Sermon Worship

Matthew 6:1-18

Good morning, Church. You look good. Grab your Bibles and make your way to Matthew 6.

This is the 7th week in our Sermon on the Mount Series and today, Jesus is getting to the heart of the matter. Our Worship.

and here’s the problem.

Man, we love us some me.

We’re living in a “me-saturated” culture.

Everything revolves around self—my happiness, my platform, my truth, my brand.

We’re taught from the time we’re little that the world should clap for us just because we showed up.

I mean, we literally hand out trophies for participation. You don’t even have to win anymore—just exist, and someone will make sure you feel special.

The problem is, that kind of thinking sets you up for a crash later on. Because the moment real life hits—the moment a boss says, “You’re not meeting expectations,” or a coach says, “You need to get better”—we fall apart. We’ve been conditioned to expect praise instead of correction, comfort instead of challenge.

And it’s not just about trophies; it’s about attention.

Everything today is performed for an audience.

Social media has turned everyday life into a stage. We don’t just eat breakfast—we post it.

We don’t just work out—we document it.

I mean, I have to ask—I see people taking forever on a piece of equipment I need to use for my workout and I don’t ask how many sets they have left- I ask how many more selfies they have left?

You’ve got people who can’t even lift their own body weight setting up tripods like they’re filming a Netflix special. Make that make sense—it doesn’t.

The gym used to be a place where you put your head down, worked hard, and got better. Now it’s a stage. It’s not about breaking a sweat; it’s about breaking the algorithm.

We’ve traded progress for performance. People are more concerned with how they look working out than whether they’re actually getting stronger.

what happens in the gym is just a mirror of what’s happening everywhere else. We’re so obsessed with being seen that we’ve forgotten how to actually grow.

And that’s not just a gym problem— it’s everywhere. We aren’t growing any more.

Sure you got the Gym selfies people, but you also have Christians with the humble-brags, and the spiritual captions that make sure people know how “authentic” we are.

Even our time with God can become another opportunity to perform instead of a place to be still. We’ve traded intimacy for image.

And when someone else’s performance gets more applause than ours? Oh, we can’t stand it. We scroll, we compare, we criticize. We hate them for getting the attention we think we deserve.

We live in a world where everything’s a show, where likes have replaced applause, and where even our “quiet time” isn’t always quiet—it’s curated. But here’s the danger: when life becomes one long performance, you eventually forget who you really are when the curtain closes.

This is all a heart problem.

It’s been said that the world is a stage—but it’s not. A stage is a place where people pretend to be something they’re not for the sake of entertainment. They memorize lines, hit their marks, and perform under the lights. But you and I? We’re not actors in some production—we’re real people living real lives before a real God. We weren’t created to perform; we were created to reflect. Life isn’t about pretending long enough to get applause—it’s about becoming more like Jesus, even when nobody’s watching.

We’re not here to “fake it until we make it.” That might work in sales or social media, but it doesn’t work in the kingdom of God. I heard a pastor say once, “The fake you is doing just fine.” And man, that hit hard. Because the fake you always looks great. The fake you smiles big, posts verses, shows up to church, and says, “I’m blessed!” But the real you—the one who’s tired, frustrated, maybe even doubting—that’s the one Jesus actually wants to meet with.

We’ve all been there. You and your spouse are arguing in the car, the kids are melting down in the backseat, and as soon as you pull into the church parking lot, suddenly everyone’s fine. Smiles on, Bible in hand, “Praise the Lord, brother!” But that’s not real—that’s rehearsed. That’s not an accurate picture of what’s going on inside. And when we live that way long enough, we start to believe God only wants the polished version of us.

But hear me—God can’t heal the fake you. He can only heal the real you. He’s not looking for performance; He’s looking for honesty. He’s not impressed with your script; He’s after your surrender. The world might be a stage, but the church is supposed to be a sanctuary—a place where we drop the act and let grace do its work.

