Category: Thoughts

I have a confession to make.

When I lead worship, it feels like I’m putting on a show, like I have to impress the people in the congregation. Because if I don’t, they’ll probably let me know. I get way nervous, worried that my pitch isn’t just right or that I’ll strum the wrong guitar chord. I worry that people are judging me for my musical talents, or because I don’t look worshipful enough. Maybe I’m not saying the right thing at the right time.

When I’m on stage, worship simply feels like a show.

I have another confession to make.

When I’m in the audience, when I’m supposed to be worshiping, it feels like a show. I judge the leader by all their musical mistakes, or sometimes lack thereof. If they’re too good, I think they’re just showing off. If there’s a typo in the powerpoint, I’m gone. If the worship leader says too much I get distracted. If he’s too confident, it seems like he’s just using his talents and not relying on God.

When I’m in the audience, worship simply feels like a show.

When did congregational worship become such a production? I’m all for rock music and giving the worship set all you’ve got, but sometimes I think that’s all I’m doing. Giving it all I’ve got without a second thought about God.

When I’m overwhelmed by electric guitar riffs and choking fog, I want the floor to swallow me up. I want to be anywhere but in that worship space. I start fighting back the tears of frustration because I’m not feeling it. I look at the people in the front row with their hands held high, blocking the power point for everyone behind them. They obviously “get” it. They’re not comparing this to a rock concert.

And then I glance at some of the people around me. Some are barely mumbling along to the words. Some have hands stuffed in their pockets. Some are gazing down at the floor. Some have their arms crossed in front of them and look very unimpressed. I’m obviously not alone.

When I’m on stage leading, sometimes I can’t see past the excited people in the front row. I am thankful for those that keep the energy up and are visibly into the music. But sometimes my gaze falls beyond them, to the people in the back, who look like I must look when I’m out there. And my heart goes out to them.

And I feel bad that I’m only putting on a show for them.

I didn’t get along well with my first voice instructor at Florida State School of Music. Don’t get me wrong; I liked him. He was an interesting fellow. He told me countless stories that made me chuckle; many of them centered around his marriage. He proudly told me how he had been married for some 40+ years and announced this:

“We never once considered divorce… murder a couple of times, but never divorce!”

An old joke, I know, but it was new to me at the time, and I appreciated his efforts to make me feel more comfortable in his voice studio. Our problem was that his teaching style and my learning style never quite “meshed.” I spent a semester in frustration trying in vain to connect with the pieces he gave me, and he spent week after week trying to get through to me. It was a frustrating experience for both of us, and I ended up switching teachers at the end of my first year.

Nonetheless, I am thankful for the time he invested in me, and I have a few memories that stick out to me. Here’s one.

In the midst of another frustrating lesson, my teacher takes a deep breath and pauses. He seems to be thinking as he gazes out the small window of his office door. He strokes his beard for a moment and then looks at me. I am looking down at the music stand in front of me, hoping desperately that the notes on the page will sink into my subconscious, and then flow out of my vocal cords with ease. No such luck yet. Afraid to meet his gaze, I bite my lip and continue to stare at the stanzas in front of me, pretending to scribble notes in the margins. He decides to change the subject.

“You sing in your church choir, right?”

“Yes.”

“Are you doing anything special for Easter?”

“Yes. We’re working on our cantata for Palm Sunday.”

“Are you doing any solos?”

“Yes!” I finally meet his gaze. “I have two solos.” I had been listening to the rehearsal tape for weeks and had been diligently practicing.

“Why don’t you bring those in next week? I’d like to hear them.”

I break into a big smile. Anything to get away from the Nymphs and Shepherds song I had been trudging through for weeks with no breakthrough.

The following week I bring the music. My accompanist plays the intro (we had practiced earlier in the week and she had complimented me!) and I launch into it. I finish to the sound of no applause. I was getting used to that around this school.

He made a slight nod of approval. “Your voice certainly blossoms with a song you connect with.”

See! I think to myself. I knew I didn’t totally suck.

Then he frowns.

Uh oh.

“What bothers me is how churches are performing this mediocre music.”

My heart falls. Mediocre music? What?

I don’t remember his exact quote, but it was something pretty close to that. And at the time, I totally didn’t understand him. I was just offended that my singing was not being praised. I thought he was being super harsh and critical.

Now I get it. Now I agree with him.

In his world filled with Bach cantatas and Mozart requiems, this cheesy little church cantata I was bringing to him didn’t even come close. And it couldn’t. It’s really kind of unfair to compare the two.

I cannot recall the name of the cantata or the title of my solos. The melodies have since left my brain. I’m sure the composer worked very hard on that cantata and I honestly couldn’t come close to putting together a work of that magnitude. But my voice teacher’s question lingers in my brain.

