When Worship Feels Out of Reach
I was three-quarters of the way up the wall when I felt my grip begin to slip.
After weeks of practice, we were completing the final test in our rock-climbing class—a two-story ascent that began at the corner of a brick wall. In the most uncoordinated struggle, I pulled myself onto a narrow ledge, barely found my footing, and looked up at the second story looming above me.
I had the option of continuing up or giving up. I made my decision, grabbed the nearest hold, and kept climbing.
Soon, my fingers were numb and my legs were shaking. It’s like my mind knew where to go, but my body would not cooperate.
I pushed as far as I could until I had no choice but to call down to my partner and release myself from the wall. She was ready. The lead rope caught me, and she slowly lowered me until my feet were safely on the ground.
I will bless the Lord at all times: his praise shall continually be in my mouth. —Psalm 34:1
I did not finish the climb, but I was so proud of myself for trying. I am neither athletic nor coordinated. Honestly, literally every part of this exercise was outside my comfort zone. There was still gratitude in the struggle—especially for the rope that held when my strength could not.
There are seasons when life feels easy. The bills are paid, work is smooth, and worship comes naturally when our feet are on the ground and the goodness of God feels close enough to touch.
And then there are the other seasons.
The ones where the prayer was sincere, but the answer did not come as expected. Where God could have intervened, yet He did not seem to arrive in time. Where we are losing our grip and wondering whether the rope can even hold the weight of this pain. When we simply do not know how to bear it.
What does worship look like there?
Not after everything changes, but there—suspended between what we believed God would do and what He allowed—while disappointment and faith occupy the same heart.
Mary of Bethany knew something about that place.
Where Was Jesus?
Mary and Martha were facing the terrifying possibility of losing their brother, Lazarus. In their desperation, they sent word to Jesus:
“Lord, behold, he whom thou lovest is sick.”
—John 11:3, KJV
But Jesus did not come when they expected Him to come. By the time He arrived in Bethany, Lazarus had been in the grave for four days.
There is a particular kind of pain in knowing God could have changed an outcome and trying to understand why He did not. It is another thing to believe help was possible—and then having to watch the moment pass. That kind of anguish we struggle to put into words.
Jesus loved them, and His ability to heal had not diminished. But from where Mary stood, His response did not look anything like love or rescue. Where was Jesus?
Perhaps you have stood in that tension too.
You prayed. You believed. You waited. And still, the marriage ended. The diagnosis came. The person you loved was gone. The life you thought you would have became one you could no longer return to.
Your heart is struggling to reconcile what you believe about God with what He allowed.
Where were You, God?
I thought You would come.
She Brought Him the Truth
When Martha told Mary that Jesus had finally arrived and was asking for her, Mary rose quickly and went to Him.
“Then when Mary was come where Jesus was, and saw him, she fell down at his feet...”
—John 11:32, KJV
Mary did not arrive with polished praise. She fell at His feet with tears and spoke directly from the wounded place of her loss and heartache:
“Lord, if thou hadst been here, my brother had not died.”
Her words held faith and disappointment at the same time. She believed Jesus could have healed Lazarus, and that certainty made His delay even more painful.
Perhaps this is where worship in the hard places begins—not with carefully chosen words, but with the decision to bring our whole hearts into the presence of Jesus.
This is holy surrender.
Mary's grief did not drive her away from Him. It brought her to His feet.
There is room there for the prayer that seems unanswered, the question we fear sounds unfaithful, and the ache of knowing what God could have done. There is room to admit we thought He would come sooner.
We do not have to untangle our feelings before approaching Him. We can release our grip and trust Him to hold us when our strength is gone.
Jesus Wept
Jesus knew the stone would be removed. He knew He would call Lazarus from the grave and mourning would soon give way to joy.
Yet when He saw Mary weeping, He did not rush past her grief to announce the ending.
He wept with her.
“Jesus wept.”
—John 11:35, KJV
The shortest verse in Scripture holds immeasurable tenderness. Jesus knew resurrection was coming, yet He honored the sorrow of that moment.
He did not rebuke Mary for grieving or suggest that stronger faith would feel differently. He entered the pain with her.
We often hurry toward hope, searching for meaning in something our hearts have barely begun to process. But Jesus was not in a hurry to make Mary stop crying.
He stood beside her and wept.
Friend, God is not standing beyond our sorrow, waiting for us to pull ourselves together. He meets us right here within it. His knowledge of what comes next does not make today's pain insignificant to Him. He remains near.
The Same Broken Place Received Her Worship
In the next chapter, we find Jesus back in Bethany. Lazarus is now very much alive again—and seated at the table. While Martha is serving, Mary approaches Jesus with costly ointment.