This is what Jesus is telling his disciples in Matthew 6. So let’s read God’s word together and dive in to His truths.

Matthew 6:1–18 ““Beware of practicing your righteousness before other people in order to be seen by them, for then you will have no reward from your Father who is in heaven. “Thus, when you give to the needy, sound no trumpet before you, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the streets, that they may be praised by others. Truly, I say to you, they have received their reward. But when you give to the needy, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, so that your giving may be in secret. And your Father who sees in secret will reward you. “And when you pray, you must not be like the hypocrites. For they love to stand and pray in the synagogues and at the street corners, that they may be seen by others. Truly, I say to you, they have received their reward. But when you pray, go into your room and shut the door and pray to your Father who is in secret. And your Father who sees in secret will reward you. “And when you pray, do not heap up empty phrases as the Gentiles do, for they think that they will be heard for their many words. Do not be like them, for your Father knows what you need before you ask him. Pray then like this: “Our Father in heaven, hallowed be your name. Your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our debts, as we also have forgiven our debtors. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For if you forgive others their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you, but if you do not forgive others their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses. “And when you fast, do not look gloomy like the hypocrites, for they disfigure their faces that their fasting may be seen by others. Truly, I say to you, they have received their reward. But when you fast, anoint your head and wash your face, that your fasting may not be seen by others but by your Father who is in secret. And your Father who sees in secret will reward you.”

Prayer

First thing we see- 1. God Cares More About Motives Than Appearances

Jesus says, “Beware of practicing your righteousness before other people in order to be seen by them.” Notice—He’s not telling us not to do good things. He’s not saying, “Hey, stop serving, stop giving, stop praying.” No—He’s saying, “Check your audience.”

You see, motive matters to God. Jesus isn’t condemning the action; He’s exposing the intention. You can do the right thing with the wrong heart. You can post a verse, serve at church, give generously, even pray eloquently—and still be doing it for the applause of people instead of the approval of God. And if that’s the case, Jesus says, “You’ve already received your reward.” In other words—if all you wanted was attention, congratulations, you got it. But that’s all you’re getting.

Let’s say someone decides to give to a family in need at church. That’s a good thing, right? Absolutely.

But then they make sure everyone knows they did it. Maybe they post about it online—“Just love being the hands and feet of Jesus today!”—with a nice picture of the grocery bags and a perfectly timed Bible verse. Now, did they help someone? Yes. Was that family blessed? Sure. But if the heart behind it was to get noticed—to look generous, to build a reputation—that’s what Jesus is talking about. That’s doing the right thing for the wrong audience.

Or think about prayer. You might lead a prayer in a group, and instead of talking to God, you start thinking about how everyone else is hearing you. You start crafting phrases, dropping Scripture references, trying to sound spiritual. It’s not that prayer is wrong—it’s that it’s been hijacked by pride. You’ve shifted from talking to God to performing for people.

I used to know a good ol’ Oceanway boy—Talked like an oceanway boy, all “y’all” and “ain’t” and “fixing to.” But when he prayed? Oh man, he turned straight into the King James Bible. “Dearest Father, we beseecheth Thee this day…” I mean, I halfway expected him to end with “ameneth.”

Now, I’m not knocking the way a man prays—God listens to hearts, not accents—but it’s funny how quick we can shift into performance mode when we think people are listening. That’s what Jesus was warning about. Prayer isn’t about impressing the room; it’s about connecting with the Father. You don’t have to change your voice, your vocabulary, or your volume for God to hear you. He’s not grading your grammar—He’s looking at your heart.

Think about what Jesus said in the parable of the Pharisee and the tax collector. Two men go up to the temple to pray—same place, same time, same God. But completely different hearts.

The Pharisee stands tall, probably right in the center where everyone can see him, and he starts praying loud enough for the whole room to hear. “God, I thank You that I’m not like other men…” You can almost hear the pride dripping off his words. He’s not really talking to God—he’s talking about himself. It’s a performance disguised as a prayer.

