Thoughts on Corporate Worship (Part the First)

As this is something I have been mulling over for a while, there probably will be more to come on this topic.

It seems to me that there are two main schools of thought about being on a corporate worship team.

1. The first and, I think, most common among Christians and worship teams is exemplified by a conversation I had with a friend of mine a few weeks ago.

My husband and I had just gotten back from a Lincoln Brewster concert (which was amazing, by the way) . I was telling my friend, who plays bass, about Norm Stockton, the bass player who records and travels with Lincoln. Hubby and I had been talking about Norm's playing, and he had compared his playing to Billy Sheahan, who has played bass for Steve Vai.

When I mentioned Steve Vai, my friend face went completely blank like he had no idea what I was talking about. So I tried to explain:

"He's a great shred guitarist who..." "Oh, I don't need to listen to any of that. I'm only ever going to do worship."

2. The second, and less common, view is that if you don't know anything about music, stay off the stage.

Some friends of ours used to live in Nashville and at one of their churches, the music pastor wouldn't allow any one on stage unless they had a major contract or were touring with a major artist.

Hubby and I attended an informational meeting about leading worship at our church. They mentioned that they don't want anyone who doesn't have prior band experience to "audition". The three things they said they are looking for in a band are (1) theological soundness, (2) congregational participation and (3) musical quality/stylistic individuality.

In theory, this is great. In practice, what I have seen is that 3 comes first, then 1. If 2 is considered at all, it seems to be almost an afterthought.

Here is my question then:

Shouldn't we be looking for a balance between the two? As Christians, I believe God deserves the absolute best that we can offer him. However, does this mean that we leave the congregation behind so that our music can reach its creative heights?

Growing up?

Over the course of the last three days, I've had as many people back out of coming to my birthday party. One of them was someone I asked 3 1/2 weeks in advance because I know how quickly their schedule fills up. Aside from that, I can't get a firm commitment from any one, except my family.

Part of me feels like, because I'm a "grown-up", people don't feel like it's as important. I think for the most part, it may be true. Most grown ups don't really care if you remember their birthday, or at least act like they don't care.

I didn't get many birthday parties growing up. I throw my own because I think it's important to celebrate the fact that I'm alive & that God has blessed me. Every day, every year is a gift from God. Tomorrow isn't guaranteed, so we should celebrate where we are today.

Part of me wants to deny that this hurts, because, "It shouldn't. I'm a grown up now. Nobody really celebrates birthdays anymore." But it does.

Franciscan Prayer

May God bless you with discomfort at easy answers, half-truths and superficial relationships, so that you may live deep within your heart.

May God bless you with anger at injustice, oppression and exploitation of people, so that you may work for justice, freedom and peace.

May God bless you with tears to shed for those who suffer from pain, rejection, starvation and war, so that you may reach out your hand to comfort them and turn their pain to joy.

And may God bless you with enough foolishness to believe that you can make a difference in this world, so that you can do what others claim cannot be done.

Locked Doors & Abandoned Rooms

Today I unlocked the door to a long unused room in my heart.

My heart pounds in anticipation of what I will find here. I remember so much about this room. There was so much joy here. Love and laughter. Tears, also, but mostly laughter. It was a bright sunny space with many happy memories.

My heart sinks as the door opened. The room is dark and cold. I choke on the thick cloud of dust swirled up from the opening door. I tip-toe across to open the window and let in the light.

My eyes brim with tears as I survey the scene before me.

The furniture is covered with sterile white sheeting. The pictures have been taken off the walls and lined face down along the walls. The paint is cracked and peeling.

The neglect is appalling.

Then I notice something else. Several of the pictures are not just laid by, they have been hurled across the room and left laying, shattered, where they fell. Mixed in with dust on the floor are tear stains and a few blood stains as well.

Suddenly, the other memories flood back in. The pent up anger and jealousy that led to throwing the pictures across the wall. The loneliness and despair that had led to the slow, painful lock down of the room.

The summer there was no longer time for me.

The winter I was replaced.

I stand for a moment, just remembering. I remember the days coming here in tears. I remember the months spent carefully covering the furniture. I remember the day I locked the door not sure when I would return.

Somehow, this neglect and hopelessness seems so much worse. Worse than the rooms I have burned to the ground in my anger. Just down the hall, a door opens to embers and charred beams, but I feel no remorse for that.

My tears well over, I can not help them. This systematic lock down and neglect. I did this. I did it on purpose.

This hurts worse, I feel worse about this room, because this room matters. It was and still is important.

I walk to door. Now a decision must be made.

Do I stay? Do I try to patch that which has been broken and neglected?

Part of me says "No, close the door and walk away." This is the lonely, tired and cynical side of me.