Why are churches performing mediocre music?

In a world where four chord songs reign, it’s hard to find worship music that contains real musical depth. And as a worship leader working with volunteer musicians (and being a pretty mediocre guitar player myself), I understand the need for those easy to pick up four chord songs. But does this have to be all we’re doing?

As much as I never thought I would admit it, sometimes I miss those difficult, sacred pieces I used to perform in music school. Those demanding melodies that required hours of practice and work. I spent hours upon hours perfecting pitch and getting tone just right. I can’t say I’ve ever done that for any worship song.

If worship is all about giving God our best, then why aren’t we doing that?

Christmas Eve is my favorite day of the year. I much prefer it over Christmas Day. The sacredness of Christmas gets lost in scraps of wrapping paper and tangles of ribbons. The excitement of the morning and family time is glorious, but sometimes I get discouraged by the materialism of it all.

Christmas Eve is different. It seems like when the sun sets and darkness swallows the busy day of finishing touches, peace comes upon the earth. It’s like everyone can take a communal deep breath. Preparation is done and we can finally focus on that sweet baby in the manger.

I have many memories of Christmas Eve traditions from growing up.

• Holding a lit candle with wax dripping down my arm while singing Silent Night.
• Driving around admiring Christmas light displays.
• Cheese and crackers with the family.

When I got married, I looked forward to the traditions I would begin with my husband. There is one that I wasn’t expecting, but it is the one I am most looking forward to.

Silence.

Every year, after the Christmas Eve services come to a close, my church opens the sanctuary for communion. They bless the sacraments, then leave them on the altar for people to come and take in their time. There is a note on the door to be silent, and the building is completely quiet. No music playing. Lights are low, with one small light aimed on the porcelain manger set and the Christmas tree softly lit in the corner.

My husband and I walk in, find a quiet spot (usually by the Christmas tree, given my love of them), and sit for as long as we feel the need to. Sometimes I gaze at the lights on the tree, sometimes at the manger. Often I pick up a pew Bible and read through the Christmas story (It’s sad that I usually find myself so consumed during the Christmas season that I don’t take time to meditate on these Scriptures.) Sometimes we hold hands and just quietly sit.

It’s wonderful. With the exception of the year that some people decided to come in and whisper LOUDLY to each other for five minutes, every year has been blissful. (My husband tried to give them a friendly note to let them know that we could hear them, and to gently tell them they were disturbing our moment of quiet. They became very offended and gave him a very rude note back and left in a huff. So annoying. And discouraging. We tried to be nice.)

It’s the Christmas Eve tradition that I never expected to create. I never realized how much I long for silence and stillness in my life until recently. When my husband and I began talking about upcoming Christmas plans, that was the one definite thing we both mentioned. We could take or leave most anything else, but that silent Christmas Eve communion seems to be a given now.

Is there a Christmas Eve tradition you are looking forward to?

In the bustle of the Christmas season, my husband and I received several invites for Christmas parties and get togethers. We turned down all but one and attended on Saturday evening. It was filled with much “merriment” and we did not return home until almost 1:00 a.m. After winding down, we did not fall asleep until after 2. We decided to skip church the next morning and get some needed sleep.

This is nothing new. I must confess; I use any and every possible excuse to sleep in on Sunday. Many of our excuses are completely valid. In the past month, both my husband and I have been sick, and totally exhausted. My hectic schedule as of late has left me with little to offer on the weekend and I usually want nothing more than to hole away at home.

But I must confess again; often I just want to skip church because I really don’t have much desire to be there. I know that more times than not, I will stand there lost in the crowd, wishing desperately that the music will speak to me while it just becomes nothing more than noise. It’s easier to avoid it than attempt to deal with the problem.

Before anyone tries to tell me how important it is to be a part of the body of Christ, let me clarify that I have not completely walked away. I attend a Friday night service at my church. I fellowship and connect with the body of Christ. This service has become more like church to me than typical Sunday morning services. A lot of Sunday mornings, I really don’t feel the need for church, because I’ve already had my church for the week.

Yet, I still feel that I’m running away from my worship issues rather than facing them head on. It’s easier to turn the alarm off on Sunday morning and roll over than walk into church, asking God to meet me there and help me through this mess. Most mornings I wake up with absolutely no desire to go.

Except yesterday morning. I knew we weren’t, but I woke up with a strong desire to go to church. I realized why. Because it is Advent and I miss all the elements of the Advent service. I miss the Advent candle and the carols and the Christmas story read from Matthew and Luke and holly hung throughout the church.

I told my husband that I would like to go to church next week. A few years ago, we decided to attend a different church the week before Christmas; an older church downtown with a huge pipe organ. We’re usually not big organ fans, but there is something about hearing the classic Christmas carols done on organ that just feels more Christmassy. I told my husband that I would like to do that again this year.