Then there’s the tax collector. He can’t even lift his eyes to heaven. He beats his chest and says, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner.” No flowery words, no fancy tone, no audience. Just raw honesty. And Jesus says, that man—the humble one—went home justified.

So, back to my Oceanway friend. He meant well, but it’s the same trap. We can start out wanting to talk to God and end up auditioning for the crowd. Jesus isn’t warning us about praying; He’s warning us about pretending. Because when prayer becomes performance, we might impress people, but we’ll miss God.

And that’s exactly what Jesus is getting at in Matthew 6. Look at verse 5—He says, “And when you pray, you must not be like the hypocrites, for they love to stand and pray in the synagogues and at the street corners, that they may be seen by others.”

Notice that—He doesn’t say if you pray, He says when. Prayer isn’t optional for the believer; it’s essential. But the heart behind it matters. Jesus says don’t be like the hypocrites—literally, the actors. The Greek word there means “stage player.” Someone putting on a show that isn’t real. Jesus is saying, “Don’t bring that performance spirit into your prayer life.”

Because here’s the thing—if your prayer life only exists where people can see it, it’s not a prayer life, it’s a performance.

If the only time you talk to God is when someone asks you to pray out loud in church, or right before a meal, or when things hit the fan—then friend, you might need to examine the disconnect.

Because that’s not relationship, that’s routine. That’s not intimacy, that’s obligation. Prayer was never meant to be the last resort or a public display—it’s supposed to be the first response of someone who knows the Father’s heart.

Then Jesus says in verse 6, “But when you pray, go into your room and shut the door and pray to your Father who is in secret.” He’s saying—get alone with God. Turn off the noise. Put the phone down. Shut the door. Don’t pray to be seen, pray to be known.

See, public prayer isn’t the problem—Jesus prayed publicly plenty of times. The problem is when the only time we pray is public. Because that means we’re talking to people about God more than we’re talking to God about people.

Jesus is inviting us back to something deeper. Something honest. He’s saying, “Stop performing and start communing.” Because the world performs for approval, but the children of God pray from acceptance. Jesus cannot love you anymore or any less than he does right now.

So let me ask you: when was the last time you prayed just to be with Him? No agenda, no audience, no script. Just you and the Father. Because when prayer moves from performance to presence—when it stops being something you have to do and becomes something you get to do—that’s when intimacy begins.

And the truth is—God’s not looking for rehearsed perfection. He’s looking for real repentance. He’s not impressed by how spiritual you sound; He’s moved by how surrendered you are.

So we see—it’s not about performance. Jesus isn’t looking for actors on a stage; He’s looking for sons and daughters in a relationship. Which leads us to the second truth:

2. Prayer Is About Relationship, Not Ritual

Jesus says, “When you pray, go into your room and shut the door and pray to your Father who is in secret.” (v. 6) That’s not just instruction; that’s invitation. Jesus is inviting us out of the spotlight and into the secret place. He’s saying, “Come away from the noise. Leave the audience behind. It’s just Me and you now.”

Because prayer was never meant to be a religious performance—it was always meant to be relational communion. Jesus contrasts the babbling of the Pharisees, who thought their many words would make God listen, with the quiet confidence of a child who already knows their Father cares. You don’t have to beg God to notice you—He already does. You don’t have to use perfect words or sound spiritual—He already knows what you need before you ask.

It actually reminds me of teaching Judah how to pray. When he was little, we started with the classic: “God is great, God is good…” You know the one. It was simple, short, and easy for him to remember. But now that he’s older, we’ve been trying to help him grow into what we call a “heart prayer.” We’re teaching him that prayer isn’t just about saying the right words—it’s about talking to God honestly.

