A short letter before Sunday

When the pilgrims sang — how joy begins before the journey does.

There is something about Saturday morning that the rest of the week does not have. The coffee tastes the same. The light through the kitchen window is not appreciably different. And yet — if you are paying attention — you can feel it. Tomorrow, we will meet with God.

Many people arrive at Sunday morning already exhausted by it. They have carried too many small worries through six ordinary days, and they sit down in the pew with the residue of all of them still on them. Worship, in those weeks, feels less like a joyful event and more like a chore they have finally gotten around to.

The Jews of old knew something about this that I think we have mostly forgotten.

Three times a year, at the great feasts, the faithful gathered themselves and their families and began the long walk to Jerusalem. They came from Galilee and from the coastal plains, from the villages of the Negev and from as far away as Babylon. And as they walked, they sang.

We have their songs still. Fifteen of them, tucked into the middle of the Psalms, numbered 120 through 134. The rabbis called them the Shir HaMa’alot — the Songs of Ascent. Pilgrim songs. Walking songs. Sung as the road climbed and the temple mount came into view.

"I was glad when they said unto me, Let us go into the house of the LORD." (Psalm 122:1)

Read that sentence slowly. I was glad when they said unto me. Not glad when I arrived. Not glad when the sacrifice was made. Not even during the journey. Glad at the invitation. Glad at the first word that we were going. The joy began before the journey did.

And here is what I think we have lost: the Jews did not walk to worship. They ascended to it. Every step of the road was already part of the meeting. The dust on their sandals, the ache in their legs, the songs they sang to keep the children moving — all of it was already worship. By the time they crested the last hill and saw the temple, they were not arriving at joy. They were arriving with it, having been building it inside themselves for days.

We do not walk to church anymore. Most of us drive, and the drive takes fifteen minutes, and we spend it thinking about parking. But the pilgrimage is still there if we want it. It begins on Saturday morning, with a cup of coffee and the honest admission that we have been away from Him this week and we are ready to come home.

So here is what I would offer you today, friend, on this Saturday before we gather:

Sing something. Even quietly. Even badly. Let a psalm rise up in you while you go about your morning — the dishes, the grocery list, the walk to the mailbox. Let tomorrow begin to gather in your chest today.

Remember that you are already on the road.

And when you rise tomorrow and dress for worship and pull into the parking lot, imagine for a moment that you have been walking three days to get there. Imagine the last hill. Imagine cresting it and seeing the sanctuary the way a pilgrim saw the temple — the roof catching the morning sun, the doors thrown open, the whole thing waiting. And God at the heart of it, His arms open to receive you.

That is not sentiment. That is what is actually happening.

We are going up to meet with God.

Let our hearts be glad.

— Pastor Neal <><