As I talk to younger pastors and seminary students these days, I sense a hunger for incorporating older liturgical practices from high-church traditions into Baptist and nondenominational churches known more for informal worship.
Some of this comes from a desire for rootedness—to show, not simply say, that we belong to the church through the ages. Others figure out that every church develops some kind of liturgical rhythm, whether acknowledged or not, so why not ensure the pattern is robust and intentional? Still others react against worship that feels superficial, focused on the emotional state of the worshiper rather than the truth about God. It’s no surprise, then, that we see renewed interest in reciting the ancient creeds or embedding doctrinal truth into songs and prayers.
Alongside this trend is a rise in personal devotionals and prayer guides—resources that include creeds, confessions of sin, and written prayers from our forebears. For more than 20 years, I’ve benefited from these resources, and in my 30 Days series I’ve sought to contribute something helpful myself.
Temptation to Overstuff
Overall, I’m encouraged by this renewal. But I do notice a common misstep. When pastors, worship leaders, or devotional writers catch a vision for reintroducing these historic elements, the didactic purpose can easily become so dominant that it eclipses other aims. The teaching aspect of the words we choose takes on outsize influence, and soon the goal shifts to packing as much theology as possible into every form—like someone adding more and more protein powder to a shake. You get the nutrients, but the taste is ruined.
Churches that go this route—or devotionals designed this way—often feel heavy. It’s all a bit much. Too much. Prayers that should lift the heart are so packed with theological detail that they bog down the soul. In trying to cover every doctrine, the words lose their power to stir affection. The sweetness—the encounter with God that helps us taste and see his goodness—slips away. Worship remains edible, yes, but dry and unsatisfying. You’re chewing jerky instead of savoring honey from the comb.
Why Less Is More
In my work on a year-long daily liturgy this past summer, I’ve felt this same pull. As I’ve chosen readings, prayers, confessions, and canticles, I’ve had to remind myself constantly: Less is more. Liturgical elements are formative, yes, but mainly when they move our hearts toward God, not simply when they inform our minds.
The best prayers are geared first to the affections. That’s one reason Thomas Cranmer’s Book of Common Prayer has endured for centuries. In a 2024 conference at Beeson Divinity School, Simeon Zahl described Cranmer’s work as a sophisticated “affective technology”—biblically rich, yet intentionally crafted to evoke repentance, trust, and consolation in Christ. As an example, Zahl pointed to Cranmer’s 1552 confession of sin:
Almighty and most merciful Father,
we have erred and strayed from thy ways like lost sheep.
We have followed too much
the devices and desires of our own hearts.
We have offended against thy holy laws.
We have left undone those things which we ought to have done,
and we have done those things which we ought not to have done,
and there is no health in us:
but thou, O Lord, have mercy upon us, miserable offenders.
Spare thou them, O God, which confess their faults.
Restore thou them that be penitent,
according to thy promises declared unto mankind,
in Christ Jesu our Lord.
And grant, O most merciful Father, for his sake,
that we may hereafter live a godly, righteous, and sober life,
to the glory of thy holy name. Amen.
Note how this prayer doesn’t just state biblical truths; it provides biblical images that gently ease you into a posture of sensing your sin before a holy God and your need for abundant forgiveness. Cranmer’s words are steeped in biblical imagery, but their purpose isn’t merely to inform. They draw us into the Bible’s story, shifting the heart toward repentance and faith. Zahl said it well:
Faith for Cranmer is not an abstraction or a rational assent to information about Christ and his work. Faith in God is something that arises in the context of real feelings of one’s sin and guilt, and its great sign is to have a real experience of consolation through the conviction that one’s sins really are forgiven on account of Christ who looks upon us with such favor.
This is what an order of worship or a pattern for prayer should be going for: We want to arrange the truth in ways that awaken faith and affection, so that we feel the majesty and goodness of God’s grace.
Avoid Two Overreactions
Some, hearing my emphasis on affections, might assume the answer is spontaneity—abandoning forms altogether, since freshness and feeling best come from extemporaneity. But that road often leads right back to the superficiality that marks our age. Mere emotionalism cannot form us in holiness. And much of today’s worship centers not on God’s glory but on the worshiper’s experience.
But the other extreme is also an error: reacting so strongly against superficiality that services become doctrinally dense, prayers overstuffed, and sermons interminable. Ironically, this approach is also worshiper-centered. It’s just that instead of catering to feelings, it caters to intellect, as if informing the mind is the ultimate purpose of worship.
The best patterns avoid these missteps. They direct mind and affections together toward God, leading worshipers into his presence so that truth can be not just known but tasted.
Lift Up Your Hearts
The goal of worship cannot be reduced to an emotional high or an intellectual download. The goal of prayer and worship is to lift our hearts to the Lord, to experience communion with him. Yes, our minds must be engaged, and yes, our emotions are involved, but worship is ultimately encountering God himself.
In reacting against shallow, doctrine-lite services, some liturgy fans risk overcorrecting—loading every worship service or prayer time with so many theological details that the soul can never take flight. Instead of trusting that God’s truth will take root over months and years, we try to force it all into one service or one prayer. That’s when the prayers and confessions become like ice on the wings of a plane, keeping us from takeoff.
If we’re to learn from the best of our Christian heritage, if we’re to plunder the treasure chest of church history for structures, patterns, and prayers from the past, we should remember their primary aim. Not simply to fill our heads. Not simply to produce a feeling. The aim is to bring us before the throne of grace, so that by the Spirit we open ourselves up before our Father and learn to abide in Christ.
When we remember the main goal, we’re free. Free to use whatever forms—ancient confessions, structured prayers, corporate songs—best lift our eyes to the Lord. Free to embrace a way of worship that doesn’t sacrifice the mind for the heart, nor the heart for the mind. Free to encounter the living God, who delights to meet his people on the well-trod paths of saints who have gone before us, and lift our hearts to him.
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