But like a lot of kids his age, he tends to fall into a rhythm. It’ll go something like this: “Dear God, thank You for this day, today. Help everyone… be with…”—and then he’ll start listing names—“…thank You for the food. Amen.” It’s sweet, but it’s formulaic. So we’re intentionally trying to guide him—to help him understand that God isn’t grading his vocabulary; He just wants his heart.

And that got me thinking about something that happened recently with my small group of middle schoolers over at Providence. We were talking about the importance of prayer, and we all agreed—we don’t pray like we should. And when I asked why, they were honest. They said, “Because we end up saying the same things over and over again.” And I thought, man, that’s not just middle schoolers—that’s most of us.

So I told them something that I’ll tell you, too: pray a Psalm. Seriously—pick one, open your Bible, and start talking to God through it. The Psalms are already prayers; they just give us language for what our hearts are trying to say.

I told them, “Don’t overthink it. Just read a line and then follow the bunny trails.” Like take Psalm 23 for example. ‘The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want.’ Stop right there and just talk to Him. ‘Lord, You’ve provided in every way possible. Thank You for my family, for my students, for our church family. Thank You for always taking care of us, even when I don’t see it.’ And once that bunny trail runs its course, go back to the text. Keep reading, let the next verse spark another conversation with God, and just repeat the process.

You’ll be amazed how your prayer life starts to change when you stop worrying about getting the words right and start letting the Word lead your words. Because that’s what real prayer is—it’s not ritual; it’s relationship. It’s not about saying more; it’s about meaning what you say.

When you look at the Lord’s prayer- which I don’t know why would call it the Lord’s prayer- Jesus never prayed this prayer. You realize that? Jesus had no debts that need forgiven. This is the model prayer.

What Jesus is doing in this model prayer is re-teaching us how to approach the Father—not as a distant deity to impress, but as a loving Father to draw near to.

When you look at each phrase, you start to see that this isn’t a checklist—it was never supposed to be ritualistic- its been turned into that- if you ever played high school football- we would always do the Lord’s prayer but it was always done about as fast as you could do it- MIMIC IT- but it’s a conversation starter.

“Our Father in heaven” — Jesus starts by reminding us of who we’re talking to. We are going to our Father. Foreign concept for these people.

In the Old Testament, the idea of calling God “Father” was rare and collective. God was referred to as Father only about 15 times total, and even then, it was always national, not personal. Israel would say things like “You, O LORD, are our Father” (Isaiah 63:16), meaning God was the Father of their people, their nation, their covenant community. No one dared call Him “my Father.” He was Yahweh — the Holy One of Israel, the Creator, the Almighty — and to speak His name was sacred. There was distance.

Then Jesus shows up and changes everything. In the New Testament, God is called Father over 165 times — and almost always in a deeply personal sense. Jesus refers to God as “My Father” or “your Father,” and when He teaches His disciples to pray, He doesn’t say, “Pray to the Almighty,” or “Pray to the Lord of Hosts.” He says, “When you pray, say, ‘Our Father.’”

That would’ve been shocking to His listeners. No rabbi in Jewish history had ever instructed people to address God so intimately. Jesus was inviting us into His own relationship with the Father — the same closeness, the same access, the same affection.

And here’s what makes that so powerful: through Christ, we don’t just pray to God, we pray with the same confidence Jesus had before God. We’re not outsiders trying to get the King’s attention; we’re children speaking to our Father.

There’s this moment that happens pretty often at our house—I'll be sitting at my desk working on a sermon, reading, or working on my doctorate- deep in thought, and Judah will just barge in like he owns the place. No knocking, no hesitation. He doesn’t ask, “Dad, may I have an audience with you?” He just walks right up and says, “Hey Dad!” or climbs into my lap. or he’ll just open up the door and say “Dad, I need you to beat this level” or “Dad, will you open this for me?” or “Dad, I want a snack.”

And you know what? I love it. Because he’s my son—he is my little image bearer- he doesn’t need an appointment. He has direct access.

