In the Midst of the Congregation

Experience a Psalm 22:22 Moment

“I will tell of your name to my brothers; in the midst of the congregation I will praise you.” —Psalm 22:22

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Jesus was alone. But not anymore.

Something breaks open in Psalm 22 between verse 21 and verse 22. (Read yesterday’s post.) The cry of abandonment gives way to a vow of praise. The forsaken Son lifts His voice again—but now, it is not lament. It is worship. Proclamation.

“I will tell of your name to my brothers.”

This is no slight shift. The victim has become the worship leader. The pierced One now stands at the center of a congregation, declaring the goodness of God.

It’s not just any congregation. It’s the one seen in Revelation 7: martyrs robed in white, angels on their faces, elders casting crowns, a multitude crying, “Holy, holy, holy.”

The cross is not the end of Psalm 22. Worship is.

I Have Sensed the Presence of the Lord

As an Anglican priest, I have stood at the altar table more times than I can count. It is always an extraordinary privilege to lead God’s people in worship. But there are moments—powerful, holy moments—when it becomes something more. Something overwhelming.

It happens on great feast days: Christmas, Easter, or Pentecost. Sometimes, it happens on any given Sunday. Often, it was on Thanksgiving Eve.

It took nearly two decades to establish the tradition at Christ Church, where I served as Rector for 31 years, but Thanksgiving Eve was one of the most attended services of the year. Year by year, I would invite the congregation to gather for worship at 7 PM the day before Thanksgiving. And year by year, they came—every year, more and more. Extended families, out-of-towners, college kids home for a holiday, boyfriends invited to meet the parents, new babies born, singles provided for, and small groups sitting together. We were one church. We were not spread over four services as on weekends, but one church. I think the last Thanksgiving Eve service I led was filled with nearly 800 people, all singing and celebrating and giving thanks to God. And the song that always took my breath away was “Great is Thy Faithfulness”. And the line I could never sing without my throat closing and my eyes watering and my voice cracking was, “all I have needed Thy Hand has provided.” Oh my, God! The Presence!

The church is full. Voices are lifted. The choir swells. Prayer is thick. I stand behind the altar, arms stretched wide in song and praise—and suddenly, my throat closes. I have to steady myself, placing one hand on the altar table. Standing feels almost impossible.

It’s not because I’m tired. But because the presence of God is so strong, so thick, so undeniable, I feel as though I could fall flat on my face. I think I should fall flat on my face. I am not worthy.

It’s not goosebumps. It’s not butterflies. That’s too romantic. Too tame. The words I’d use are electric. Overwhelming. Forceful. Uncontrollable. There is no mistaking it. The Lord’s presence is in this place.

And while propriety may not have allowed for a full face-plant at that moment, I look back at those moments now and think: I should have taken off my shoes.

Because it was holy ground.

Once, when the Lord’s presence was undeniable, I fell to my knees. Truly.

I didn’t know how to describe it then, but I do now. Psalm 22 has given me the phrase, and I’ll never be at a loss for words. The moment that I feel overwhelmed with joy or electricity or wonder or thrill—I’ll call that a “Psalm 22:22 Moment”.

Your Psalm 22:22 Moment

You may have felt those moments. You surely have had your own Psalm 22:22 moment.

There are times in worship—mysterious, unmistakable—when the veil feels thin. You’re not just singing songs or reading liturgy. You’re participating in something vast, something ancient, but something new. You know this much: You are not alone. The air feels weighted. Your heart slows. Your thoughts hush. You realize you are in the presence of God.

He is your Father, yes—but not your “daddy”. He’s not a “buddy”. Not your “pal.” You feel reverence. You feel awe. Something BIG is happening.

Like Isaiah (6) in the temple: “I saw the Lord, high and lifted up.” The foundations shook. The room filled with smoke. Seraphim cried out. Isaiah’s lips trembled with unworthiness—until the hot coal and delicate tongs cleansed him, and a voice called him to go.

That’s what authentic worship does.

It humbles.
It heals.
It sends.