My hope says, "Do not give up. Not yet. It has been a long time, but all is not lost."

My hand is on the doorknob already.

O Father, what do I do?

Flight of Fancy

Something happened this week that has been difficult for me to deal with. I found that the best way for me to deal with my emotions was to write a story. What follows is completely fictional, and any resemblance to real people and real places is probably a figment of your imagination (but not entirely unintentional).


My Lover sent me a wedding ring, by way of a friend. It is the most beautiful piece any one has ever given me. I know that He loves me dearly.

I keep it in my jewelry box. Whenever I'm feeling sad or lonely, I pull it out and remember that He loves me.

A few weeks ago, He sent another friend with a matching pair of earrings. He said, "I just wanted you to remember that I love you."

I was so excited to be so loved. I wore the set to a friend's house. "Look, look what He gave me."

She sighed. "My dear, don't you see that these aren't real?"

She reached for her catalog she always had on hand. "Now these... These are the real ones."

We spent sometime poring over the beautiful pearls and diamond settings.

"These are what real jewelry looks like. Those things you're wearing... Well, can't you see how cheap they are? He probably gave the real ones to your friends and they kept them. Frankly, these look like they came from a vending machine."

My heart was sinking. "But, but... He gave them to me."

"Look," she said. "Your ring, it's plastic. It may look pretty, but let's be honest, it isn't even real. It doesn't look like any of these." She pointed back to the catalog. "And those earrings! Those are even worse! Cheap. Clip-on. Mere imitations of the real thing. I can't believe you even wore them!"

I took them off and packed my treasures away in my purse.

We spent the rest of the time talking about other things.

As I got ready to go, she said, "I would be careful about those friends of yours. I think they're trying to rip you off."

I smiled, but I don't think I successfully hid my sorrow. I thanked her for her concern.

When I got home, I wrote a letter to my Lover. I told Him what had happened, and I asked Him to show me the truth about my jewels.

The next morning, I was delighted to find Him waiting for me. I asked Him again, "Is it true? Were my friends dishonest with me?"

His response was, "My gifts will always reach me you, no matter what."

He asked to see my jewelry. I brought it out.

"Let me show you something." He pulled out the catalog and pointed to several settings. "See how this and this are in your ring? See how these earrings look a little like yours? I didn't want to give you one of these, I wanted to give you something special; something unique."

"Something did get lost though..."

As I watched, He pulled out a kit and started fiddling with the settings and soon, they became even more beautiful than before. They had transformed, before my eyes, into genuine, beautiful settings more breath-taking than any but the most expensive in the catalog.

"Never forget that I love you."

I won't. I placed my jewelry back in the box.

I wonder if I'll ever show anyone else...

Patterns

My husband and I were discussing Story tonight. And how a lot of things that happen in our lives can be described by patterns. Variations on a theme.

I discovered a relational pattern in my life last night.

It goes like this:

I develop a friendship.

The friendship deepens and we become very close. Think Betsy-Tacy.

Something happens. I move. Or she moves. Or someone else comes along. Or she doesn't have time to hang out with me. Or I do something stupid. Or, or, or . . .

We make some half-hearted and feeble attempts to maintain the relationship. A few letters or e-mails. A phone call or two.

Then, even that gradually stops.

I assume that if she wanted to stay in touch, she would call or e-mail. But she never does. And I never do.

And just like that, the ghost of our friendship slips away in to the mists.

Never anything crazy. No fireworks or grand explosions. No bridges burned. Just the long, slow death of neglect.

As I came to this realization, I began to weep. I was grieving for the friendships I have lost. The ones I am currently losing.

For the pattern has begun anew . . .

The pattern must be broken, my child.

When?

Now.

How?

Pursue. Pursue to the ends of the earth and the depths of the sea. I did it for you. Will you do it for her? For Me? Does she deserve any less than you?

An Assault

Father, what are you doing?

My husband's grades were released yesterday. Because of a snafu with his Java file submission, he received one of the lowest grades he's ever gotten on a mid-term. That test was 30% of his grade and dropped his grade from 90 to 73. His professor has continued to refuse to let him submit the two files that didn't get submitted.

He is angry and he feels like God has abandoned him.

We know that God has called him to go to school at this time. We prayed for favor with his professor and it feels like nothing has come of that.

What are you doing? Where is our Advocate?

It's times like these when I don't know what to say or what to do. I am supposed to be his ezer kenegdo and I can't even find an encouraging word to offer him.

His dreams are being assaulted. He is being told that the best he can do, just isn't good enough.

You do not have what it takes.

Get back. You have no business here.

That's what I can do. I can be his ezer kenegdo. I can come to his aid. This is a spiritual assault. It is not about his grades. It is not about his professor. It is not even about his school.

I can fight.