Why Would Jesus Have Me Practice Worship?

Jesus is having me practice worshipping Him. (Like being a super-attentive bird watcher—but the only thing I’m watching is Him)

At first glance, that feels almost absurd. I’m 62 years old. I’ve been a Christian a long time. I’ve sung hymns, taken the sacrament, prayed, testified, repented, served. Surely I already know how to worship Jesus. Why, at this stage of life, would Jesus have me practice?

Isn’t worship something you either do—or don’t? Isn’t it supposed to be spontaneous, sincere, real-time? Isn’t “practice” for beginners?

And yet… here I am.

The kinds of worship Jesus is inviting me into are new territory for me. Unexpected forms. Playful and serious at the same time. Structured, even rehearsed.

There are the Jesus TV Broadcasts—me, Jesus, and angels on Facebook Live. Saying good things about Jesus. Repeating prophecies He has given me. Explicitly praising Him out loud. Saying, “Jesus, I love you.” Singing redeemed classic rock songs to and with Jesus—sometimes imagining angels listening, sometimes “spirits in prison,” sometimes just a handful of mortals scrolling past.

There is morning worship with a pillow—my Jesus Pillow. We practice. We rehearse. There is, remarkably, a set list: thoughts, phrases, songs, movements of the heart that Jesus walks me through each morning.

Not unlike the set list of sacrament hymns at an LDS meeting—except it’s in bed, and it’s personal, and it’s different.

And other altars too—some already built, some still only imagined—each a place of return, repetition, familiarity.

All of it feels oriented toward practice.

Which raises the question again:
Why practice worship at all?

We practice many things.

From a young age, we practice sports. Almost everyone has played a little basketball—at least in school P.E. Some go further. Team sports. Travel leagues. Daily drills. Others stop early.

We practice the ABCs. Reading. Piano. Guitar. Programming. Fixing cars. Cooking. Driving. Speaking. Listening.

Even cooking—which sounds odd to “practice”—improves with repetition. Timing gets better. Intuition sharpens. You don’t cook once and declare mastery.

So perhaps what feels foreign is not the logic of practicing worship, but the language.

If worship involves presence, affection, attentiveness, surrender, expression, love—why wouldn’t it deepen through repetition?

Not practice as in “fake it until you make it.”
But practice as in making space, training attention, forming muscle memory of the heart.

Musicians rehearse because they love music. Athletes drill fundamentals because depth grows there. Married couples don’t stop saying “I love you” once it’s been said once.

So maybe Jesus isn’t correcting a deficiency so much as inviting a capacity.

Maybe at 62, the invitation isn’t “Learn the basics,” but “Come further in.”

Practicing His Presence

As I sit with this idea of practicing worship, I’m realizing Jesus is also having me practice something even more fundamental:

His presence.

Not practicing believing He exists in the abstract.
But practicing imagining—again and again—that He is here.

With me.
Now.
Always.

I imagine Jesus in the room—not as fantasy, but as faith.
Not as certainty, but as trust.
Not as proof, but as relationship.

This is not pretending Jesus is present.
It is choosing to live as though He is—because He says He is.

Worship, I’m discovering, is an active acknowledgment:

That Jesus is real.
That Jesus is near.
That Jesus is not merely an idea, a doctrine, or a memory— but a living presence who can be addressed, loved, praised, and enjoyed.

To worship Jesus is to orient my attention toward Him.
To practice His presence is to keep that orientation alive.

They belong together.

Worship without presence becomes hollow.
Presence without expression grows quiet and unattended.

So Jesus has me practicing both:

In this way, worship becomes less about performance and more about presence maintenance.

A gentle, repeated return to the truth that Jesus is already here— and has been all along.