During my late teen years, I went through one of the darkest seasons of my life. It’s a story that, if fully told, could fill an entire book and then some, one I’m actually working on. But for now, let me give you just a glimpse of it.
Imagine being verbally torn down by someone who although was not my mother, was supposed to love you the most, someone who should have been a nurturing, motherly figure. Instead, this person told me I was unworthy, unattractive, and incapable of accomplishing anything significant. Lies about me were whispered to others in church, and of course, people believed them. After all, who would question an elderly relative over a quiet, insecure teenager?
Every Sunday, I walked into that sanctuary and felt the eyes of judgment following me. Their stares burned like fire through my skin. I could almost hear the whispers. I wanted to disappear. Church, the place meant to be my refuge, became a place to prove myself. Every Sunday became an exhausting pilgrimage: I went seeking answers from God, desperate for Him to clear my name, to fix things, and to vindicate me.
But somewhere along that painful journey, I forgot something vital.
“Enter His gates with thanksgiving and His courts with praise.” — Psalm 100:4
I was entering with hurt, with questions, and with a deep desire to be understood, but not with thanksgiving. Not with praise. I didn’t realize how much bitterness had quietly taken over my worship.
One night, during a youth event in New York City, everything changed. The service was full of spontaneous praise, hundreds of young people lifting their voices, shouting, singing, and dancing before God. But my attitude didn’t match the atmosphere. I wasn’t misbehaving; I was just still, reserved, quietly worshiping in my own way. But God had something deeper in mind.
You see, He wasn’t trying to fix the noise around me, He was trying to free the silence within me.
That night, during the praise, I heard a voice. Clear. Audible. Real. It said,
“Open your mouth and praise Me.”
I lifted my head, startled. I looked around to see who had said it, but everyone was deep in worship. No one was looking at me. Yet I couldn’t shake the sense that the voice surrounded me and came from within me at the same time. So I obeyed, just a little, I raised my voice slightly.
Then I heard it again, louder this time.
“Open your mouth and praise Me.”
I lifted my voice a bit more.
Then the third time, the voice thundered within me, shaking me to the core.
“OPEN YOUR MOUTH AND PRAISE ME!”
And in that moment, something broke. I released a shout of praise that I had never known was inside me. Tears, joy, and freedom, all at once. It felt as if invisible chains were ripped from my heart. I wasn’t praising out of emotion anymore; I was praising out of revelation. I had just encountered the living God.
That night, I didn’t just find relief; I found release.
God wasn’t just answering my cry, He was restoring my ability to see Him rightly.
It wasn’t until years later that I fully understood what God had done that night. He was teaching me that praise is not a reaction to how life is going; praise is a revelation of who God is.
In that youth rally, my personal “King Uzziah” had died.
And that’s where Isaiah’s story comes in.
“In the year that King Uzziah died, I saw the Lord, high and exalted, seated on a throne; and the train of His robe filled the temple.” — Isaiah 6:1
This verse marks a turning point in Isaiah’s life, and maybe it can in ours too.
King Uzziah had been one of Judah’s good kings. He started his reign at sixteen and ruled for fifty-two years. The Bible says that as long as he sought the Lord, God made him prosper. Under his leadership, Judah flourished. He built towers, invented war machines, cultivated the land, and led the people to victory after victory. The nation was stable, secure, and successful. Life was good.
Then Uzziah died, and along with his passing, the sense of security that the people had enjoyed for over half a century also vanished.
When a strong leader falls, fear rises. When something familiar collapses, uncertainty fills the air. Isaiah’s world was suddenly fragile. The throne of Judah was empty. But that’s when Isaiah saw something that changed everything.
“I saw the Lord, high and exalted, seated on a throne.”
The earthly throne was empty, but the heavenly throne was not.
God was still seated. Still ruling. Still glorious.
When I think about that vision Isaiah saw, I can’t help but remember that night in New York. My King Uzziah, my sense of safety, my need for approval, my reputation, my pain—all of it had to die before I could see the Lord high and exalted.
Sometimes God allows the things we cling to—our titles, our relationships, and our expectations—to fall away so we can finally see who He’s always been.
Isaiah saw the Lord after the king died.
I saw the Lord after I surrendered my silence.
You might see the Lord after you release that worry, that guilt, that bitterness, and that need to be understood.
When our perspective changes and God surpasses our pain, worship naturally arises. It’s no longer about what we need from God but about who He is.
