"indecision's bugging me / if you don't want me set me free"
The Clash, 1981
This is for my friends and acquaintances at church.
Our church has recently hired a new pastor, and the process of selecting and hiring him was fraught with conflict. While my husband and I were surprised and saddened by some of the ways that disagreement was approached during that process, that's not why we have left. This new pastor seems not to be our cup of tea in terms of his personal and preaching styles, but that is also not why.
We also haven't exactly left; as the lyric above suggests, we're fumbling into a transition period and we're not sure what's next.
The reason we are entering this transition is because of the music pastor. If you've ever heard me onstage at our church, you know that singing in worship is my passion and my gift. If you have only seen me rarely, that is the problem. I have not sung in our contemporary service since December of '10, and I have only sung at all in our traditional service twice this past summer. These two Sundays were to fill space while our choir was on hiatus. While I was happy to sing those days, it doesn't address the problem.
I tried to address the problem. I complained bitterly. As you know, this pastor chose someone close to him to be a kind of co-leader, and admitted to me that advancing that person's career was his priority. I wrote long, long emails and had long meetings with people I thought could at least get the pastor to moderate his position. Maybe he could advance that person's career 95% of the time, and throw me a bone once a quarter? No, apparently he would not. I tried hard to stay in conversation with this music pastor but it's my belief that he was not honest with me, and may not have been honest with us as a body about his intentions. In our last talk he told me something designed to hurt, and I found out it was an unambiguous lie.
There was so much more to it. Far more musicians and singers left than stayed, and any of them will agree that there was arrogance, unprofessional choices, hostility, condescension, and a culling of the less skilled singers that was needlessly ruthless and insulting. It was my belief that this pastor was operating out of his brokenness and inexperience, and with ten years' more experience and age, I hoped I could make a difference. Somewhere.
I could not. I tried to tell the discarded singers that the "professional world" is not this harsh, as this pastor would have them believe. (I have been to Broadway auditions kinder than the auditions this pastor set up). But they were (still are) so hurt by their demotions that I don't think I helped much. I told this pastor as gently as I could the effect that some of his less-than-worshipful choices were having, and the hurts caused by his less-than-friendly demeanor. He seemed to listen at first, but grew impatient as the months went by. I don't blame him - it's not fun to be disagreed with and challenged.
I tried to get people in leadership positions to get him to change, and I was told this pastor had been talked to, and then this pastor told me he would change. He asked if I wanted to "come back" to our contemporary service to solo and lead worship. I said I would.
Nearly two months later, I realize that I was suckered. Very little has changed.
So, yes, I am sulky and disappointed and offended that I don't have the spotlight as much as someone else. You can see it that way if you like. But what lies beneath is what really hurts, like a punch in the gut every Sunday I sit in that service. What's beneath is a church that doesn't seem to care.
When I was single, and a new Christian, my church at that time had very strict rules of conduct for singers and anyone who appeared on stage. Ours was a largely single congregation during that season and sexual purity was a big consideration. We were not allowed to allow even an appearance of impropriety because of how it would conflict with what we said onstage, with our songs and our presence. It made sense at the time, sort of; that my brother or my male cousin could not stay at my house seemed kind of strict. But the idea was that an observer who knew I was Christian but did not know anything else would see a man leaving my house in the morning and could easily decide I am a hypocrite. Observers like that don't ask, and so appearance in this case is crucial.
Now I get it. Because each week I sat in our service and saw a man who has acted in so many unkind, dishonest, self-seeking, and un-Christlike ways offer prayers and words of praise, I felt sicker. The church in which he makes these hollow statements and untrustworthy prayers echoes them back and the people in the pews smile and applaud. The blessing of God on our church, our efforts, our very selves, is called for and accepted. What can I believe? Who can I trust?
Trust God, you are saying. I get that. But I need to trust my church. I need to trust leaders, and search committees, and members of my "church family." If I do this, now, at our church, there is only one way I can go on, and that is to submit to a leader who has made deeply sinful choices, and to other leaders who choose to turn a blind eye, or who don't find me trustworthy or worth the trouble.
I have tried this, by the way. It works really well, if crying my guts out during the worship and drifting farther from God each week are what you'd call effective.
There is another answer to this situation, and it's what my husband and I have chosen to tell ourselves when we keep asking the same sad questions. This answer says that God has a path for me and for you and for everyone. Sometimes two different people will walk wildly different paths, even down the same aisle into the same sanctuary. It's a thing I call "stink." I am pretty much the same person, but in some church environments I have been welcomed, put to work, loved and accepted. In some other places I have been rejected or singled out for exclusion in ways that are just plain bizarre. Sometimes these two experiences have happened at the same church, but in different time periods. Sometimes I come up smelling like a rose, and sometimes it's the opposite. Is it about me? Maybe. I'm sure I can be annoying or grasping or arrogant or many other unflattering adjectives.
But I think it's God, saying no, sweetie. Walk this way. Find My path, it's over here. Maybe God has to put a powerful stink on me before I finally realize I need to move on.
This should be obvious now, since I was offered a singing job at another church, a church my family could someday join. It's clear we have at least a place to land for a while. I'd like to think it's a pretty obvious, two-boats-and-a-helicopter kind of rescue.
But my trust is shattered. Sure, this job is great, but when will it all change? When will the pastor who believes in me be fired and replaced by someone who wants polkas or Gregorian chant or goth metal worship? The church extends its arms now, and it's all sunshine and puppy dogs and potlucks and fellowship and praying for each other, and it will be wonderful. For a little while.
My heart tells me that somewhere it will be different. My broken heart says "seriously?" Somewhere ... where? over the rainbow? There will always be humans and pride and someone grabbing power from another person the way a toddler will grab the best toy - because he can. That sucks, but then it will all be coated with the sickly sweet frosting of "God's will" and 'God's leading" and that's when it really hurts. My broken heart tells me I'd better grow a thick lizard skin of cynicism and mistrust if I'm to survive being a Christian.
So that's my story. We have left, because we're not there on Sunday mornings. I'm tired of crying when I should be loving God. But I'm not ready to formally leave. This is partly because we don't have any place to formally go. But I am also feeling stubborn about it. I am not leaving my church. My church has left me and I'm trying to figure out how to pick up the pieces.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Bait and Switch
On New Year's Day of 1998 I wasn't a Christian. I was hung over, and I had to sing a gig that day, and I was feeling very scared. I had met a cute man the night before and it had been a relatively innocent, nonphysical encounter, but I still felt confused and ashamed. On January 4th I went to church for the first time, and the next week I went again. This was an evangelical church in the middle of Chicago, a vibrant church where the arts were valued and used brilliantly. The arts reached me immediately. I was in my thirties and my life was just starting to look better on the outside, but inside I felt battered and deflated and scared. I must have been desperate to go to church.
I remember a woman singing a simple song about how "Jesus doesn't care what you've done before." I remember a skit where a couple of men talked about how they were afraid a Christian woman would judge them. On Good Friday there was a video slide show of paintings of Jesus' final day and crucifixion, set to the Barber "Adagio for Strings" and I was washed away by the historical weight of those events. This stuff really happened. This is the saddest piece of music ever written and this is what it's about.
By the time that Easter had come and gone, I was in. Saved. I dove into that community and was happier than I had ever been. All the creativity I could ask for, and all for a higher purpose. I was a fish in water, finally.
I had the distinct experience of being the flavor of the month, for a while. Not so much to the community, but to the church itself. The evangelical congregation can be so seductive, so welcoming, so deeply and fervently interested in my salvation, my well-being, my "getting plugged in." I felt that this community truly cared about me as a person, and that they cared because God cares. I heard Bill Hybels thunder from his pulpit "Lost people matter to God!" I was a lost person who had been found, and then I had the joy of being a part of the team.
But after about two years, our pastor resigned... or was fired... or forced out. There was uproar. People left. A new pastor came, and we were told that the arts were too "self-focused." That we were putting on a show, and that the "younger people" preferred a simpler service. The old worship leaders quit and were replaced about every 18 months. I hung on as long as I could but gave up when the 29-year-old worship leader told me that "The Lord is telling me that we shouldn't have choir in our services."
