One unintended consequence of live streaming worship services is the subtle shift toward every church reenvisioning its congregational worship as a broadcast. This is nothing new for larger churches. Throughout Christian history, the greatest pastors and theologians delivered sermons that were written down and circulated, a practice that can’t help but alter the preaching moment at some level. A pastor prepares a sermon for a particular flock while knowing the message may be “overheard” by others.
In the media age, it was first radio and then television that nudged congregational worship toward a broadcast mentality. But live streaming, combined with social media (especially since COVID-19) has accelerated this development for nearly all churches, in a way that’s unprecedented in church history. I’ve commented before on some unintended side effects of this trend, including the strain on denominations when everyone’s churches are immediately visible and accessible.
But there’s another side effect that concerns me—a shift that’s easy to miss because it’s not about production quality or online reach. It’s about the worshiper.
Worship and Self-Consciousness
Not long ago, I came across a parody on Instagram that featured a church photographer zealously searching for the most dramatic camera angles—catching people mid-worship, hands lifted, eyes closed—to craft the perfect image for a church’s social media recap. It was funny, but it got me thinking, How does the broadcasting of worship affect the worshiper?
If you know you might show up later on video or in a photo online, or if a sweeping camera angle catches you in a moment of devotion for the live stream, does this change the nature of your worship?
Do you worship differently, knowing you may be seen not just by your fellow congregants but also by strangers scrolling through social media?
The moment we become conscious of being watched, we’re tempted to perform.
We have scriptural reasons to consider this temptation. We’re warned about worship where our lips say one thing but our hearts are distant. We’re warned about singing praises to God with the same mouth that speaks ill of another person. We’re warned about sounding trumpets to signify our generosity or scrunching up our faces to show we’re fasting. The heart is deceitful above all things, Jeremiah tells us. And nowhere is that deceit more cunning than in the ways we can deceive ourselves.
Still, I wonder if the biggest temptation isn’t merely about vanity or wanting to appear righteous to others. What if the problem goes deeper? What if the danger isn’t just in performing for an audience but in performing for ourselves? What if we’re inclined to always worship with an imaginary camera we can’t escape?
Worship and Self-Perception
It’s one thing to crave others’ approval. It’s quite another to be enamored with our self-image. Self-righteousness isn’t my main temptation—at least, I don’t think it is—when I’m in services where cameras aren’t exactly inconspicuous. It’s less about appearing righteous before others and more about enjoying the feeling of appearing righteous to myself.
Do we love worshiping God, or do we love the image of ourselves worshiping God? Do we love singing to God, or do we love the thought of being the kind of person who sings to God? Do we lift our hands in praise to God, or do we lift them because we love seeing ourselves as the sort of people who lift hands in worship?
This is a deeper heart issue, one often discussed among those who engage in compassion ministry or go on mission trips. Do I truly care for the person I’m serving, or do I simply like the image of myself as a caretaker? Do I love the people I’m feeding, or do I love my compassionate self-image? Am I gripped with concern for the heart of the person I’m talking to about Jesus, or do I like seeing myself as a courageous evangelist?
Even our private moments of devotion aren’t immune to this self-consciousness. Do we kneel and pray because we’re truly seeking God’s face or because we like reinforcing the self-perception that we’re people who kneel and pray? Do we crack open the Bible in the morning and take notes on a passage because we yearn to hear from God or because we like thinking of ourselves as people who read and study the Bible? Do we fast because we’re hungry for God or because we’re hungry to feel like fasters?
This is a challenge that confronts anyone who takes seriously the call to spiritual practices, whether a young convert picking up John Mark Comer’s Practicing the Way or an older Christian rereading R. Kent Hughes’s Disciplines of a Godly Man. It’s the temptation for our spiritual practices to get sucked into a self-referential loop.
When this happens, it’s not about trying to be seen by others as righteous; we’re trying to see ourselves as righteous. We aren’t trying to show off our spiritual biceps for everyone else to admire; we just don’t want to feel like a weakling. And so it’s possible to pursue practices and disciplines in corporate worship and personal devotion not primarily because we love God but because we love ourselves loving God.
Trap of Self-Reflection
This is one of the most invisible snares in the spiritual life—to be endlessly fascinated by our own spirituality, to watch ourselves in the act of devotion, to play the part of both performer and audience. The human heart is remarkably adept at turning inward. We’re ever prone to curve in on ourselves.
Yes, we must avoid the obvious examples of self-righteousness—trumpeting our good deeds before others or lifting our hands in worship at just the moment the camera swings our way. But even when the camera isn’t on us, we may be conscious of an imaginary camera’s gaze, always focused on us and what we’re doing. The camera of our mind’s eye keeps turning back to ourselves rather than turning to who God is and what he has done.
The frightening thing is, these self-conscious, self-focused habits can continue for a long time without being detected. It’s like a hall of mirrors, reflecting endlessly back on itself. We perform our devotions, but the gaze never lifts beyond ourselves. The soul never ascends.
Way Out: Losing Ourselves to Find Him
The only way out of this trap is the way of self-forgetfulness. I know of no other solution but to ask for more mercy. The goal of true worship is to behold God, not ourselves—to be mesmerized by him, to be so captivated by God’s beauty and majesty that we escape the self-referential gaze.
Perhaps this is why the psalmist often cries out for God to open his eyes. Not merely because he’s blind to the truths of God but because he’s blinded by himself. He cannot see God because his gaze keeps turning inward.
Thankfully, we worship a God who shatters mirrors. Who invites us into a presence so glorious we forget ourselves. Who calls us to lose ourselves so we might truly find him. Who promises that, when we seek him, we’ll find him—if we seek with all our hearts (Jer. 29:13). Who delights in our sincere and earnest worship even when it’s mixed with self-consciousness and selfishness in motives we can’t fully unentangle this side of glory.
In the end, we want a vision of him, not a vision of ourselves wanting him. I’m convinced only God can both cultivate and grant that desire. Only God can enable us to look upward and outward, beyond the screens and mirrors, beyond ourselves. Only God can settle the heart and shift our gaze to the One who alone is worthy of our attention.
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