Dissolving Into Music

I often watch my son when he listens to music on his mp3, and I see him close his eyes to go into his own world where there is only him and the music. I have often done the same thing. 

I remember a time when he was first learning the guitar and I played along with him as he put his notes together. He was almost breathless with excitement that he could play together with someone else.  I remember that feeling, too.

I’ve read some of the things I’ve written about music and I’ve tried to understand how my relationship with it has evolved.  I’ve spoken of music as if it has been a turbulent love affair. I love it. I hate it. It’s boring and has let me down. It came back to me and I remembered why I loved it.  We’ve done everything except agree to “just be friends.”

I think it’s because for a long time, I associated music with God, as if it were a tangible version of the Holy Spirit. It was my way to be in touch with the Divine Entity. If a piece of music was especially effective in church, it could give me chills and I’d feel the Presence. I’d find assurance and comfort in that feeling.  And when I lost it, I felt betrayed by the music.  Over time, I’ve associated it less and less in this way, until it seemed a hollow, mocking thing. 

But lately, music has become wonderful again, only I don’t associate it with God’s presence anymore.

I hear it as the expression of the musicians and the composers.  And that’s pretty wonderful. It’s wonderful when one of the kids at church struggles through a song in front of the church—because that’s the child’s expression.  It’s wonderful when a musician with years of training performs for an audience because I’m hearing a testimony of that person’s life.  It’s wonderful when I get to perform because I’m doing something that expresses something about me.

I especially love singing and playing with a group of friends and it all comes together to sound right. I love getting people at church to sing the old familiar songs with me, perhaps showing them that they still have music inside them.

It’s still spiritual to me, but it has more to do with my spirit.

I think that when I die, my soul will dissolve into music and rise into heaven to combine with everyone else’s melodies in a grand symphony. 

And maybe, just maybe, I’ll see God there.  

Professional Crisis

Egad! I’ve become one of those pansy-assed sissies that sip tea instead of coffee.  It’s not even real tea. It’s herbal tea. 

You can’t be a preacher in these parts and drink hot tea.  If you want to relate to people, you have to be able to plunk yourself down at any time of the day and drink the gawdawfulest, caffeine laced, black coffee that has distilled on the burner all day until it has become a near solid.  

They teach this in first year seminary. 

I now know that I’m in full professional decline. First, I started adding cream and sweetener (in seminary, this would lower your average by one letter grade). Then I went to decaf which is the worst kind of hypocrisy. 

To say it’s not my fault, to protest that caffeine now makes my heart race and my chest flutter—well it’s just sad. My colleagues shift uncomfortably and look at each other with sideward glances as they assure me that they don’t think any less of me. 

But I know what they’re saying when I’m out of earshot. They’re saying that I brought it on myself, that it has to be my own fault. 

But they’d be wrong, I protest. It could happen to any one of them, too.  As Job once told his so called friends, “Look on me and be afraid!” 

Next thing you know, I’ll have to give up fried chicken.

And that really hurts. 

Vicarious Thrills

It wasn’t too long ago that I read from a textbook that ministers and counselors can be tempted to get their vicarious thrills through the personal accounts of people who come to them for help.  For instance, while the clergyperson may not have engaged in many sexual adventures, he could enjoy hearing about what other people have done when they confess in the counseling room.

As soon as I read it, I realized that I used to do that.  However, I grew out of it before I read that it was a problem.  I couldn’t really draw a clear boundary back then, but I gradually realized I was on the wrong side of the line. I was using someone else’s misery to fill an emptiness in my own life.

When people come to me they’re often terribly conflicted about their pasts and they’re looking for resolution and perhaps absolution. They don’t intend to be a source of entertainment. 

Well, okay some of them do, but I’ll write about that another time.

I wish I had had better training in my younger days. However, we focused primarily on the study of scriptural texts and articulating doctrine. Nobody warned us of the temptations that few people other than ministers and counselors face. 

As I matured, I sharpened my focus on the concept that I’m supposed to help people, not use them. Plus--and this is a big thing--over the years, the sadness, cruelty, and pain of people’s lives have had a cumulative effect on me.  I’m still interested in being of help--sometimes even passionate, They honor me with their trust.  and I find satisfaction in helping. But I'm no longer excited by someone else's misadventures. I’m usually relieved to find refuge at home at the end of the day.    

The Old (Crazy) Songs

Here are some words to a song that was popular in the fundamental conservative denomination in which I grew up. 

Troublesome times are here, 

filling men’s hearts with fear

Freedom we all hold dear now is at stake….

Jesus is coming soon, 

morning or night or noon,

Many will meet their doom

Trumpets will sound….