Choir. The 3,000 year experiment that failed. With a little bit of supervision, this 29-year-old might have been able to orchestrate a kinder transition from one style of worship to another, but our church made the common mistake of thinking that hiring a young person to "draw in" young people was more important than having a wise leader to minister to the ninety-nine.
We fell off the top of the charts, we who had just been baptized 2-3 years before, and it was hard, because I have experienced that so many times in my life. Haven't we all? The frat boy who pursued me with such charm and seemed so caring - until he caught me, and then couldn't even look me in the eye. The new department head at work, who interrupts you in meetings and isn't sure the company needs you after all. The friends who suddenly start doing things without you. Isn't that why we went to church? That's why I did. I needed something I could count on.
Now that I'm something of a seasoned Christian, I get it. God is the same yesterday, today, and tomorrow... but church is just people. Church is just like the rest of the world, except we keep hoping it'll be a teeny tiny bit better. More trustworthy. But no. Church is full of politics and I should stop expecting anything better.
Really? Have we all just given up?
At my present church, we have just concluded the seeking and hiring of a new pastor. There was upheaval, and a process that was just barely democratic but stank of a coup. I was appalled until I attended the meetings and felt the seething resentment and realized that there is conflict and division that goes back more than 10 years, and that some kind of political momentum was in play that was going to change our church's direction. Possibly radically. I knew I could only get out of the way.
The rallying cry in so many churches is that we must reach more believers. We must find the lost and lead them to God. Everything that we do in church, good, bad, and ugly, is centered around this great commission, and obviously that's a crucial goal.
But churches, I gotta ask you: is it right to find us, and love us, and then elbow us aside in search of newer converts? I am not Barna, but I have a feeling he might tell us that one of the top reasons people leave church - forever - is politics. I'm not talking about leaving church A and going down the road to church B. I'm talking about leaving church, and in many cases leaving God. I know that God doesn't leave us, but we can certainly leave Him, and live decades if not the entire rest of our lives separated from Him. What happens after that I do not know, but I don't have to tell you that I have had God in my life and I have had no God in my life and the with-God life is better.
Maybe we should also ask Mr. Barna to give us the full truth about "church growth." How many of the "new faces" we think we're seeing are just old faces from a different church? How many will actually sign on the dotted line, only to leave two years from now, with hearts that may mend, but trust that is broken forever? We often turn to sobering statistics about the decline of committed Christians in this world, but are we contributing to that decline by ignoring the revolving door?
The people bringing in the new regime in my church are convinced that our church will now get down to the business of telling a truer truth, and reaching more people for God. But there are quite a few of us who chose our church because of the way it was. The pastor who included more seasoned Christians, the music that included those of us over 35, the leadership that included and encouraged women in leadership. We can stay, and we really want to, but this isn't the church we joined. It's hard, and you know what? It hurts. Because everything that happens in the church reflects our love for God and our desire to know how He loves us. When the church opens its arms to me, and then chews me up and spits me out a few years later, it's hard not to wonder if that's how God feels, just a little bit.
So, churches. Do me a favor. If you really want to reach the lost, stay the same. I know that the one lost sheep matters more than the ninety-nine, and I get that. But I have friends, and I can't bring them anymore. My non-Christian friends see me go through this agony and all of their anti-Christian observations are made true. At the end of this process, I'm lost too. Lost all over again.
Churches, if you want to reach all the peoples of the world for God, stop. Think. Don't offer me a spiritual home that really is just an overnight shelter. I might decide to stay out in the cold.
I remember a woman singing a simple song about how "Jesus doesn't care what you've done before." I remember a skit where a couple of men talked about how they were afraid a Christian woman would judge them. On Good Friday there was a video slide show of paintings of Jesus' final day and crucifixion, set to the Barber "Adagio for Strings" and I was washed away by the historical weight of those events. This stuff really happened. This is the saddest piece of music ever written and this is what it's about.
By the time that Easter had come and gone, I was in. Saved. I dove into that community and was happier than I had ever been. All the creativity I could ask for, and all for a higher purpose. I was a fish in water, finally.
I had the distinct experience of being the flavor of the month, for a while. Not so much to the community, but to the church itself. The evangelical congregation can be so seductive, so welcoming, so deeply and fervently interested in my salvation, my well-being, my "getting plugged in." I felt that this community truly cared about me as a person, and that they cared because God cares. I heard Bill Hybels thunder from his pulpit "Lost people matter to God!" I was a lost person who had been found, and then I had the joy of being a part of the team.
But after about two years, our pastor resigned... or was fired... or forced out. There was uproar. People left. A new pastor came, and we were told that the arts were too "self-focused." That we were putting on a show, and that the "younger people" preferred a simpler service. The old worship leaders quit and were replaced about every 18 months. I hung on as long as I could but gave up when the 29-year-old worship leader told me that "The Lord is telling me that we shouldn't have choir in our services."
Choir. The 3,000 year experiment that failed. With a little bit of supervision, this 29-year-old might have been able to orchestrate a kinder transition from one style of worship to another, but our church made the common mistake of thinking that hiring a young person to "draw in" young people was more important than having a wise leader to minister to the ninety-nine.
We fell off the top of the charts, we who had just been baptized 2-3 years before, and it was hard, because I have experienced that so many times in my life. Haven't we all? The frat boy who pursued me with such charm and seemed so caring - until he caught me, and then couldn't even look me in the eye. The new department head at work, who interrupts you in meetings and isn't sure the company needs you after all. The friends who suddenly start doing things without you. Isn't that why we went to church? That's why I did. I needed something I could count on.
Now that I'm something of a seasoned Christian, I get it. God is the same yesterday, today, and tomorrow... but church is just people. Church is just like the rest of the world, except we keep hoping it'll be a teeny tiny bit better. More trustworthy. But no. Church is full of politics and I should stop expecting anything better.
Really? Have we all just given up?
At my present church, we have just concluded the seeking and hiring of a new pastor. There was upheaval, and a process that was just barely democratic but stank of a coup. I was appalled until I attended the meetings and felt the seething resentment and realized that there is conflict and division that goes back more than 10 years, and that some kind of political momentum was in play that was going to change our church's direction. Possibly radically. I knew I could only get out of the way.
The rallying cry in so many churches is that we must reach more believers. We must find the lost and lead them to God. Everything that we do in church, good, bad, and ugly, is centered around this great commission, and obviously that's a crucial goal.
But churches, I gotta ask you: is it right to find us, and love us, and then elbow us aside in search of newer converts? I am not Barna, but I have a feeling he might tell us that one of the top reasons people leave church - forever - is politics. I'm not talking about leaving church A and going down the road to church B. I'm talking about leaving church, and in many cases leaving God. I know that God doesn't leave us, but we can certainly leave Him, and live decades if not the entire rest of our lives separated from Him. What happens after that I do not know, but I don't have to tell you that I have had God in my life and I have had no God in my life and the with-God life is better.
Maybe we should also ask Mr. Barna to give us the full truth about "church growth." How many of the "new faces" we think we're seeing are just old faces from a different church? How many will actually sign on the dotted line, only to leave two years from now, with hearts that may mend, but trust that is broken forever? We often turn to sobering statistics about the decline of committed Christians in this world, but are we contributing to that decline by ignoring the revolving door?
The people bringing in the new regime in my church are convinced that our church will now get down to the business of telling a truer truth, and reaching more people for God. But there are quite a few of us who chose our church because of the way it was. The pastor who included more seasoned Christians, the music that included those of us over 35, the leadership that included and encouraged women in leadership. We can stay, and we really want to, but this isn't the church we joined. It's hard, and you know what? It hurts. Because everything that happens in the church reflects our love for God and our desire to know how He loves us. When the church opens its arms to me, and then chews me up and spits me out a few years later, it's hard not to wonder if that's how God feels, just a little bit.
