In my past worship experience, everything had a purpose you could explain: a song to set the mood, a message to apply to life, a takeaway to reflect on during the week.
In the Divine Liturgy, not everything is readily explained. Some things are simply meant to be experienced. Words aren’t sufficient to understand them.
The incense, the icons, the chanting—all of it invites me to step beyond my own understanding and into a reality that is greater than me. It’s a mystery unfolding.
In Orthodoxy, I’m no longer the main character. I’m one voice among many—across the globe, across time—joining in a song that never stopped.
According to the late Timothy Ware, a noted Orthodox metropolitan (a type of bishop), “Orthodoxy sees human beings above all else as liturgical creatures who are most truly themselves when they glorify God, and who find their perfection and self-fulfillment in worship.”
Realizing that my focus should be fully on God has helped me adjust my appreciation for the ritual and connect with it. It’s a reverent experience, with a constant reminder that God is to be worshipped, and I humbly come in front of Him, asking for His mercy out of love.
So, I entered the Liturgy with that different mindset. During the prayers beforehand, I sat silently and reflected on the chanted words, preparing my mind to focus on God. I then listened to each section of the Liturgy purposefully: Whether it be a reverent declaration of love and appreciation for God, a humble approach for mercy, a preparation for the Eucharist, or a joyful reminder of God’s presence.
Orthodoxy is not anti-emotion; far from it. It’s just harnessing it differently.
I may be reminded of God’s enduring involvement in my life during the Liturgy, but it’s often done through a focus on what God has done through the lives of the saints. That connects us to the greater story of the Church.
I may see myself or my situation, but the spotlight isn’t on me: It’s on God. It switched the entire paradigm I was used to on its head.
I had always seen traditional rituals as mindless, inauthentic expressions.
I was wrong.
I see how they are a sign of reverence, respect and obedience, and how I can become closer to God through participating.
Not because of what God does for me, but because of what I am doing to show love for God.
Two types of worship. Two very different approaches. One worked for me very well, but at some point, God started calling me deeper, challenging me to give more of myself. Not only because He deserves it, but because He wants me to be closer to Him.
That required a new perspective—one that had been waiting patiently for 2,000 years.
I came looking for more. I didn’t know what “more” meant at first.
Now I know:
More reverence.
More surrender.
More of God, and less of me.
And now, when I leave the church, I don’t think about how I feel. I think about Who I’ve just stood before.
As I approach the door leading out of the nave, I turn back toward the altar.
I bow.
I cross myself one last time.
Not out of routine, but in humility, because worship isn’t about what I take with me.
It’s about what I came to give.
These reflections are part of my personal journey—how I’m seeing and interpreting things in the moment. Like any journey, my understanding may be limited or incomplete and will likely deepen over time. I share these thoughts not as conclusions, but as honest glimpses along the way.