Thats the same truth for us with our heavenly father. That’s the beauty of it. The Old Testament shows the reverence of a people before their God; the New Testament reveals the relationship of children with their Father. And that’s the miracle of grace — that the God who spoke galaxies into existence now invites us to call Him “Abba.”

“Hallowed be Your name” — When Jesus says, “Hallowed be Your name,” He’s not telling us to make God’s name holy—it already is. He’s reminding us to recognize it as holy.

That word holy means “set apart.” But not just a little set apart—God’s holiness is in an entirely different category. See, when Scripture calls us to be holy, it means we’re to live set apart for Him—distinct from the world, marked by obedience and purity. But when it says God is holy, it means there is no one and nothing like Him. He’s not just a better version of us. He’s completely other—perfect in every attribute, infinite in power, flawless in righteousness, blazing in glory.

When Isaiah saw the Lord in Isaiah 6, the angels didn’t cry out, “Love, love, love,” or “Mercy, mercy, mercy.” They cried, “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord Almighty.” Why? Because His holiness is the sum of all His perfections. It’s what makes Him worthy of worship.

So when Jesus teaches us to pray, “Hallowed be Your name,” He’s saying, “Start here. Start with awe.” Before you ask God for anything, remember who you’re talking to. He’s not your buddy, your consultant, or your therapist—He’s your Father in heaven, the Holy One whose name is set apart above every name.

And yet, here’s the wonder of grace: that same holy God invites us—frail, flawed, sinful people—to call Him Father. The One who is infinitely above us has chosen to draw near to us. That’s the kind of holiness that humbles you and draws you in at the same time.

“Your kingdom come, Your will be done” — That’s surrender. It’s us saying, “God, I don’t want You to fit into my plans; I want to fit into Yours.” It’s a daily reminder that we’re not the main character in the story—He is.

“Give us this day our daily bread” — That’s dependence. it’s a hard concept for us here in the States to really grasp. Most of us have refrigerators packed with food, pantries full of snacks, and grocery stores on every corner. We don’t wake up wondering where our next meal is coming from—we wake up wondering what we’re in the mood for.

For the people Jesus was talking to, “daily bread” wasn’t a figure of speech—it was survival. They lived day to day, often with no guarantee of tomorrow’s meal. So when they prayed that line, it wasn’t poetic—it was desperate dependence. They were trusting God, literally, to get them through the next twenty-four hours.

But that’s exactly what Jesus is trying to teach us—to depend on God daily, not occasionally. To recognize that everything we have, even the stuff sitting in our fridge, comes from His hand. The problem with comfort is that it can breed complacency. When the shelves are full, we start to forget who the Provider really is.

So praying “Give us this day our daily bread” isn’t just about food—it’s about posture. It’s about humility. It’s about saying, “Lord, I need You today—just as much as the person who doesn’t know where their next meal will come from.” Because even if our fridge is full, our hearts are still empty without His presence. We still need Him every day for wisdom, strength, patience, peace—all the things money and comfort can’t buy.

Daily bread isn’t just what’s on your table—it’s the grace that sustains you moment by moment.

“Forgive us our debts, as we also have forgiven our debtors” — That’s confession and compassion. You can’t pray this honestly without dealing with your own heart. It forces you to come clean before God and to extend to others the same mercy you’ve been given.

“Deliver us from evil” — That’s dependence on His protection. It’s us admitting that we can’t fight sin or temptation on our own—we need the strength of the Savior.

See, every line of that prayer isn’t ritual—it’s relationship. It’s an invitation into deeper communion with God. Prayer isn’t about getting God’s attention—it’s about giving Him ours. It’s not about showing up with the right words; it’s about showing up with the right heart.

When you go into that quiet place Jesus talked about, you’re not entering a classroom—you’re entering a conversation. It’s where intimacy is built, where peace is found, and where transformation begins. Because when you start praying this way, something shifts. You stop trying to perform for God and start walking with Him.