So, churches. Do me a favor. If you really want to reach the lost, stay the same. I know that the one lost sheep matters more than the ninety-nine, and I get that. But I have friends, and I can't bring them anymore. My non-Christian friends see me go through this agony and all of their anti-Christian observations are made true. At the end of this process, I'm lost too. Lost all over again.
Churches, if you want to reach all the peoples of the world for God, stop. Think. Don't offer me a spiritual home that really is just an overnight shelter. I might decide to stay out in the cold.
Friday, August 26, 2011
Plea for Unity
Here's what I wrote about the church thing. I don't know if anyone will end up seeing it but it clarified things for me. I kept my name out of it, and if you see it here, then you'll know it's me. But almost nobody reads this blog so I'll probably stay anonymous, at least for a while.
Open Letter to my Church: a Plea for Unity
At the town hall meeting to discuss our pastor candidate last night, there was a lot of anger. Some are upset that the search team’s work was not universally applauded. Some are unhappy with the church’s stated position on the role of women, and some are afraid that position might be changed. Some weren’t happy with earlier committee decisions and have lost faith in how our church is governed.
We are deeply divided. Our conversations about a pastor candidate are an expression of our division, not the cause. Here’s a thought: maybe we’re not arguing about the pastor candidate. Maybe we’re arguing because we don’t know each other, we don’t trust each other, and we don’t know how to disagree.
Our church has a special diversity and I think we want to preserve it. Romans 14 acknowledges that there are disputable matters. I wish we could dispute and discuss among ourselves with love.
In order to do so, can we consider three things? First, we need to talk to each other more. I’m not trained in techniques for conflict resolution, but I’m pretty sure “not talking about it” isn’t one of them. It seems like the only time the whole church is called together, it’s because we have to decide something important. By then it’s too late for just talking and listening, don’t you think? By then it’s about us, and them, and who’s going to “win.”
Second, while unanimous consent to something is nice, we don’t need it to be unified. There are many who absolutely trust a committee or a person’s complete submission to God, but still hear a different answer from Him. We all pray. We all hear from God.
This means that there will be some among us who vote “no” on Sunday. But if this candidate is called, most of the “no” voters will put their hand to the plow on Monday and go forward with hope, just as the “yes” voters will. Can we trust each other that this is so?
Furthermore, the more comfortable we become with the idea that we can disagree and still be united, the stronger our unity will be. We know this from our marriages. God often puts opposites together, knowing that we will be united in love and a common purpose, even if we disagree on a million other things.
Finally, can we agree that “going to the Scriptures” about a certain issue doesn’t bring us to consensus? Most of us who feel strongly about the issue of women in leadership know every relevant passage by heart, along with the commentaries and sermons that we have encountered as we agonize over this question. Obviously Scripture is what we depend on, but we don’t all interpret Scripture the same way. This is difficult, frustrating, and sometimes scary. But if simply looking at a passage of Scripture answered a question universally, we would not have these disagreements.
Please, [church leaders]. Help us love each other better. Make us talk to each other. A lot. Maybe it’s town hall meetings, maybe there is another way to facilitate reconciliation and listening. There are people out there who do this kind of facilitating for a living and we need one of them. I think talking hasn’t always helped in the past because in the past we might have talked to change each other’s minds or to vote up or down on things.
What if we talked just to know the faces and the hearts behind the opinions, just to hear others’ stories? I think that would show respect and commitment to Christ’s bride, the church, and to each other. It may take a lot of conversations to help us remember that we are all brothers and sisters in Christ, and that we agree on the most important things. But our mission depends on it. Our community sees our bickering, and God does too, and I don’t know how we can bring joy to His heart, nor Christ to our county, if we don’t come together.
“so in Christ we, though many, form one body, and each member belongs to all the others.” (Rom. 12:5)
signed with love,
a church member
Open Letter to my Church: a Plea for Unity
At the town hall meeting to discuss our pastor candidate last night, there was a lot of anger. Some are upset that the search team’s work was not universally applauded. Some are unhappy with the church’s stated position on the role of women, and some are afraid that position might be changed. Some weren’t happy with earlier committee decisions and have lost faith in how our church is governed.
We are deeply divided. Our conversations about a pastor candidate are an expression of our division, not the cause. Here’s a thought: maybe we’re not arguing about the pastor candidate. Maybe we’re arguing because we don’t know each other, we don’t trust each other, and we don’t know how to disagree.
Our church has a special diversity and I think we want to preserve it. Romans 14 acknowledges that there are disputable matters. I wish we could dispute and discuss among ourselves with love.
In order to do so, can we consider three things? First, we need to talk to each other more. I’m not trained in techniques for conflict resolution, but I’m pretty sure “not talking about it” isn’t one of them. It seems like the only time the whole church is called together, it’s because we have to decide something important. By then it’s too late for just talking and listening, don’t you think? By then it’s about us, and them, and who’s going to “win.”
Second, while unanimous consent to something is nice, we don’t need it to be unified. There are many who absolutely trust a committee or a person’s complete submission to God, but still hear a different answer from Him. We all pray. We all hear from God.
This means that there will be some among us who vote “no” on Sunday. But if this candidate is called, most of the “no” voters will put their hand to the plow on Monday and go forward with hope, just as the “yes” voters will. Can we trust each other that this is so?
Furthermore, the more comfortable we become with the idea that we can disagree and still be united, the stronger our unity will be. We know this from our marriages. God often puts opposites together, knowing that we will be united in love and a common purpose, even if we disagree on a million other things.
Finally, can we agree that “going to the Scriptures” about a certain issue doesn’t bring us to consensus? Most of us who feel strongly about the issue of women in leadership know every relevant passage by heart, along with the commentaries and sermons that we have encountered as we agonize over this question. Obviously Scripture is what we depend on, but we don’t all interpret Scripture the same way. This is difficult, frustrating, and sometimes scary. But if simply looking at a passage of Scripture answered a question universally, we would not have these disagreements.
Please, [church leaders]. Help us love each other better. Make us talk to each other. A lot. Maybe it’s town hall meetings, maybe there is another way to facilitate reconciliation and listening. There are people out there who do this kind of facilitating for a living and we need one of them. I think talking hasn’t always helped in the past because in the past we might have talked to change each other’s minds or to vote up or down on things.
What if we talked just to know the faces and the hearts behind the opinions, just to hear others’ stories? I think that would show respect and commitment to Christ’s bride, the church, and to each other. It may take a lot of conversations to help us remember that we are all brothers and sisters in Christ, and that we agree on the most important things. But our mission depends on it. Our community sees our bickering, and God does too, and I don’t know how we can bring joy to His heart, nor Christ to our county, if we don’t come together.
“so in Christ we, though many, form one body, and each member belongs to all the others.” (Rom. 12:5)
signed with love,
a church member
Thursday, August 25, 2011
So many elephants
In addition to my own personal church drama, our church is looking for a new pastor. The ways that churches make decisions like this can be byzantine and fall into grooves of tradition that I don't begin to understand.
Fast forward to a meeting last night, where discussion about a new pastor candidate was tense. To say the least. There were several elephants in the room, some of which got talked about ... sort of directly. Some not.
I was amazed and saddened and also fascinated. The biggest and baddest elephant is the one that trumpets loudly inside or outside so many churches, and that's the question of whether it's okay for women to lead in various positions. Our church has maintained an incredibly tenuous position that is (I think) a compromise. There are others who think it's intolerable.
This is an elephant that sort of got talked about. I am on the side of women being able to do things like preach and teach in church, but I have learned that having a woman as a senior pastor is the final frontier and a lot of people just can't handle it. I have had a woman pastor and she just about saved my life, and that's another story. But I respect that final frontier, and as far as I'm concerned, if women can do everything else but just don't happen to be senior pastor in this particular church, I can live with it.
I forget, until nights like last night, that there is anger about this issue. Deep anger.