It was relieving to wake up with that empty feeling inside me, like something was missing. Sometimes I just feel like a complacent mess, because I can feel nothing more than apathy. Something is missing, and I am glad that I am feeling that.

“Be still and know that I am God…”

Psalm 46:10

I know this verse well. I even knew the reference without looking it up. But guess what? The application of this verse? I suck at it. Totally suck.

I can’t keep still. I have always been the type of person who runs a million miles an hour and never stops and then wonders a) why I’m so tired and b) why I can’t fall asleep at night.

My husband and I took a vacation this year to a beautiful, quiet, mountaintop cabin with the sole purpose of resting; i.e. doing nothing. No sight seeing, no driving all over to visit new places, nada. We promised each other that we would do this and not get swept away with the sparkly draw of souvenir shops and quaint mountain towns (this might be more my weakness than his).

We did it. With the exception of sneaking away for an hour of fishing (my hubby wanted to use the rod and reel he’d bought years ago) and a couple outings for necessities, we did it. We stayed perched in our mountain top view and rested.

It was REEEEALLY hard. Sitting still for four days nearly killed me. I got restless. I got bored and was desperate to get out and explore those mountain towns. But we pushed through and rested.

By the end of the week, I didn’t want to leave. I sadly bid goodbye to my window seat perch and days of journaling and coffee. I tearfully packed up the car, and reluctantly headed back into my hectic life. I was able to be still, but I had to be forced to do it. The end result was awesome.

I would love to have more stillness in my worship. But in most of my church worship experiences, there is none. It seems that every moment of quiet is filled. There is pre-sevice music. The service begins with a loud, energetic song that builds up in volume. Announcements are done by some energetic staff member or volunteer who barely leaves room for a breath. More loud music. Instrumental interludes are filled with some dramatic thought by the worship leader. Even the prayer time isn’t allowed any quiet. Out of nowhere, soft keyboard or strummed guitar comes through the speakers. Sermon time is (usually) good, but it doesn’t allow me time alone with my thoughts as I’m busy processing the lesson. Even communion time isn’t given the quiet it deserves. It seems most communion time is filled with singing or some sort of special music. Then as we leave, there is a reprise of one of the worship songs.

Not a single moment of stillness. Not a single moment of quiet in which to sit alone with my thoughts, process what’s going through my brain, and offer up what’s left to God. I walk out feeling no more refreshed then when I walked in. Often, more exhausted too.

If being still is a command of God, why isn’t the church making stillness more accessible to us? If people are anything like me, they need a little encouragement and prodding toward the quiet. Our lives have made it incredibly difficult to find it ourselves.

My cry and plea to the church is to stop doing and help us just be.

Walking into the dimly lit sanctuary, I find myself coughing from the fog that is descending upon the space. Colored lights are set dramatically at different angles on stage. I hear someone comment behind me, ?Is this worship or a Pink Floyd concert?? They laugh at their joke, but I am uneasily asking myself the same thing.

Worship begins. Low mellow music fills the air for a few measures while the stage lights slowly bring the band into view. Electric guitar riffs blare through the speaker directly over my head and catchy drumbeats cause everyone to rise to their feet. The sound of hands clapping fills my ears. The worship leader takes center stage and shouts, ?WE WORSHIP YOU JESUS!? The congregation roars in approval.

I stand alone in the crowd, feeling like I?m being swallowed. Tears prick my eyes, but these are not the tears of gratefulness that I used to offer in worship. These are tears of frustration. I feel no worshipfulness. I feel empty.

?God,? I whisper to myself, ?Where are You??

I know He?s probably here somewhere, but I can?t seem to find Him. I can?t connect in worship anymore. As soon as the music starts, the wall goes up. I try to connect, but most feeble attempts are just that and nothing more. The words mean nothing and become a jumble on the PowerPoint screen. The band soon becomes nothing more than loud noise. It all starts to seem so showy.

So instead of worshipping, I find myself becoming cynical and critical. I stop singing. I judge every typo on the screen (Your all I want? Really? Who?s proofing these things?) or missed note on stage. I walk away wondering what the point of it all was.

It wasn?t always like this. I used to thrive on worship. I am a vocalist, and used to be one of those peppy singers at the front of the stage. If I wasn?t on stage, I was in the front row with hands raised high to the heavens.

So where did this disconnect begin happening? Why has it happened? Is there something to this, a lesson to be learned? Do I have a message to share with the church or simply gunk to work through in my own life? This is why I will write; to discover all that is going on under the surface. I will sort out the good and hopefully sift away the bad.? I will learn as I go and maybe share something of value.

Hopefully I will be able to look at worship in a whole new light and emerge on the other side of this vast valley.