I grew up in a little country church where making a joyful noise wasn’t just encouraged—it was expected. Psalm 100:1 says, “Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all ye lands.” Now, I can’t say for sure if the psalmist was giving my family a personal shoutout, but I like to think it’s divine proof that the Lands were always meant to sing—loudly, enthusiastically, and occasionally off-key.

Because let me tell you—if there was one thing we country Baptists knew how to do, it was make a noise. And not just any noise—a full-throated, soul-stirring kind of joyful noise that could shake the dust off the rafters and maybe startle an angel or two.

The congregation didn’t just sing in that church; they declared.  The shape-note singing from that little choir wasn’t polished, but it was powerful. When those voices lifted, so did weary hearts. And as a fidgety little boy sitting on those hardwood pews—likely scuffing up the floor with my Hot Wheels—I couldn’t help but listen.

The Soundtrack of My Soul

Even today, if I close my eyes, I can still hear them.

“Farther along, we’ll know all about it…”—sung with the kind of longing that only comes from folks who have lived some hard days but still believe in the goodness of God.

“I know, I know, my name is written there!”—declared with conviction, as if daring doubt itself to challenge the truth.

“It is well, it is well with my soul.”—and just like that, peace would settle over the sanctuary like a steady hand on a weary shoulder.

Those weren’t just songs. They were anchors. They were prayers set to melody, reminders that no matter what life threw our way—be it heartache, loss, or a hard week at the mill—we had a hope that could not be shaken.

A Holy Racket

Now, I’ll be honest—some of the noises in that little church were more noise than joyful. The piano was sometimes a half-step behind, the tempo shifted depending on who was leading, and the harmony lines could wander like a lost sheep. Clapping often had a mind of its own, and the occasional unexpected shout could jolt even the most composed among us. But you know what? I think heaven loved it. Because God isn’t listening for perfection—He’s listening for hearts poured out in worship.

And that’s what I learned in that little church. Worship isn’t about flawless performance; it’s about full surrender. It’s about belting out a song when you feel like whispering. It’s about lifting your hands when you feel like folding them. It’s about making a joyful noise—not just when life is easy, but when life is anything but.

The Song Still Sings

All these years later, those old hymns still rise up in me when I least expect it. In the car, in the shower, in moments when life feels overwhelming. The melody might be shaky, but the truth in those words stands firm.

Because some days, I need to remember that farther along, I will understand.
Some days, I need to stand on the assurance that my name is written there.
And every day, I need to rest in the unshakable truth that it is well with my soul.

So, if Psalm 100 says all the Lands should make a joyful noise, then who am I to argue? I’ll keep on singing, off-key and all. And I hope you will too. Because the best worship isn’t the kind that sounds impressive—it’s the kind that lifts weary hearts and points them home.

Now go ahead—make a joyful noise today. Heaven’s listening.