And here's where it gets interesting. Here is where the fork in the road lies. When confronted by someone who is usually a man, usually older than me, and angry that I want to be able to have the same opportunities to minister and live out my faith just like anyone else does, I have a choice. I don't always remember that I have a choice, but I do.
I can decide that this man has a conscious desire to take from me and keep for himself. That he wants to take my rights or my opportunities, even though he has plenty for himself. That he believes a version of God who favors men over women like a parent favoring a child. That he has contempt for me because he thinks I'm not as smart or deserving, based on complete lies. These beliefs lead me to an angry dead-end, because a person who wants to do and believe these things is not a likable person. He's wrong, he's mean, and he's my enemy.
That's what's behind door number one, and isn't that where we almost always go? It just seems to make sense, because otherwise I don't get it. So there I go charging down that blind alley, bumping into the wall like the marching band in "Animal House," and then I'm stuck.
But I don't have to. What's behind door number two is a completely different story.
Here's someone who is angry. Just like me. He's angry because his belief in the way things should be, which comes from what he believes God has told us to do, is being challenged. Just like I do. Of course, I'm angry because I'm scared and hurt.
Maybe he is too. On the rare occasions where I push door number two open, behind it is a mirror. It takes time and thinking and some kind of refuge from the anger that makes me stupid, but when I can get there, I see the mirror. My opponent in this debate is scared. Being disagreed with on a fundamental level is scary, and while I can't exactly understand why, I can try.
Trying to figure out why someone has done something that seems terrible to me is hard. Here's what I do: I make up a story. Maybe he's scared because he doesn't know how much we would change, we who want equal rights for women. Maybe he's been told all his life that people like me are man-haters who want to abolish marriage and have an all-female Cabinet and a lesbian president and we won't stop until there is a woman in the pulpit in every church in America. I know, I know, that's infuriating, but stay with me. If he's been told that or something like it, he's scared because he doesn't know how much change there will be.
Bottom line is, he doesn't know what he's fighting against, and he's scared. I am too.
So here I am behind door number two, and I have told myself this story, and suddenly the man gets smaller and older. He's not powerful. He hears Bob Dylan and he knows the times they are a-changin' even though he has fought that change his whole life. I understand his fear.
Here's how I experience this fear. I get angry, really angry, about names. If you have chosen one of these names, forgive me. You probably won't need to forgive me because nobody reads this blog, including you, whoever you are. (it's very freeing) Anyway, I am ... well, honestly, I get really angry about names that are ... different. Names like Dakota and Caitlin and Jaden that are done to death, names that were popularized by rock stars. Names like Storm that are supposed to convey some kind of strength but just seem pretentious to me. Why not Avalanche or Cataclysm? These "new" names drive me crazy and I'm alarmed at the bile that they bring forth. Why do I care if people pick what I think are stupid names for their children?
Because it's everywhere. Because the times they are a-changin' and apparently names that seem like names to me are out of fashion. I perceive it as a rising sea level of bad taste and tackiness that engulfs the world, and I am left alone here up on high ground, praising holdouts who still give names like David and Elizabeth. I'm not old yet but I now know the feeling of being left behind by the world in this small way, and it makes me angry because it's scary.
Yes. I understand that man's fear and anger if I look in that mirror that's behind door number two. In my story, which has become a movie in my mind, we talk. I say "I'm not really pushing for the whole enchilada right now," and then he knows that I want some change but not all of it. What if we talk about why we believe what we believe, and he tells me how that has shown up in his life. I could tell him about the woman pastor who saved my life, and that I can't believe God didn't want her to do that.
In my movie we just talk, and I'm not convinced, and he's not convinced, but who cares. He's a person now. One of his grandchildren lives in Chicago. We live two streets over and the hail destroyed his roof too. We realize we aren't going to change each others' minds, we can't change each others' minds.
We don't need to change each others' minds.
What we need is to know that the person on the other side of the debate is a person. We have looked into that person's eyes and we could not stop ourselves from liking that person just a little bit. Maybe even more than a little bit.
The problem is not that we disagree. The problem is that we don't know each other, and the disagreement becomes personal. It doesn't have to.
Last night I wished I had my People Remote so I could just pause the situation. Stop us before we get all jammed up in that alley of enmity. Let one person come forward and just tell his or her story. Let us all stop, and breathe, and remember that we can love each other just fine, even if we don't agree, will never agree. Agreement isn't everything.
Fast forward to a meeting last night, where discussion about a new pastor candidate was tense. To say the least. There were several elephants in the room, some of which got talked about ... sort of directly. Some not.
I was amazed and saddened and also fascinated. The biggest and baddest elephant is the one that trumpets loudly inside or outside so many churches, and that's the question of whether it's okay for women to lead in various positions. Our church has maintained an incredibly tenuous position that is (I think) a compromise. There are others who think it's intolerable.
This is an elephant that sort of got talked about. I am on the side of women being able to do things like preach and teach in church, but I have learned that having a woman as a senior pastor is the final frontier and a lot of people just can't handle it. I have had a woman pastor and she just about saved my life, and that's another story. But I respect that final frontier, and as far as I'm concerned, if women can do everything else but just don't happen to be senior pastor in this particular church, I can live with it.
I forget, until nights like last night, that there is anger about this issue. Deep anger.
And here's where it gets interesting. Here is where the fork in the road lies. When confronted by someone who is usually a man, usually older than me, and angry that I want to be able to have the same opportunities to minister and live out my faith just like anyone else does, I have a choice. I don't always remember that I have a choice, but I do.
I can decide that this man has a conscious desire to take from me and keep for himself. That he wants to take my rights or my opportunities, even though he has plenty for himself. That he believes a version of God who favors men over women like a parent favoring a child. That he has contempt for me because he thinks I'm not as smart or deserving, based on complete lies. These beliefs lead me to an angry dead-end, because a person who wants to do and believe these things is not a likable person. He's wrong, he's mean, and he's my enemy.
That's what's behind door number one, and isn't that where we almost always go? It just seems to make sense, because otherwise I don't get it. So there I go charging down that blind alley, bumping into the wall like the marching band in "Animal House," and then I'm stuck.
But I don't have to. What's behind door number two is a completely different story.
Here's someone who is angry. Just like me. He's angry because his belief in the way things should be, which comes from what he believes God has told us to do, is being challenged. Just like I do. Of course, I'm angry because I'm scared and hurt.
Maybe he is too. On the rare occasions where I push door number two open, behind it is a mirror. It takes time and thinking and some kind of refuge from the anger that makes me stupid, but when I can get there, I see the mirror. My opponent in this debate is scared. Being disagreed with on a fundamental level is scary, and while I can't exactly understand why, I can try.
Trying to figure out why someone has done something that seems terrible to me is hard. Here's what I do: I make up a story. Maybe he's scared because he doesn't know how much we would change, we who want equal rights for women. Maybe he's been told all his life that people like me are man-haters who want to abolish marriage and have an all-female Cabinet and a lesbian president and we won't stop until there is a woman in the pulpit in every church in America. I know, I know, that's infuriating, but stay with me. If he's been told that or something like it, he's scared because he doesn't know how much change there will be.
Bottom line is, he doesn't know what he's fighting against, and he's scared. I am too.
So here I am behind door number two, and I have told myself this story, and suddenly the man gets smaller and older. He's not powerful. He hears Bob Dylan and he knows the times they are a-changin' even though he has fought that change his whole life. I understand his fear.
Here's how I experience this fear. I get angry, really angry, about names. If you have chosen one of these names, forgive me. You probably won't need to forgive me because nobody reads this blog, including you, whoever you are. (it's very freeing) Anyway, I am ... well, honestly, I get really angry about names that are ... different. Names like Dakota and Caitlin and Jaden that are done to death, names that were popularized by rock stars. Names like Storm that are supposed to convey some kind of strength but just seem pretentious to me. Why not Avalanche or Cataclysm? These "new" names drive me crazy and I'm alarmed at the bile that they bring forth. Why do I care if people pick what I think are stupid names for their children?
