Before I ever preached a sermon, I learned how to hide in church. For me, it was a quiet bathroom stall, not because I needed to use the facilities, but because I needed a breath of silence. That out-of-the-way refuge offered peace and solitude when the lobby chatter or sanctuary energy overwhelmed me. Over time, I learned I wasn’t alone. Pastors. Professors. Lay leaders. Introverts, we’ve all had our hiding places.
As I conducted research for my dissertation on introverted leadership, I discovered stories far more common than I imagined. So many of us in the church, those of us who lead quietly, feel deeply, and process slowly, carry the weight of invisibility. We don’t talk about it because we often don’t know where we fit. We’re faithful but quiet. Present, but hidden.
Take, for example, the classic classroom frustration. Participation marks go to those quick to speak, even if they ramble, while the thoughtful ones hold their tongues, searching for clarity before contributing. We value words too much to spill them before they’re ready.
Worship poses a similar challenge. For years, I thought I was the only one who felt guilty about not being expressive enough. I would ask myself: Do I even love Jesus if I can’t jump and shout like everyone else?
In Blessed Are the Misfits, Brant Hansen writes:
“It’s taken me many years to accept that my lack of emotional response to [modern worship lyrics] isn’t indicative of God’s absence from my life. It’s no wonder so many analytical types find themselves estranged from a Christian subculture that traffics in emotional appeals. We find ourselves wondering what’s wrong with us, perhaps even begging God to make Himself real to us in the way He clearly is to others.”
This past weekend, I attended a gathering that leaned charismatic. While it usually allows room for quieter expressions, at one point the leader began encouraging everyone to be more physically engaged. A dance line formed, eventually evolving into a circle of hand-holding revellers parading around the sanctuary. People were laughing and spinning in joyful abandon.
And I stood there, tapping my foot, avoiding eye contact, hoping no one would try to pull me in.
He urged us to “dance like David” and “leave our egos at the door.” It made me pause. Why don’t I feel compelled to join in? Am I rebellious? Proud? Spiritually immature?
No. I’ve come to believe it’s none of those things.
I am deliberate. I value intention. I want my worship to be real, not reactive. If something requires emotional or mental energy, I want to know it serves a purpose beyond crowd enthusiasm. I’m glad the worship leader is excited. I’m glad others are dancing. But I’ve learned that movement is not always a sign of worship, and stillness is not a sign of absence.
When the Holy Spirit prompts me to dance, I will. And have. In those moments, I didn’t care how I looked. But when a leader tells me to do it, asks me to jump, shout, kneel, hold hands with strangers, it often feels like I’m being pulled out of intimacy with God and into conformity with the crowd.
Here’s the heart of the matter: I’m not asking you to change your style. I’m asking you to make space. Space for the dancer and the kneeler. The shouter and the silent. The one who raises their hands and the one who folds them. Let the Holy Spirit lead, not just the stage.
Mark Tanner, in The Introverted Charismatic, says it best:
“Please would you stop telling me what to do when we are worshipping? It might give you immense pleasure to see me joining the crowd in jumping, shouting, hugging, swaying, or generally jiggling for Jesus, but in order to do so I need to draw my attention away from Him, focus on you, and struggle to get over my embarrassment at doing a silly thing in order to fit in with the crowd.”
Imagine a church where worship isn’t measured in volume or movement, but in obedience. Where stillness isn’t judged, and movement isn’t manufactured. That’s the kind of worship I believe God delights in.
And that’s the kind of church I long to be part of.
The Introverted Pastor 