And that’s what prayer was always meant to be. Not a ritual to master, but a relationship to nurture. It’s less about impressing God and more about being impressed by Him—by His goodness, His holiness, His faithfulness. That’s what turns prayer from a task into a treasure.

So we see through Jesus’ words in the Sermon on the Mount that worship isn’t about ritual or routine—it’s about the heart behind it. True worship flows from right motives, built on right relationship, and expressed with real humility.

Prayer is worship. It’s recognizing who God is and pouring yourself out to Him. It’s surrender and dependence and gratitude all rolled together.

When you pray, when you give, when you sing, when you open His Word—those aren’t just religious activities. That’s worship. Even the preaching moment is worship—you’re not just listening to a sermon, you’re engaging with the truth of God so that you can take it out and live it in your mission field on Monday morning.

But there’s one piece of worship most of us are guilty of skipping over: fasting. We’ll sing, we’ll pray, we’ll give, but when it comes to fasting, we tap out. And let’s be honest, that’s probably the Southern Baptist in us. We love our casseroles, potlucks, and after-church lunches. If Jesus had said, “When you feast,” we’d all be experts. But fasting? Now that feels like a spiritual discipline we like to “interpret creatively.”

You mention fasting at a Baptist gathering, and folks start looking around for the nearest fried chicken. It’s funny, but it’s true—we’re really good at filling plates, not necessarily at emptying them. And yet, that’s exactly what Jesus is calling us to: a season of emptying ourselves so that we can be filled with more of Him.

Fasting isn’t about skipping a meal—it’s about shifting the hunger. It’s saying, “Lord, I’m more desperate for Your presence than I am for another plate of comfort food.” And that might sting a little for us Baptists who believe fellowship tastes best with gravy—but maybe that’s why it’s so powerful. When we deny ourselves something good, it makes us remember the One who is truly great.

3. Fasting Is About Humility, Not Hypocrisy

He says, “When you fast, do not look gloomy like the hypocrites…” (v.16) Notice that again—He doesn’t say if you fast, but when. Meaning, this isn’t for the “super spiritual” crowd—this is for every disciple who wants to grow in dependence on God. Fasting is expected, but not to make you look holy; it’s to make you hungry for the Holy One.

Fasting isn’t a badge of honor; it’s a posture of humility. It’s you saying, “God, I need You more than I need what I’m giving up.” Whether that’s food, social media, comfort, or entertainment—fasting is a tangible way of telling your soul, “My satisfaction doesn’t come from what’s on my plate but from who’s on the throne.”

In the Old Testament, fasting was always connected to humility before God. It was never about earning favor—it was about expressing dependence. People fasted to mourn sin, to seek God’s mercy, or to prepare for a move of God. Moses fasted before receiving the Law. David fasted when he was broken over sin. Esther called a fast before going before the king. The people of Nineveh fasted in repentance, and God showed mercy.

Fasting wasn’t about outward show—it was about inward surrender. It was meant to humble the heart, to quiet the noise, and to say, “God, we need You more than we need anything else.”

Also, fasting wasn’t something people were required to do on a regular basis. The only commanded fast in the Law was on the Day of Atonement — Yom Kippur (Leviticus 16). That was the one day each year when Israel humbled themselves before God, confessed sin, and sought His mercy as the high priest entered the Holy of Holies.

Outside of that, fasting was always voluntary. People fasted not because they had to, but because they wanted to — because they desired God above everything else. When life broke them, when sin grieved them, when they needed direction or deliverance, fasting became their way of saying, “God, I need You more than I need food.”

So the heart behind fasting was never obligation — it was desperation. It wasn’t a ritual; it was a response.