Because it's everywhere. Because the times they are a-changin' and apparently names that seem like names to me are out of fashion. I perceive it as a rising sea level of bad taste and tackiness that engulfs the world, and I am left alone here up on high ground, praising holdouts who still give names like David and Elizabeth. I'm not old yet but I now know the feeling of being left behind by the world in this small way, and it makes me angry because it's scary.
Yes. I understand that man's fear and anger if I look in that mirror that's behind door number two. In my story, which has become a movie in my mind, we talk. I say "I'm not really pushing for the whole enchilada right now," and then he knows that I want some change but not all of it. What if we talk about why we believe what we believe, and he tells me how that has shown up in his life. I could tell him about the woman pastor who saved my life, and that I can't believe God didn't want her to do that.
In my movie we just talk, and I'm not convinced, and he's not convinced, but who cares. He's a person now. One of his grandchildren lives in Chicago. We live two streets over and the hail destroyed his roof too. We realize we aren't going to change each others' minds, we can't change each others' minds.
We don't need to change each others' minds.
What we need is to know that the person on the other side of the debate is a person. We have looked into that person's eyes and we could not stop ourselves from liking that person just a little bit. Maybe even more than a little bit.
The problem is not that we disagree. The problem is that we don't know each other, and the disagreement becomes personal. It doesn't have to.
Last night I wished I had my People Remote so I could just pause the situation. Stop us before we get all jammed up in that alley of enmity. Let one person come forward and just tell his or her story. Let us all stop, and breathe, and remember that we can love each other just fine, even if we don't agree, will never agree. Agreement isn't everything.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Deus ex machina
Here's the deal. I haven't been able to sing very much at my own church for more than a year, for reasons that are tragic and stupid and sinful. It's turned me inside out and made me look at my own selfishness and made me rely on God. I have whined and harped about it for far too long, but it really has been unbearable in the way that growing experiences - those blessings that suck - are.
My husband and I have been exiles from church before. Church is one of those things that can't stay good, apparently. I have also been the one not singing many times, but always before I had to admit that the person who was singing was doing a great job (better than I could, the oft-ignored voice of truth whispered). This time the voice of the person who sings instead of me is not always pleasing to the ear, and the sweet aroma of worship has a not-so-faint stink of human pride. So we have had one foot out the door for quite some time, but there is no where to go. I kept wondering if we should stick around for more blessings of the painful and sucky kind. If I'm being tested or punished, let's get on with it.
Then last week I got an email and made a phone call and set up a meeting and by the end of the week I was hired to sing at a different church, a big church with a worship pastor who thinks he's lucky to have me. I had no idea that this could happen, let alone that it might happen to me.
Years ago I got myself into an unhealthy relationship which made me feel worthless and unattractive, even though feeling worthless was what got me into the bad relationship in the first place. In this relationship I managed to dishonor myself and the man involved without having sex, which just shows you how good I am at dishonoring myself, and when it was time to get out of that relationship I figured God would let me suffer a long time before I would get to feel okay again.
Instead, I went to a party and drank some vodka and there was suddenly a younger man who adored me and would loudly proclaim things like "I can't believe you're going out with me" and while it wasn't a magic cure for all of my woundedness, it was pretty freaking fabulous. It's just like God to send me a doughnut when I ought to be dieting, to let me go to the movies when I ought to be studying. To send me a hot guy instead of making me sit home alone and learn my lesson.
I guess part of my lesson was (is) how good God is.
So tomorrow I get to suit up and sing harmony with a couple of other singers on several worship songs that I like. We will be heard, in a vocals-forward mix designed to include the congregation, not impress them. I get to be respected for what I do, which makes me want to do it as well as I possibly can. I get to love on the singers I work with, who are humble and teachable and focused on the congregation's worship of God, not us. I get to do it for two services, not one, and oh my goodness I would do it all for free. But I don't have to.
My home church situation will continue to be tragic and sucky indefinitely, I'm afraid. I have racked my brain and cried out to God. To let me stop caring, or show me how this is my fault, or just: fix it. In the meantime I have mucho forgiving to do, and I'm not doing a good job of it yet.
Deus ex machina=God in the machine. Apparently the ancient Greek playwrights, when their characters got in a jam, could just throw one of their gods into the mix to sort it all out in fine dramatic fashion. This feels like that, except it's the one true God, and He didn't exactly fix it - he just got me the heck out of there. Where this will lead, I don't know, but I'm so grateful. My eyes are opened to God's lavish, overflowing grace and mercy.
We're singing "Beautiful Things" tomorrow, by the amazing Gungors:
"You make beautiful things, you make beautiful things out of dust
You make beautiful things, you make beautiful things out of us."
Exactly.
My husband and I have been exiles from church before. Church is one of those things that can't stay good, apparently. I have also been the one not singing many times, but always before I had to admit that the person who was singing was doing a great job (better than I could, the oft-ignored voice of truth whispered). This time the voice of the person who sings instead of me is not always pleasing to the ear, and the sweet aroma of worship has a not-so-faint stink of human pride. So we have had one foot out the door for quite some time, but there is no where to go. I kept wondering if we should stick around for more blessings of the painful and sucky kind. If I'm being tested or punished, let's get on with it.
Then last week I got an email and made a phone call and set up a meeting and by the end of the week I was hired to sing at a different church, a big church with a worship pastor who thinks he's lucky to have me. I had no idea that this could happen, let alone that it might happen to me.
Years ago I got myself into an unhealthy relationship which made me feel worthless and unattractive, even though feeling worthless was what got me into the bad relationship in the first place. In this relationship I managed to dishonor myself and the man involved without having sex, which just shows you how good I am at dishonoring myself, and when it was time to get out of that relationship I figured God would let me suffer a long time before I would get to feel okay again.
Instead, I went to a party and drank some vodka and there was suddenly a younger man who adored me and would loudly proclaim things like "I can't believe you're going out with me" and while it wasn't a magic cure for all of my woundedness, it was pretty freaking fabulous. It's just like God to send me a doughnut when I ought to be dieting, to let me go to the movies when I ought to be studying. To send me a hot guy instead of making me sit home alone and learn my lesson.
I guess part of my lesson was (is) how good God is.
So tomorrow I get to suit up and sing harmony with a couple of other singers on several worship songs that I like. We will be heard, in a vocals-forward mix designed to include the congregation, not impress them. I get to be respected for what I do, which makes me want to do it as well as I possibly can. I get to love on the singers I work with, who are humble and teachable and focused on the congregation's worship of God, not us. I get to do it for two services, not one, and oh my goodness I would do it all for free. But I don't have to.
My home church situation will continue to be tragic and sucky indefinitely, I'm afraid. I have racked my brain and cried out to God. To let me stop caring, or show me how this is my fault, or just: fix it. In the meantime I have mucho forgiving to do, and I'm not doing a good job of it yet.
Deus ex machina=God in the machine. Apparently the ancient Greek playwrights, when their characters got in a jam, could just throw one of their gods into the mix to sort it all out in fine dramatic fashion. This feels like that, except it's the one true God, and He didn't exactly fix it - he just got me the heck out of there. Where this will lead, I don't know, but I'm so grateful. My eyes are opened to God's lavish, overflowing grace and mercy.
We're singing "Beautiful Things" tomorrow, by the amazing Gungors:
"You make beautiful things, you make beautiful things out of dust
You make beautiful things, you make beautiful things out of us."
Exactly.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Forgiving
I have a lot of forgiving to do. This is not because I have been hurt or sinned against more than usual, but because I have forgotten to forgive; I've forgotten that it needs to be an ongoing exercise for me. Emotional hygiene.
Forgiving. I know a lot about it. I can say wise things about it. I'm glad I have already learned that forgiving is for me, not for the other person. It frees me. It doesn't take the place of justice. It doesn't require an apology.
I need to get up off my a** and do it.
I know that God forgave me, and that shames me a little bit. Knowing that I am forgiven for all kinds of nightmarish things that I have said and done and thought should remind me how level the playing field is. But it doesn't. This is my selfishness and all that is so un-lovely about me.
