We know from the men and women who have walked long on the paths of devotion, we should never think of the deepest worship as something rehearsed, or controlled. They remind us the truly deep moments are not those times we are lifted to to mountain peaks to happily dance among the angels. Those are great times of worship. But, they are not the deepest times.
I kept a journal of that first long year after Robin unexpectedly died. It's on the bookshelf right in front of me. I still pull it down from time to time to read over the pages of scribbled thoughts, trying to remember the man I was.
The deep moments of worship are never fun and rarely planned. They sometimes emerge out of suffering or loss. If an image comes to mind, it's like being torn open until the darkest part of our soul lies exposed before the white-hot light of God.
It is those moments that leave us trembling and strangely changed. Like moths drawn toward the flame, in deepest worship we are pulled toward something so beautiful it truly hurts. Just like Anthony and Francis and Teresa discovered centuries ago, agony and ecstasy are so sublimely intertwined, we cannot hold onto one without embracing the other. Easter must stand alongside Gethsemane. Both or neither.