But by the time Jesus came along, that had shifted. Jewish tradition came along and required that they fast twice a week

What used to be an act of deep devotion had become a public display. The Pharisees turned fasting into a performance. They’d put on their gloomy faces, leave their hair unkept, and make sure everyone saw how “holy” they looked. Jesus said, “Don’t do that.” Because when fasting becomes a show for others, that’s the only reward you’ll get.

But in Jesus’ day, people had twisted fasting into a performance. The Pharisees would make a show of it—sad faces, messy hair, gloomy eyes—all so people would say, “Wow, look how devoted he is.” But Jesus says, “No, that’s not the heart of fasting.” Because when your fasting is for people’s approval, that’s the only reward you’ll get.

Fasting isn’t about looking spiritual—it’s about becoming surrendered. It’s about hungering for God more than for anything else. The goal isn’t to be noticed by people; it’s to be nourished by God.

When you fast, you’re training your soul to remember who your source really is. You’re saying, “Lord, I can skip a meal, but I can’t skip Your presence. I can do without food for a few hours, but I can’t make it one second without You.”

That’s the beauty of fasting—it’s not about deprivation, it’s about devotion. It’s about removing distractions so your desire for God grows stronger than your appetite for anything else. And when that happens, fasting becomes less about what you’re losing and far more about who you’re finding.

Fasting isn’t meant to make you weak—it’s meant to remind you who your strength really is.

So here’s where this really hits home for us — fasting is a spiritual discipline, and honestly, it’s one we as Southern Baptists aren’t exactly known for. If the discipline were making casseroles or hosting potlucks, we’d be experts. We’ve got “fellowship food” down to a science. But when it comes to fasting? That’s not something we’ve flexed much spiritual muscle in.

So here’s what I want us to do this week as a church: we’re going to fast together.

It doesn’t have to be extreme. For some of you, it might be skipping one meal. For others, maybe it’s a full day. Or maybe it’s fasting from something that consumes your time — social media, TV, even that daily cup of coffee that’s become your lifeline. Whatever it is, the goal isn’t to deprive yourself — it’s to direct yourself toward God.

And here’s how we’re going to do it: during the time you would normally spend eating or doing that activity, I want you to pray. Pray specifically for what God is doing here at Cedar Bay Baptist Church — for the revitalization that’s already begun and for the new work He wants to do in us.

Church, as we close today, here’s what I want you to remember: worship isn’t about performance—it’s about presence. It’s about coming before God with the right motives, the right relationship, and the right humility.

Jesus taught us that true worship happens when our hearts are honest before the Father. When we give without needing recognition. When we pray not to be heard by people, but to be known by God. When we fast, not to look spiritual, but because we’re hungry for His presence.

And that’s what this week is about. We’re not fasting for show; we’re fasting for revival. We’re praying for God to continue what He’s started here at Cedar Bay. We’re praying for:

People by name — that the lost would be saved, the wandering would come home, and the broken would be healed.

Unity in the body — that God would knit us together as one family, standing shoulder to shoulder for the gospel.

A renewed passion for the mission — that He would reignite our hearts to reach our community with the good news of Jesus Christ.

So this week, as you fast and pray, remember: you’re not just giving something up—you’re making room for something greater. You’re saying, “Lord, I want You more than comfort, more than convenience, more than control.”

And as we sing Goodness of God one more time, let’s make it a declaration—that even when we’ve been faithless, He’s been faithful. That His goodness has followed us every step of the way.

Then after we sing, we’ll pray together for our quarterly business meeting—because what we do in those meetings matters, but only if it flows from what God is doing in our hearts.

And listen—if you’ve never surrendered your life to Jesus, that’s your first step of obedience. The second is baptism, going public with your faith. And the third? Whatever He’s calling you to do next. Because delayed obedience is disobedience.

So as we sing, respond however the Lord is leading—pray where you are, come to the altar, lift your hands in worship—but don’t leave this moment unchanged.

Because when we humble ourselves before Him, that’s when revival starts. Not just in a church—but in a heart.

Let’s stand together and sing of the goodness of God.