But I'm noticing, now, that maybe I'm just stuck in a loop of blame and anger and fear and grief. The sin done to me is ongoing, and I'm experiencing it in the present tense, and so I continue to take up my sword and hope that I can ... what? Make it stop? Get revenge? Fight, and win, somehow? I don't think so.
Even if I looked to the east, and Gandalf the White came riding in and rescued me from the situation that grieves me today, I'd still be hurt, and I'd still miss the bite that was taken out of my heart. I'd still want revenge, or justice. I'd want something. That something is completion. To be made whole.
In stories, so often, the sides balance. The score is settled. The bad guy is vanquished, the good guy is vindicated, usually publicly, and ends up on the plus side again because he has gotten the girl, or the loot, or a bad-ass reputation.
My wholeness isn't like that. Or... it isn't going to be, when I get it. I sure don't have it today. But I want it.
I think I know how to start.
1. Timing. It's over. My situation might continue, but something else has ended. Maybe it's about walking away, and saying "You can't hurt me any more." It feels like surrender to me, because saying "it's over" means I no longer think I can fix anything. If it is a relationship I might stop caring. If it's a job, I might stop working. If it's a fight, I put down my weapons, knowing the other person might keep on pounding me for a while. I have noticed that that pounding can continue because it doesn't hurt anymore. The damage is done. How many times can someone say "you don't belong" "we are many and you are alone" "you're not good / talented / lovable"? I get it. You've said it, I believed it for a while, it's hurt all it's going to. It's over.
2. The Score. What did I lose? One of my earlier life lessons about forgiveness was when I realized that someone who had hurt me had not benefited. The worse a sin against me is, the more it either hurts the perpetrator, or comes out of his or her existing hurt. When I was in college I fell in love with chemistry because the equations always balanced. I think they do here as well. Did I really lose? Even if I lost time, or money, or peace of mind, or friends, I gained wisdom. I gained understanding of who my friends are. I experienced the healing hand of God. I learned what I can live without, and I noticed that what was taken from me turned to ashes in the hands of those who took it.
3. Justice. Justice takes time. The husband who allows himself to be stolen ends up being not such a catch after all, but it might be years before the woman he left understands she is better off. The schemers who try to destroy my reputation will undermine their own, in time. I hunger for quick justice and I long to be the one to administer it, but I have already tried and failed. God's justice is always better; it always satisfies and it always sanctifies. It just takes a while, and I have to get out of its way.
4. Perspective. Around my house we love the line from Star Wars when Princess Leia says to Han Solo "If money is all that you love, then what is what you will receive," and it's pretty clear that money is not what they are fighting for. That scene helps me clarify. What kind of treasure is my opponent trying to grab, and why should I agree on its value? Princess Leia helps me shrug and say "If an amoral woman half your age is all that you love, then that is what you will receive." "If empty admiration is all that you love, then that is what you will receive." It's the "Gift of the Magi," or the folk tale about the three wishes that went so wrong - the value of a thing depends on its context.
5. Compassion. Apparently when I turn off the faucet of compassion for my opponent, that means I don't get any for myself. I haven't figured out how to hate someone else without some of that dark stain getting on me. We are in this together, my enemy and I. And that's appropriate, don't you think? If he is so bad, how did I let him get to me? If I am so hurt, did I invite it somehow? I'm trying to turn that rusty old faucet back on, and it seems to work best when I point it his way first. He really can't help it, I think. My dear lost friend T. always said "It takes so much more energy to be harsh than it does to be cool" and he's got to be right. Nobody wakes up in the morning and says "Well, I could be humble and God-honoring today, but instead I think I'll be selfish and cruel." Obviously we DO have choices in the moment, and obviously we all (me more than you) make the mean / ugly / stupid choice - but it's because we don't know about the better choices. We forget them. We never tried them before. We were too scared to stop and think. It boils down to a "can't" instead of a "won't."
So. It's over; you didn't really take anything from me. I can't make it right but God can. I'm probably better off, and I'm pretty sure you couldn't help it anyway.
I'm noticing that I can switch "you" for "me" in these statements and it works just as well when I'm the one who needs forgiving, as I do, and have, and will. I want to say "I forgive you" but it's got to be ongoing, not past or future tense. Always forgiving.
Forgiving. I know a lot about it. I can say wise things about it. I'm glad I have already learned that forgiving is for me, not for the other person. It frees me. It doesn't take the place of justice. It doesn't require an apology.
I need to get up off my a** and do it.
I know that God forgave me, and that shames me a little bit. Knowing that I am forgiven for all kinds of nightmarish things that I have said and done and thought should remind me how level the playing field is. But it doesn't. This is my selfishness and all that is so un-lovely about me.
But I'm noticing, now, that maybe I'm just stuck in a loop of blame and anger and fear and grief. The sin done to me is ongoing, and I'm experiencing it in the present tense, and so I continue to take up my sword and hope that I can ... what? Make it stop? Get revenge? Fight, and win, somehow? I don't think so.
Even if I looked to the east, and Gandalf the White came riding in and rescued me from the situation that grieves me today, I'd still be hurt, and I'd still miss the bite that was taken out of my heart. I'd still want revenge, or justice. I'd want something. That something is completion. To be made whole.
In stories, so often, the sides balance. The score is settled. The bad guy is vanquished, the good guy is vindicated, usually publicly, and ends up on the plus side again because he has gotten the girl, or the loot, or a bad-ass reputation.
My wholeness isn't like that. Or... it isn't going to be, when I get it. I sure don't have it today. But I want it.
I think I know how to start.
1. Timing. It's over. My situation might continue, but something else has ended. Maybe it's about walking away, and saying "You can't hurt me any more." It feels like surrender to me, because saying "it's over" means I no longer think I can fix anything. If it is a relationship I might stop caring. If it's a job, I might stop working. If it's a fight, I put down my weapons, knowing the other person might keep on pounding me for a while. I have noticed that that pounding can continue because it doesn't hurt anymore. The damage is done. How many times can someone say "you don't belong" "we are many and you are alone" "you're not good / talented / lovable"? I get it. You've said it, I believed it for a while, it's hurt all it's going to. It's over.
2. The Score. What did I lose? One of my earlier life lessons about forgiveness was when I realized that someone who had hurt me had not benefited. The worse a sin against me is, the more it either hurts the perpetrator, or comes out of his or her existing hurt. When I was in college I fell in love with chemistry because the equations always balanced. I think they do here as well. Did I really lose? Even if I lost time, or money, or peace of mind, or friends, I gained wisdom. I gained understanding of who my friends are. I experienced the healing hand of God. I learned what I can live without, and I noticed that what was taken from me turned to ashes in the hands of those who took it.
3. Justice. Justice takes time. The husband who allows himself to be stolen ends up being not such a catch after all, but it might be years before the woman he left understands she is better off. The schemers who try to destroy my reputation will undermine their own, in time. I hunger for quick justice and I long to be the one to administer it, but I have already tried and failed. God's justice is always better; it always satisfies and it always sanctifies. It just takes a while, and I have to get out of its way.
4. Perspective. Around my house we love the line from Star Wars when Princess Leia says to Han Solo "If money is all that you love, then what is what you will receive," and it's pretty clear that money is not what they are fighting for. That scene helps me clarify. What kind of treasure is my opponent trying to grab, and why should I agree on its value? Princess Leia helps me shrug and say "If an amoral woman half your age is all that you love, then that is what you will receive." "If empty admiration is all that you love, then that is what you will receive." It's the "Gift of the Magi," or the folk tale about the three wishes that went so wrong - the value of a thing depends on its context.