Believe it or not, this was one of those “feel good” songs, where people stood up, swayed, and clapped their hands, smiling at each other, marveling at how they could worship and have fun at the same time. 

Here’s another one:

It’s gonna rain. Yeah, it’s gonna rain

Oh, you better get ready and bear this in mind.

For God showed Noah the rainbow sign

It won’t be water, but fire this time….

The teenagers would rock to this one, using it as a way to get the joint jumping just before we had pizza and volleyball. 

We had several other tunes that were catchy enough, but as anyone in their right minds could see, the message was full of anxiety, doom, and destruction.

It took me a long time to see how nutty we were: “We’re gonna be destroyed. We deserve it. Praise God!” And then we'd tell each other that heaven would be just like this.

It was more than conflicting. It reflected a crazy, schizoid lifestyle full of depression and anxiety.   

When I became a minister within that community, I considered myself a reformer, someone who could help deliver us all from our craziness. My efforts were often not appreciated. I got into more trouble telling people they were okay, that God loved them, and that they were going to heaven. 

After a few years, I quit trying to save the “saved,” and I moved on.

Now here’s something really odd to me.  I get a weird nostalgia when I think of that crazy music. It’s part of my childhood. Sometimes it feels like it was somebody else’s life. I miss it.

Then I take an aspirin and lie down until the feeling passes.  

Christmas Crap

I’m just going to come right out and say it.

Christmas sucks and I wish it were over.

I’ve preached on how we should not let ourselves be ruled by a negative attitude.  I’m singing the music. I’m being the life of the parties.  

But I’m faking it, as usual

There are people in recovery who are trying not to start drinking again.   I’ve dealt with too much death and done too many funerals before or just after Christmas Day. 

Now, I still like the story of Christ’s birth who is a symbol of hope and a promise of peace.  I like how the mystical and the earthy elements are woven together: dreams and visions vs. pregnancy and traveling. Angels singing and shepherds listening. A star shining over a stable. 

As a father, I get how a child can be a God figure.

Holding onto that makes it possible to bear all of the crap and push onto the new year.  

Beware the Friendly Faces

When I go to a new church, the people who are friendliest at first are usually the ones I can’t trust. They’ll take me to lunch, give me tickets to ball games, and sit on the front row at church and beam as I preach. But they’re the ones who want something from me, who have an agenda that they want me to support.  And they’re usually the ones who got rid of the last preacher. 

I am reminded of a movie called “Romero,” a true story of an Archbishop appointed to San Salvador.  He was soft spoken and physically frail, and the local powers figured he’d be easy to control.

He wasn’t. 

There was a party to welcome him and people brought him lavish gifts for which he politely thanked them. However, he was ecstatic when a poor shoe maker gave him shoes with soft soles so he could walk comfortably.  He wore them all the time as he walked to the villages of the poor.

The frail, soft spoken priest became the champion for the poor, speaking powerfully against the wealthy families, and the corrupt government officials. 

He was assassinated—shot while he presided over Mass.

I’ve been here long enough for the tide to have turned in my church. The ones who were happy to have me here are not so happy now. They can’t say anything because I’m pretty popular with the others.

They really ought to be grateful I’m as old as I am, because as a younger man I wouldn’t have tolerated them so much, and I would have looked for ways to make them go away. 

But they won’t go away. They’ve been here so long that even their enemies tolerate them. They’ll get quieter and bide their time until I’m not doing so well. When my vitality flags, or I have personal complications that come from having family, or if the church suffers some discouragement, they’ll move against me.  And they might win.  In fact, they probably will.

That would be a shame. This church, like most, has a short lifespan. It won’t last another ten years unless it makes some major changes. Can they make them?

It’s iffy. Chances are they won’t, especially if they involve themselves in another power struggle that wastes time and energy.  They can’t afford the luxury of playing this game anymore.

But here are some things for me to consider.

First, I like this church. 

Second, I like this town. I like the people. I appreciate how pretty the scenery is.  I’m really pretty happy here. I could even make some friends, maybe. 

And third, I didn’t come here to close this church down. I intend to light it up. It might burn down but it won’t shut down.

 

This isn’t San Salvador and I’m not Romero. Let them take their best metaphorical shot at me.  I’ve got work to do.  

A Better Place

I’m in a better place these days.

It’s amazing how pleasant things can be when you have trees and grass and flowers outside, a nice house to live in, and people who act glad to see me when they come near—and some of them may even be genuine. 

It’s not a perfect church. Plenty of problems to go around, but of course, that’s why I work here.

I’ve been busy with my new situation here and that’s why I haven’t blogged, but I’d like to get back to it if there’s anybody out there who still checks this blog out.  I have some more to say.

Since I’m in a better mood, I’ve decided to change the look, brighten things up a bit. So I hope you like it. 

CG