“Then took Mary a pound of ointment of spikenard, very costly, and anointed the feet of Jesus, and wiped his feet with her hair...”
—John 12:3, KJV
The feet where Mary poured out her grief became the same place where she poured out her offering.
Her worship was personal, humble, and costly. It was misunderstood by Judas, but Jesus defended it. The One who received her offering knew its true value.
...and the house was filled with the odour of the ointment. —John 12:3
Mary reminds us that worship is not a performance of strength. It is the pouring out of what is precious before Jesus. Even in the broken places.
Sometimes the offering is gratitude. Other times it is desperation and surrender. Sometimes it is the future we wanted and the answer we expected. Other times it is our frantic need to understand and questions that have exhausted our hearts. Sometimes worship is simply remaining at His feet when we cannot stand.
Mary did not have to erase the memory of the tomb before she could honor Jesus. The One who received her offering had also received her tears.
He is the same Jesus still.
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I want to pause here to acknowledge that you might be thinking, Of course Mary worshipped. Her brother was restored to life.
Our worship seems much more easily poured out when prayers have been answered. When the person is healed. The relationship is restored. The door finally opens. When we can look back and clearly see what God was doing all along.
But we do not always receive that kind of ending. Sometimes the healing we prayed for does not come in the way we hoped. Sometimes we do not get to see the restoration on this side of our pain.
Mary’s abundance of worship came after Lazarus was raised, but her faith in Jesus did not begin with the outcome. She already knew who He was. She knew He had the power and authority to heal because she told Him so in the middle of her grief—before Lazarus ever walked out of the tomb.
Mary and Martha sent for Jesus when healing was needed. They continued to acknowledge who He was even after their loss had occurred. And later, Mary poured out her offering at those very same feet.
Her worship was not simply a response to receiving the outcome she wanted. It flowed from knowing who Jesus was through every part of the story.
And that is the delicate place where many of us find ourselves. We may not see the healing. We may not understand the outcome. But even here, we can bring our wounded hearts to Jesus—not because everything turned out the way we prayed, but because He is still worthy. He is still near. And He is still the One we trust with what remains unhealed.
That kind of faith is worship in itself.
It is choosing to keep reaching for Jesus in the dark places. Mary could have refused to go when He called for her. She could have remained inside the house, consumed by her anger and disappointment. She could have allowed her pain to create distance between herself and Jesus.
But she did not.
She rose quickly. She went to Him. And carrying all the pain of what had happened, she fell at His feet.
Mary chose to stay close, despite her broken heart. And yes, this was where her restoration began.
The Fragrance Filled the House
John tells us that “the house was filled with the odor of the ointment.”
What Mary poured out at the feet of Jesus changed the atmosphere of the room.
Worship may not change our circumstances. It does not rewrite what happened or restore everything we lost. But it can change the atmosphere within us.
It reminds us that pain may be present, but it is not the only thing present. Worship gives our grief somewhere sacred to rest.
And there, in the place where sorrow and surrender meet, peace begins to enter.
Not peace that depends upon everything making sense, but “the peace of God, which passeth all understanding,” guarding our hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.
Peace so bold and beautiful, that dares to hope in our darkest seasons, does not wait for understanding to arrive. It rushes forward in faith, clinging to hope.
It comes while questions linger and steadies us before the future becomes clear. Even here—in this place we never would have chosen—we are still held.
The rope is strong enough.
Bring Him What You Are Carrying
Perhaps worship feels beyond your reach today.
You may not have a song—only a whisper, a tear, or enough strength to speak the name of Jesus.
Bring Him that.
Bring Him the prayer you believe went unanswered, the outcome you cannot understand, the disappointment you feel guilty admitting, and the grief you cannot hurry.
You do not have to transform your grief into praise before coming to His feet. Mary came with her grief first.
Worship may begin simply by turning toward Him and saying, “Jesus, I do not understand. I am still hurting. But I am here.”
The feet of Jesus are not reserved only for the healed version of you. They are for you now.
Mary came to His feet with tears.
She came with disappointment.
She came carrying the ache of what she believed He could have prevented. Later, she returned with an offering.
The same Jesus received them both.
Friend, bring the questions. Bring the tears. Bring the costly surrender. Let worship rise, not because the hard place no longer hurts, but because you have found the One who is trustworthy enough to hold you within it.
And when your hands are tired and your own strength is gone, release your grip.
The God who holds you is stronger than the storm surrounding you.
He will carry you safely through.
And even here, from the deepest and most desperate place of your being, you can whisper:
Still I praise.
Remain hopeful, friend 🤍
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Embrace what it means to -> Begin Again <- through awareness, understanding and surrender
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