Clap if you love Jesus (or....don't)

I’ve been in conservative non-denominational churches my whole life. I know the drill. The songs are theological. The sermons are exegetical. The coffee is… present. But here’s something that’s always quietly baffled me, like a kid wearing a tie to gym class: Why don’t we clap more? Seriously—why don’t we clap?

I’m not talking about spontaneous outbreaks of revival where someone starts stomping their foot and shouting hallelujah while waving a tambourine in the air. I’m not asking for jazz hands or Broadway. I’m just wondering why, in these stoic sanctuaries of right doctrine and firm handshakes, clapping is apparently a sin that didn’t make it into Romans 1 but still gets treated like it did.

You know what I mean. The worship team finishes a powerful song. Not showy. Not self-indulgent. Just a beautiful offering of skill and reverence. And then… nothing. Maybe a few polite coughs. Possibly a sniffle. One guy clears his throat like he’s filing a noise complaint. But no clapping. The team quietly retreats from the platform like ninja theologians, and everyone pretends nothing just happened.

Even when someone sings a solo—say, a young girl nervously giving her all on “It Is Well”—we just blink at her in supportive silence. Sure, the woman next to you might whisper, “So sweet,” but you know what would be really sweet? Clapping to show our support.

And heaven forbid anyone so much as attempts to clap after the sermon. That’ll get you a look. A very specific look. The kind of look that says, “We believe in the sufficiency of Scripture, not your applause, Jeremiah.” I’m not advocating we turn Sunday morning into a concert with fog machines and t-shirt cannons (actually the cannons would be pretty sweet). I’m just saying—maybe, just maybe—we could occasionally physiologically acknowledge that something beautiful or meaningful just happened.

Instead, we’ve got this weird, unspoken culture that seems to fear any expression of appreciation might inflate someone's ego. Or worse it could be mistaken for emotionalism. We can cry when Sam and Frodo nearly die in Mordor, but not nod too hard during the third verse of “Come Thou Fount.” Because, heaven help us, someone might think we’re charismatics. And if there's one thing we're absolutely sure of—more than the inerrancy of the Word, more than the depravity of man—it’s that we are not charismatics.

But here’s the thing. Clapping isn’t always about entertainment. Sometimes, it’s just a very human way of saying, “That moved me.” Or, “Thank you.” Or, “We’re with you.” It’s the communal version of a smile.

Now, I get it—some pastors don’t want applause because they fear it shifts the glory away from God. That’s a noble concern. Humble, even. But can we be honest for a second? If the guy just spent 45 minutes breaking down Galatians 3 and the congregatio is sitting there visibly stirred, maybe a little clapping wouldn’t derail the doctrine. Maybe it’s okay to say, “That helped me see Jesus more clearly. Thank you.”

Or is the only permissible affirmation the occasional, hushed “Amen,” said softly enough to not rattle the pews?

Imagine if the early church had applied this logic. Paul gets done reading his letter to the Philippians—nothing. Crickets. Peter heals a guy—dead silence. Jesus raises Lazarus, and everyone stands there with their arms crossed like, “Hmph. Well, let’s not make this about him.”

What if clapping isn’t a threat to reverence, but a reflection of it? What if gratitude and joy and participation are actually part of worship, not distractions from it?

Of course, I’m not saying every church needs to install an applause track or start slow-clapping during communion. But a little freedom to express delight in what God is doing? That might not be a slippery slope to chaos. It might just be… human. So next Sunday, if the Spirit leads and your hands feel tingly, go ahead—clap. Even if it’s just once. Even if you get the look. Maybe, just maybe, someone else is waiting for permission to do the same.

And who knows—maybe one day, we’ll look back and wonder why we spent so many years worshiping like golf spectators at a funeral. Until then, I’ll be over here, clapping in my heart. Probably off beat. But clapping all the same.