Isaiah describes the scene with breathtaking imagery:
“Above Him were seraphim, each with six wings: with two they covered their faces, with two they covered their feet, and with two they were flying.
And they were calling to one another:
‘Holy, holy, holy is the Lord Almighty;
the whole earth is full of His glory.’”
— Isaiah 6:2–3
Imagine it. The temple shaking. Smoke filling the air. Angelic beings crying out “Holy” over and over again, not because they’re bored, but because every second they look at God, they see something new that overwhelms them with awe.
Isaiah’s response?
“Woe to me! I am ruined!”
That’s what happens when we truly see God; our pride melts. Our complaints shrink. Our focus changes.
I experienced that too. That night, when I shouted for the first time, I wasn’t shouting at my circumstances anymore. I was shouting to a holy God.
And that’s what changed me.
When Isaiah saw the Lord, he noticed something small but significant:
“The train of His robe filled the temple.”
In ancient times, a king’s robe symbolized his power. The longer the train, the greater his glory. For God’s robe to fill the temple means His glory leaves no space untouched. There’s no corner of our lives He doesn’t fill, if we allow Him to.
When we praise, we’re not just singing songs. We’re acknowledging that His presence fills our space, even our brokenness.
That’s why praise is powerful. It realigns our perspective. It magnifies God and minimizes everything else.
Ezekiel saw Him too.
“From His waist up He looked like glowing metal, as if full of fire, and from there down He looked like fire; and brilliant light surrounded Him… This was the appearance of the likeness of the glory of the Lord. When I saw it, I fell facedown.” — Ezekiel 1:27–28
Stephen saw Him while being stoned.
“But Stephen, full of the Holy Spirit, looked up to heaven and saw the glory of God, and Jesus standing at the right hand of God.” — Acts 7:55
Paul saw Him on the road to Damascus.
“A light from heaven flashed around him… and he fell to the ground.” — Acts 9:3–4
John saw Him in Revelation.
“His eyes were like blazing fire… His voice like rushing waters… His face like the sun shining in all its brilliance. When I saw Him, I fell at His feet as though dead.” — Revelation 1:14–17
Every one of them had the same response, awe.
And that’s the perspective we often lose when life gets hard. We turn God into our problem solver, our comfort dispenser, and our last resort. We look for answers when we should be looking at His glory.
Psalm 100:4 says,
“Enter His gates with thanksgiving and His courts with praise.”
That’s not just poetic language, it’s a divine invitation. Praise is the password to God’s presence.
When we praise Him, walls fall. Chains break. Darkness lifts. Not because of emotional hype, but because we step into alignment with truth.
When I shouted that night, it wasn’t the volume that changed me; it was the surrender. I had finally entered His gates the right way, with thanksgiving, with praise, with my eyes fixed on Him.
I discovered that praise isn’t about denying our pain; it’s about dethroning it. It’s about replacing the voice of hurt with the voice of truth.
When we praise, God becomes bigger, not because He grows, but because our perspective finally does.
Isaiah 66:1 reminds us,
“Heaven is My throne, and the earth is My footstool,” says the Lord.
Picture that. The entire earth—mountains, oceans, and continents—fits under His feet. And yet, this same God bends low enough to whisper to a broken teenager in a church in New York City, “Open your mouth and praise Me.”
That’s the God we serve.
So right now, wherever you are, I invite you to pause.
Close your eyes. Take a deep breath.
Don’t ask for anything. Don’t say a word. Just picture yourself standing before the Almighty, His robe filling the space around you, His light illuminating every dark corner.
Let your heart bow before Him.
Let your soul whisper, Holy, holy, holy.
That’s what Isaiah saw. That’s what I experienced. And that’s what you can experience too when you make God bigger in your life through praise.
Praise is not noise. It’s perspective.
It’s the moment we stop magnifying the problem and start magnifying the One who reigns over it all.
Maybe your King Uzziah has died; maybe it’s a job, a dream, a relationship, or even your own confidence. But don’t let the loss stop you. Look up. See the Lord, high and exalted, seated on His throne.
Let praise rise, not from convenience, but from conviction.
Because when you see Him clearly, everything else fades into the background. And like Isaiah, like Ezekiel, like Stephen, like Paul, and like John, you’ll find yourself face down, undone, yet completely free.
Now, praise with that understanding.
Make God bigger.
Let His robe fill your temple.
Let His glory fill your heart.
And let your voice, once silenced by pain, become the very sound that announces your freedom.