5. Compassion. Apparently when I turn off the faucet of compassion for my opponent, that means I don't get any for myself. I haven't figured out how to hate someone else without some of that dark stain getting on me. We are in this together, my enemy and I. And that's appropriate, don't you think? If he is so bad, how did I let him get to me? If I am so hurt, did I invite it somehow? I'm trying to turn that rusty old faucet back on, and it seems to work best when I point it his way first. He really can't help it, I think. My dear lost friend T. always said "It takes so much more energy to be harsh than it does to be cool" and he's got to be right. Nobody wakes up in the morning and says "Well, I could be humble and God-honoring today, but instead I think I'll be selfish and cruel." Obviously we DO have choices in the moment, and obviously we all (me more than you) make the mean / ugly / stupid choice - but it's because we don't know about the better choices. We forget them. We never tried them before. We were too scared to stop and think. It boils down to a "can't" instead of a "won't."
So. It's over; you didn't really take anything from me. I can't make it right but God can. I'm probably better off, and I'm pretty sure you couldn't help it anyway.
I'm noticing that I can switch "you" for "me" in these statements and it works just as well when I'm the one who needs forgiving, as I do, and have, and will. I want to say "I forgive you" but it's got to be ongoing, not past or future tense. Always forgiving.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Bubble
Long ago, before I got all fancy and went to graduate school, I never missed open mic night. It was at a gay bar on Halsted Street in Chicago, a bar that has changed names several times. I learned more there than I can express. These open mics were (are) state of the art as far as I'm concerned. There were two in Chicago then, hosted by well-loved and talented pianists who hosted the evening with grace and humor, and enforced a surprisingly high level of courtesy and respect in the room. They are still going on today.
Open mic night was frequented by a lot of us in various stages of aspiration and success. The talent level was pretty high, partly because this is a piano open mike, and we had a lot of trained theater singers and actors. I loved singing and making it all about me and showing off my new songs, and all that. But I loved listening too. I learned so much, and I was surprised by who I learned from.
Jacob rarely missed a Tuesday open mic. I didn't get much in the way of personal conversation with him but I thought he might have had some kind of "developmental delay" or something. He was childlike. Jacob was not a good singer, and while there are many ways to sing badly, his bad singing was common; he did not hear pitches well, and so he sang off-key.
There seem to be two kinds of singers in the world. Those who are off-key and don't know it, and those who are basically fine. Guess who worries more about it? From a physiological point of view, this makes sense. Being able to hear and sing pitches is about memory. Some of us hear pitches and remember them forever, and some of us hear a pitch and can't remember it long enough for our vocal folds to make that pitch. Some in that latter category are probably not even distinguishing among the pitches when they hear them, in the same way that more musical people do.
The singer who is singing away with all his heart, not knowing that he sounds dreadful, is iconic. It's a person with a "kick me" sign on his back, it's the cheated-on but unsuspecting spouse, the emperor with no clothes. We love to watch that guy, because then we know we aren't that guy. We're in the know, and he isn't, and we add "make sure I'm on key" to our list of ways to make sure we never look foolish.
Jacob looked foolish, and this was long before "American Idol" or Youtube. We had to catch foolishness live back then, and it was more memorable. Jacob was serious about his singing and performing and you could tell he worked hard at it. I am always proud of us, the community, when I remember Jacob, because he was treated kindly in our open mic. People laughed at him and talked about him behind his back, but he had his two songs like everyone else and he sang them to a reasonably quiet and respectful room.
I knew I was supposed to pity Jacob, but I didn't. Jacob was a bad singer, but he didn't know it and he never will, because Jacob had a bubble. When people were less than complimentary, or got sloppy and let him see their giggles and their rolled eyes, he didn't see them. Obviously Jacob's affliction - he can't hear pitches well enough to know he doesn't sound good - is also his bubble. He literally cannot hear how bad he sounds. What was my excuse?
Oh heck yeah. When I was in my thirties, I had a bubble too. It wasn't as strong as Jacob's, and at the time I didn't think I had one. I just thought I was very good at singing, and that other people sometimes weren't as good, and that occasionally people were better. So I'm looking back ten years later, and putting myself on the inside of that bubble, and remembering what it felt like.
I was always concerned with who was "good" at singing. There were three categories back then. "Not as good as I am", "about as good as I am," and "better than I am." I gave myself a little more latitude to judge singers who were just plain different - men, usually - and I remember them more as individuals with different gifts. But looking back I cringe at how black and white I was in my judgments, and how self-focused.
There were people who I didn't think were great singers but they were puzzling. They weren't brassy and belty and loud, like I like to be. Many were women with voices that seemed softer, and I pitied them, that they apparently couldn't summon an ear-splitting high note when they needed one. One was a girl-next-door type, a pretty but genuine girl who didn't get highlights or wear tons of makeup and everybody thought she was "really sweet." I liked her, you couldn't not like her, but I didn't think she was a great singer because... well, she didn't sing like I sang.
Apparently that was what passed for discernment for me back then.
I ran into this young woman and she was harried and busy and she said she was singing at her 10th wedding, and some were people she hardly knew, and it was only June; there were many more to go. I was surprised. I sang at weddings now and then, but usually it was close friends who asked. I felt jealous immediately, because I felt jealous a lot back then. Jealousy is incredibly illuminating and useful, by the way, and that's another conversation. Anyway, I scratched my head. Why did so many more people, apparently, like her voice than mine? I was a professional, I gigged, I wrote songs, I was funny, I could belt a B, what was up with that?
I had a bubble, and I think on the inside it was mirrored, and all I saw was myself and how I sang, and that seemed like all there was in the world. Fortunately for me, God allowed me to see out of my bubble. I started to notice others like this woman whose beauty was not turned up to 11, but had a persistent warmth and glow that could not be ignored. Even by me.
Because I started seeing out of my bubble, I finally started thinking that I'd like to get better as a singer. No, that's really not true. After I abused it, my voice started to feel tense and sore, and I wanted to make it stronger because I couldn't live without singing and the accolades it brought.
Hmm. Turns out I can live without it. That, too, is another conversation.
I started trying to go to graduate school. I could hardly fit my bubble through the door, but when I did, the teachers lined up with big giant straight pins and popped it. Over and over.
It sucked. It hurt. It hurt too much, because I needed my bubble too much, because I needed being a "good singer" too much to make up for all the parts of me that I thought were bad. But the only reason they were able to pop my bubble is because I was willing to let them, and deep down I think I wanted out.
I see bubble, now, in others (and I'm not sure I'm completely rid of my own, either). It usually goes with not just bad singing, but bad behavior. What I mean by "bubble," in essence, is being unable or unwilling to hear anything negative about our abilities. Staying naive or untrained, because we know more than experts, and we think training might take away our identity.
Nobody takes your identity unless you give it to them, and we usually don't give it away, anyway. We sell it, like Esau sold his birthright, in a moment of greed or pride or some other hunger. I could be a work-in-progress, willing to learn - but I'm starving for validation. So I'm going to sell that version of myself and instead we'll decide that I'm a star, but no one understands me. I'm a raw, native talent, and I don't need training. I'm an American original, and the rules of music or vocal health don't apply to me.
It starts out as a good idea, doesn't it? We don't need negativity, we say. We're going to think positive and only allow "safe" people into our dream. I agree. Dreams and hopes and aspirations should be God-sized and kept in a safe place. But then there are people who don't think we're stars. People who don't do things our way, but are successful. Sometimes people offer criticism, and it's mean; sometimes people offer comments meant to help. It's hard to sort it out and sometimes it all hurts. So we start actively screening out all things negative, all things that don't support every choice 100%, and then we don't have any objective criteria to know how we're doing. Except ourselves.
We start being ruled by rank - who's better? who is worse? than me - then we've got bubble. Bubble is safe. Bubble lets the hurtful things bounce off. Well, the hurtful things done to us, anyway; bubble lets me hurt others while staying safe.
Ever since I knew Jacob, and especially during the hard hard years of graduate school, I wished I could just have a little bit of my bubble back. I wished for a magic shield that only let the helpful comments through. A smart shield that knew who was right and who was full of it.
