Seek His Face, Not His Hand

I’ve been working on the next podcast episode, diving deep into “My Everything” by Valley One Worship, and something unexpected happened. The more I studied, the more uncomfortable I became. The lyrics are beautiful — “I’m all Yours… You’re my everything” — but as I sat there with my Bible open, preparing to talk about what it means to give God our whole heart, I had to admit something I didn’t want to say out loud:

I haven’t been yearning for His presence.

And that realization stopped me. I just stared at the page for a while, feeling a little numb and a little ashamed, because I know God’s nearness is what I was created for. I know His presence is where life and peace are found. But lately, if I’m honest, I’ve been doing a lot more thinking about Him than seeking Him. I’ve been researching, outlining, pulling Scriptures, and connecting themes — all good, necessary things — but I’ve been drifting from the very presence I’m talking about.

That unsettled me, so I started following the thread of that longing — or maybe more accurately, the lack of it. The phrase “seek His face, not His hand” kept running through my mind, so I opened to Psalm 27:8:

“You have said, ‘Seek My face.’
My heart says to You,
‘Your face, Lord, do I seek.’”

I sat there with that verse for a long time, underlining and rereading it, whispering the words slowly. The Hebrew word for “face” there — panim — means so much more than features; it means presence. When David says, “Your face, Lord, do I seek,” he’s talking about turning fully toward God, stepping into closeness, choosing intimacy over distance.

And I realized something that made me pause: David hears God’s invitation and responds wholeheartedly. “Your face, Lord, do I seek.” But my heart? My heart hesitated. I wanted to want Him… but wanting didn’t come naturally right now.

So I sat there and whispered a prayer I didn’t plan on: “Lord, I want to want You again.”

That led me to Exodus 33, a passage I’ve read many times but somehow missed the weight of until now. Israel had rebelled against God, and yet He still tells Moses that He will give them the Promised Land. Everything they’ve been waiting for — the blessings, the inheritance, the fulfillment of His word — but there’s a condition: He says His presence won’t go with them.

I thought about how I might respond if I were there, hearing that. There are days I think I would have taken the land anyway. I would have said, “Thank You, Lord, for keeping Your promise,” and convinced myself it was enough. But Moses doesn’t. He refuses to move forward without God:

“If Your presence does not go with us,
do not send us up from here.”

I read that line slowly, again and again, until my chest felt tight. Moses wasn’t seeking God’s hand. He didn’t want the blessings without the Giver. He wanted God Himself.

And I had to stop and ask myself the hard question: Do I?

That’s when I turned to Psalm 42, where the psalmist writes,

“As the deer pants for streams of water,
so my soul pants for You, my God.
My soul thirsts for God, for the living God.
When can I go and meet with God?”

Those verses used to mirror how I felt in seasons when my heart burned for Him. Lately, though, I’ve read them and thought, I don’t know if I even thirst like that right now. And admitting that was painful.

But as I sat with it, something shifted. This psalm isn’t written from the mountaintop; it’s written from the valley. The longing isn’t born from already feeling close to God — it’s born from wanting to be close to Him again. The psalmist isn’t saying, “I already have You.” They’re crying out, “God, I need You.” And I realized… maybe that’s where I am too.

It’s not that I don’t believe. It’s not that I don’t love Him. It’s that my heart has been dulled by distractions, worries, expectations, and striving — even striving in the name of ministry. I’ve been busy preparing content about God instead of resting in the reality of being with God.

That led me to John 15, where Jesus says,

“Abide in Me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit by itself, unless it abides in the vine, neither can you, unless you abide in Me.”

That word abide — meno in Greek — means to remain, to dwell, to stay. It has nothing to do with chasing a feeling. It’s not about working myself into a place of passion or waiting until my emotions catch up. It’s about choosing to stay close to Him no matter what my heart feels in the moment.

And that was freeing.

Because I’d been treating my longing like something I had to create or stir up on my own. But what if it’s the opposite? What if the longing grows because I choose to stay? The more I’ve sat with Him, the more I’ve opened His Word without an agenda, the more I’ve just been quiet in His presence, the more I’ve found that my desire is returning — slowly, gently, almost without me noticing at first.

And then I thought about Mary in Luke 10. I imagined her sitting at Jesus’ feet while Martha busied herself preparing and serving. I imagined Martha frustrated, stressed, distracted, and so sure she was doing what mattered most. That’s where I’ve been — busy, trying to make everything right, working so hard even in ministry.

But Mary chose differently. She sat still. She listened. She rested in His presence. And Jesus says,

“Mary has chosen the good portion,
and it will not be taken away from her.”

I think that’s what this whole season has been teaching me: I don’t have to manufacture longing; I just have to choose Him. To sit at His feet even when my heart feels cold. To open my Bible even when I don’t feel hungry. To whisper prayers even when I don’t know what to say.

And somewhere in that stillness, in that choosing, the yearning grows again.

I don’t think it’s an accident that studying “My Everything” for this podcast brought me here — to the realization that I cannot say He’s my everything while treating His presence as optional. I can’t invite others into worship if I’m not abiding myself. But I also don’t think God is standing over me with disappointment. I think He’s inviting me closer — gently, patiently, faithfully.

So I’ve been sitting with this quiet prayer:
“Lord, teach me to seek Your face again. Teach me to want You more than what You give. Teach me to abide.”

And the more I do, the more I find that the longing comes — not because I chased the feeling but because I’ve met Him in the seeking.

If you’ve been in this place too, I just want to tell you what I’m learning: God isn’t waiting for us to feel on fire before we come to Him. He meets us in the middle of our apathy, our distraction, our wandering. And He calls us back, not with shame but with invitation:

“Seek My face.”

And maybe your prayer, like mine, is simply this:
“Lord, I want to want You.”

Sometimes, that’s where worship begins.