When My Work Became Worship

Seven shows into the tour, in front of six thousand people in Houston, I dropped to my knees during the encore. What happened that night taught me that doing your work well can itself be an offering.

Seven shows into this tour, something happened I wasn't expecting.

Before I tell that part of the story, I should say something first.

This next section is unapologetically spiritual. I realize that may not resonate with everyone. But stay with me, because I think it's more universal than the word "worship" suggests.

All of us worship something. We just don't always call it that.

Worship, at its root, is giving something your full attention and adulation. We do it when we paint our faces and scream for our team on Saturday. We do it when we line up for the keynote, buy the book, highlight the passage, and tell our friends they have to read it too. We give attention in exchange for inspiration. That's a form of worship, whether we name it that or not.

So if the word trips you up, translate it. This is a story about what happened the night my work became the thing I was giving my full attention to, and what I offered back through it.

Distracted in the Seats

For most of my life, I've struggled to participate in worship music as an audience member.

I had no problem playing worshipful music onstage.

But sitting in the crowd was different.

I didn't feel transported. I felt distracted.

When I attend services at Woodstock City Church, I often find myself analyzing everything:

• the lighting

• the camera shots

• the arrangements

• the musicianship

• the production flow

• the communication clarity

Everything that is part of my work as a creative director. All the things I spent 30-plus years helping shape as a touring musician.

For years, I assumed that distraction meant something was spiritually missing in me.

Why couldn't I just get lost in the message of the music? Why couldn't I simply participate in worship? Why did it feel easier to worship from the stage than from the seats?

Hard questions.

Above All Things, Love Silence

Over the last few years, a friendship with my tattoo artist-turned-Orthodox priest has changed how I think about worship and my connection with God.

Orthodox priests take the name of a saint they hope to emulate upon ordination. My friend chose St. Isaac of Syria.

Written on some of his icons are the words:

"Above all things, love silence."

Father Isaac helped me understand something I had never fully grasped before.

Stillness itself can be a powerful expression of worship. No crowds. No music. No production. Just a quiet mind, not easily achieved in our busy world.

Quiet Attention = Connection

It also challenged me personally. For someone who uses a lot of words every day, simply being quiet and device-free can be an expression of affection in itself.

Maybe worship wasn't something I had to produce. Maybe it was something I could simply enter.

Less performance. More presence. In the music. In my own musicianship. On stage. At home. In the office.

I carried that with me into this tour. And I still wasn't prepared for what happened next.

Houston

It happened in Houston. Smart Financial Centre in Sugar Land. Near the end of the show.

I got lost in the music. The lyrics. The melody. The power of a band playing together.

And suddenly, six thousand people disappeared.

I dropped to my knees during the final song of our encore. Tears ran down my face. I played with one hand so I could lift the other in surrender.

This experience has only happened two other times in my life.

• Once at sunrise during a worship gathering with 10,000 people in New Zealand.

• And once in a room of about 50 people when we first played "Creed" for Rich Mullins.

As the final chorus built in Houston, I realized something I had never fully understood before:

My playing itself was an act of worship. Not singing. Not leading. Not producing. Just playing bass. Doing my job.

In that moment, there was no impostor syndrome. No concern about technique. No comparison to anyone else.

Just the quiet certainty that I was offering back to God the exact thing He had wired me to do.

After the show, I told the guys backstage that I had finally lived the line from Eric Liddell in Chariots of Fire:

"I believe God made me for a purpose, but He also made me fast. And when I run, I feel His pleasure."

That night, I felt His pleasure while doing my job.

Vocation as Worship

It took me about ten days to put language around what happened.

Because what I experienced wasn't just emotional. It was clarifying.

For most of my life, I assumed worship happened primarily in church services or large gatherings. Father Isaac helped me see that stillness itself could be worship. That night in Houston, I realized something even deeper.

Living out your vocation can be worship.

Music is just my vehicle. Worship is something deeper than the vehicle that carries it.

So I have a question for you

Have you ever felt that? Not in a concert. Not in a service. But in your work?

If you're a creative, maybe it happened while writing, editing, painting, or filming. If you build things, maybe it happened with your hands. If you lead teams, maybe it happened in a moment when everything aligned and you knew you were doing what you were made to do.

Have you ever sensed that doing your work well was itself an offering?

If your organization wants to help its people find that kind of meaning in their work, that is exactly what my keynotes, workshops, and leadership sessions are built for. Learn more at taianderson.live/keynotes.

If you missed Part 1 of this story, about the impostor syndrome I carried for 30 years, you can find it here: I Wasn't Good Enough. They Let Me In Anyway.

Originally published on LinkedIn, April 17, 2026.