I didn't get that, and obviously I needed to develop discernment on my own, and it's been hard. The horror and shame that I felt (feel) about those years is still fresh. I was Jacob, only worse. I was up on stage showing not my talented, polished self, but a loud, sad, angry woman who really needed to be better than you, and really needed you to know it. Cringecringecringe
I miss my bubble sometimes because I have no choice but to hear everything, from the well-phrased constructive comment to the assassin who insists that I don't have a "solo voice." But without the bubble I've had to grow like crazy. I've considered every comment and suggestion and cut. I can't help it. I don't want to be Jacob. I'm working on the weaknesses of my singing, or my character, when the comments are true, and I'm contemplating the weaknesses of my heart when the comments are false, and I am still trying to figure out the magic shield that will help me know the difference.
The thing about bubble is, it looks like protection from the outside, but like so many safe places, it turns into a prison.
Next: Spot the Bubble
Open mic night was frequented by a lot of us in various stages of aspiration and success. The talent level was pretty high, partly because this is a piano open mike, and we had a lot of trained theater singers and actors. I loved singing and making it all about me and showing off my new songs, and all that. But I loved listening too. I learned so much, and I was surprised by who I learned from.
Jacob rarely missed a Tuesday open mic. I didn't get much in the way of personal conversation with him but I thought he might have had some kind of "developmental delay" or something. He was childlike. Jacob was not a good singer, and while there are many ways to sing badly, his bad singing was common; he did not hear pitches well, and so he sang off-key.
There seem to be two kinds of singers in the world. Those who are off-key and don't know it, and those who are basically fine. Guess who worries more about it? From a physiological point of view, this makes sense. Being able to hear and sing pitches is about memory. Some of us hear pitches and remember them forever, and some of us hear a pitch and can't remember it long enough for our vocal folds to make that pitch. Some in that latter category are probably not even distinguishing among the pitches when they hear them, in the same way that more musical people do.
The singer who is singing away with all his heart, not knowing that he sounds dreadful, is iconic. It's a person with a "kick me" sign on his back, it's the cheated-on but unsuspecting spouse, the emperor with no clothes. We love to watch that guy, because then we know we aren't that guy. We're in the know, and he isn't, and we add "make sure I'm on key" to our list of ways to make sure we never look foolish.
Jacob looked foolish, and this was long before "American Idol" or Youtube. We had to catch foolishness live back then, and it was more memorable. Jacob was serious about his singing and performing and you could tell he worked hard at it. I am always proud of us, the community, when I remember Jacob, because he was treated kindly in our open mic. People laughed at him and talked about him behind his back, but he had his two songs like everyone else and he sang them to a reasonably quiet and respectful room.
I knew I was supposed to pity Jacob, but I didn't. Jacob was a bad singer, but he didn't know it and he never will, because Jacob had a bubble. When people were less than complimentary, or got sloppy and let him see their giggles and their rolled eyes, he didn't see them. Obviously Jacob's affliction - he can't hear pitches well enough to know he doesn't sound good - is also his bubble. He literally cannot hear how bad he sounds. What was my excuse?
Oh heck yeah. When I was in my thirties, I had a bubble too. It wasn't as strong as Jacob's, and at the time I didn't think I had one. I just thought I was very good at singing, and that other people sometimes weren't as good, and that occasionally people were better. So I'm looking back ten years later, and putting myself on the inside of that bubble, and remembering what it felt like.
I was always concerned with who was "good" at singing. There were three categories back then. "Not as good as I am", "about as good as I am," and "better than I am." I gave myself a little more latitude to judge singers who were just plain different - men, usually - and I remember them more as individuals with different gifts. But looking back I cringe at how black and white I was in my judgments, and how self-focused.
There were people who I didn't think were great singers but they were puzzling. They weren't brassy and belty and loud, like I like to be. Many were women with voices that seemed softer, and I pitied them, that they apparently couldn't summon an ear-splitting high note when they needed one. One was a girl-next-door type, a pretty but genuine girl who didn't get highlights or wear tons of makeup and everybody thought she was "really sweet." I liked her, you couldn't not like her, but I didn't think she was a great singer because... well, she didn't sing like I sang.
Apparently that was what passed for discernment for me back then.
I ran into this young woman and she was harried and busy and she said she was singing at her 10th wedding, and some were people she hardly knew, and it was only June; there were many more to go. I was surprised. I sang at weddings now and then, but usually it was close friends who asked. I felt jealous immediately, because I felt jealous a lot back then. Jealousy is incredibly illuminating and useful, by the way, and that's another conversation. Anyway, I scratched my head. Why did so many more people, apparently, like her voice than mine? I was a professional, I gigged, I wrote songs, I was funny, I could belt a B, what was up with that?
I had a bubble, and I think on the inside it was mirrored, and all I saw was myself and how I sang, and that seemed like all there was in the world. Fortunately for me, God allowed me to see out of my bubble. I started to notice others like this woman whose beauty was not turned up to 11, but had a persistent warmth and glow that could not be ignored. Even by me.
Because I started seeing out of my bubble, I finally started thinking that I'd like to get better as a singer. No, that's really not true. After I abused it, my voice started to feel tense and sore, and I wanted to make it stronger because I couldn't live without singing and the accolades it brought.
Hmm. Turns out I can live without it. That, too, is another conversation.
I started trying to go to graduate school. I could hardly fit my bubble through the door, but when I did, the teachers lined up with big giant straight pins and popped it. Over and over.
It sucked. It hurt. It hurt too much, because I needed my bubble too much, because I needed being a "good singer" too much to make up for all the parts of me that I thought were bad. But the only reason they were able to pop my bubble is because I was willing to let them, and deep down I think I wanted out.
I see bubble, now, in others (and I'm not sure I'm completely rid of my own, either). It usually goes with not just bad singing, but bad behavior. What I mean by "bubble," in essence, is being unable or unwilling to hear anything negative about our abilities. Staying naive or untrained, because we know more than experts, and we think training might take away our identity.
Nobody takes your identity unless you give it to them, and we usually don't give it away, anyway. We sell it, like Esau sold his birthright, in a moment of greed or pride or some other hunger. I could be a work-in-progress, willing to learn - but I'm starving for validation. So I'm going to sell that version of myself and instead we'll decide that I'm a star, but no one understands me. I'm a raw, native talent, and I don't need training. I'm an American original, and the rules of music or vocal health don't apply to me.
It starts out as a good idea, doesn't it? We don't need negativity, we say. We're going to think positive and only allow "safe" people into our dream. I agree. Dreams and hopes and aspirations should be God-sized and kept in a safe place. But then there are people who don't think we're stars. People who don't do things our way, but are successful. Sometimes people offer criticism, and it's mean; sometimes people offer comments meant to help. It's hard to sort it out and sometimes it all hurts. So we start actively screening out all things negative, all things that don't support every choice 100%, and then we don't have any objective criteria to know how we're doing. Except ourselves.
We start being ruled by rank - who's better? who is worse? than me - then we've got bubble. Bubble is safe. Bubble lets the hurtful things bounce off. Well, the hurtful things done to us, anyway; bubble lets me hurt others while staying safe.
Ever since I knew Jacob, and especially during the hard hard years of graduate school, I wished I could just have a little bit of my bubble back. I wished for a magic shield that only let the helpful comments through. A smart shield that knew who was right and who was full of it.
I didn't get that, and obviously I needed to develop discernment on my own, and it's been hard. The horror and shame that I felt (feel) about those years is still fresh. I was Jacob, only worse. I was up on stage showing not my talented, polished self, but a loud, sad, angry woman who really needed to be better than you, and really needed you to know it. Cringecringecringe
I miss my bubble sometimes because I have no choice but to hear everything, from the well-phrased constructive comment to the assassin who insists that I don't have a "solo voice." But without the bubble I've had to grow like crazy. I've considered every comment and suggestion and cut. I can't help it. I don't want to be Jacob. I'm working on the weaknesses of my singing, or my character, when the comments are true, and I'm contemplating the weaknesses of my heart when the comments are false, and I am still trying to figure out the magic shield that will help me know the difference.
The thing about bubble is, it looks like protection from the outside, but like so many safe places, it turns into a prison.
Next: Spot the Bubble
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