The Ballad of the Glory That Didn't Fall

A cautionary tale of 6/8 grooves, missing lyrics, and the grace of being undone.

Let me set the scene: it was Sunday morning. I had a fresh set list that I was pumped about — two new songs, both with that delicious 6/8 shuffle groove that just moves. I mean, come on… that kind of rhythm basically carries people straight into the throne room, right?

I had worked it out perfectly — as a keyboardist, I’d mapped my chords, planned seamless transitions, and lined up key changes that I just knew would give the room whiplash (in the best, Holy-Spirit-goosebumps kind of way).

It was going to be slick. Smooth. Powerful.

Except… I forgot to learn the lyrics.

Worse — I didn’t even print them out. My only safety net was the confidence monitor at the back of the room, and about 4 seconds into the first song, I realized: I had no idea what came next, and our ProPresenter operator was… let’s just say, not the world’s fastest clicker.

Spirit willing, lyrics missing…

There I was, trying to channel big-room energy while internally free-falling into panic. I fumbled through the first verse with vague syllables and blank stares, missed the key change entirely, and launched into the second song in the wrong key altogether. I couldn’t even blame it on the Spirit moving — unless the Spirit was moving to the next room, the next church, the next state…

I ended up cutting a whole song from the set just to stop the bleeding, offered up a half-hearted autopilot prayer, and wrapped it all as quickly and quietly as I could. And then, of course, I did what all of us seasoned worship leaders do after a trainwreck: smiled through gritted teeth, avoided eye contact, and contemplated hiding in the sound booth forever.

Later that week, I debriefed with a mentor. I expected to be told how to fix it, how to plan better, how to stay humble and prepare more thoroughly. And there was definitely some of that. But the most important thing he said to me was this:

“Sometimes God lets us fall just enough to remember that we’re not here to impress — we’re here to invite.”

Yeah. That landed. Right in the sternum.

Because that Sunday, I had prepped for performance. I had worked hard to make it sound good, feel good, flow well — and there’s nothing wrong with that. But I had built it all around a musical moment, and left myself with nothing to fall back on when it unraveled. My energy had gone into aesthetics, not encounter. I was trying to elevate the room — but I forgot to anchor it.

And honestly? It was kind of beautiful. Painful, yes. But beautiful too.

Because the mission of worship isn’t perfection. It’s not polish. It’s not even passion.

It’s presence.

And while that trainwreck of a set taught me to prep my lyrics and double-check the monitor settings, it also taught me this: when we plan worship that depends on everything going right, we miss the greater invitation — to lead people with our whole selves, even when we don’t feel impressive or composed or confident.

Here at The Doxology Co, that’s what we’re aiming for. Not just tight transitions or slick arrangements, but moments that stir awe and lead people to recognize God — even in the mess. Especially in the mess.

Because real worship doesn’t begin with musical genius or poetic lyrics or perfect tech. It begins when someone — even someone who just bombed their set — dares to turn their heart back to the One who is still worthy.

So if you’ve ever faceplanted a worship set… if you’ve ever had your slides freeze, your voice crack, your synth patch disappear, or your brain go completely blank — welcome. You’re in good company.

And you’re still called.

Let’s keep curating worship that draws people to awe — not because we got everything right, but because we pointed to the One who always is.

Anyone brave enough to share their own Ballad of a Broken Worship Set?