View from the Other Side of the Mic

It’s 5 a.m. on Sunday, and I’m tired and a little bit anxious as I quietly go through my morning routine trying not to wake up my wife and daughter. It’s this weekly period of intense solitude that sometimes finds me at my most unsettled, nervously anticipating the vast array of unknowns that form the path that lies before me. I know that by 12 p.m. most of my fears will have manifested themselves in various levels of regret or elation depending on the outcome of my morning. But for now my only comfort is in hurried coffee and silent prayer. What is this stressful job leads me to describe it like a scene from the Bourne trilogy?

I’m a worship leader.

An hour later I’m sitting alone on a stage in my church sanctuary, music in front of me, acoustic guitar in hand, fumbling through my song selections, Scripture readings, and prayers for our two morning services. I have a few minutes before the band arrives to warm up my voice, pray, and think through my transitions. But before I get to any of that I find myself staring at the pews, further contemplating the reality of what really lies ahead. I think about my faithful worship team on board for this Sunday, and here’s the thing: I actually really like all of them. I know that when I gather around them to pray, ask them how they’re doing, engage in some light-hearted banter, and make fun of the Chuck Taylors I’m wearing to lighten the mood, they’ll all stare back at me with blank faces and absolutely ZERO responses. But that’s okay—-I still appreciate their ongoing sacrifice and selfless commitment.

I really like my sound guy too, even though I’m probably going to ask him to turn up the bass in my monitor about 12 times during our rehearsal and again between services, and it’s never really going to happen. The video and lights team? Love ’em. I mean, it’s a foregone conclusion that the slides will be out of order, my Scripture readings copied in the wrong translation, and the lights won’t get turned down during the opening song, causing me to sweat like Liberace at the London Palladium, but they’re still great people with willing hearts serving the body of Christ to the best of their abilities. That means a lot to me.

But sometimes, even with everyone’s best intentions, these small, incidental things can start to get to you. Yes, even with the blessings that come from working within a community of fellow servant leaders who love both Christ and the church, it’s hard to not lose heart from time to time when expectations aren’t met and the level of excellence is . . . well . . . less than excellent. Then there’s my job, the one for which I recently received an encouraging email from a pastor that said, “You couldn’t pay me ANY amount of money to do what you’re doing, Ronnie.” He’s joking, right?

Heavyweight Fight

The Lord often does curious things, which includes calling people to positions they either had no desire for or even thought were remotely possible. It reminds of Gideon, a guy minding his own business, doing some household chores one afternoon in the cellar when God pays him a visit and says, “Hey champ, how ’bout we go win that heavyweight title, ok?” Yes, I’m paraphrasing, but you get my point. Gideon had no idea that the Lord was going to call him to do something that he felt completely incapable and inadequate to do. But the inspiring part is that he obeyed and let the Lord do the work in his heart necessary for him to believe in the truth of his calling.

The long story short for me is that I had spent a long time hiding in the music industry producing records, touring, and using the talents I thought that the Lord had given me to further my own creative agenda. But after 20 years of hard labor it had spiraled into a massive, all-consuming pursuit of self-glorification that God finally started to break down, piece by piece. I never wanted to be a worship leader. I didn’t like most worship music. I thought most worship leaders were insincere, clichéd, overly emotional, technology crazed, U2-loving perfectionists who took themselves way too seriously for people who weren’t half as “creative” or musically “accomplished” as people like me, who ironically spent most of their time perfecting their own brand of aloofness, ego, and art-school cool. Worship leaders were guys who wanted to do what I was doing but somehow never got there. I was simply content to be part of the congregation on Sundays like everyone else, mumbling words to songs I had heard too many times, wishing that my pastor would start his sermon already so that I could start thinking about what we were all thinking about: lunch. But God in his sovereignty, wisdom, and humor had other plans, like he usually does. He decided to put me on the other side of the microphone. He used the occasion of worship leading to introduce me to a life of brokenness.

It was brutally hard at first, trying to learn the rules of the game in front of a sizable church playing music I didn’t love, constantly questioning my calling and wondering over and over again how on earth I landed in this nutty predicament. I found myself shocked at the things I was learning and trying to accomplish on Sunday mornings. I smiled, greeted the congregation, read Scriptures, encouraged the body, prayed, and realized after many “unsuccessful” mornings that all of these things I used to be so critical of were actually incredibly difficult to do well.

And in a lot of ways they still are.

What It’s Like

I understand what’s it’s like to come to church first thing on a Sunday to be greeted by a guy up front with a guitar, smile, and ten cups of coffee streaming through his veins telling you it’s time to exercise your vocal chords for Jesus. I also understand that it’s not any easier to be the guy up there asking you to do it, with hundreds of blank faces staring back at you, eyes glazed over, and thoughts a million miles away. I understand what it’s like to sit in the pews while being led by a less than polished band, with out-of-tune instruments and pitchy vocalists, trying to engage in some sort of meaningful worship. I also understand what it’s like to be leading that same band, faced with the reality that all of those nagging elements are out of my control, and make it just as hard for me to engage in meaningful worship. Probably harder.

I think of passages in the Psalms where we’re admonished to “clap your hands, all peoples! Shout to God with loud songs of joy!” and wonder how that’s even possible some mornings, while in the same book we read “out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord.” I’m reminded that true worship is our response to God despite the condition we’re in when we do it. We are feeble, imperfect human beings only able to offer faint praises some mornings. But the presence of the Lord is like an umbrella over us, encouraging and building us up through the faith of our fellow believers, so that on other mornings we are able to do the same for them.

At the end of the day, regardless of what side of the microphone we’re on, we’re all suffering from varying degrees of misdirection, and in desperate need of re-direction. We all come to church on Sunday faced with the dilemma of who we’ve been worshiping and whose kingdom we’ve been building all week. It’s that humble truth that causes me to once again remember what I’m called to do this morning: magnify the name of Christ, confess our desperate need for him, and sing the truths of the gospel with people who are far too consumed with themselves. Like me.

And through it all, the glory of God will be revealed to us as a light penetrating the darkness of our souls, where we will be “satisfied with his likeness” when we “behold his face in righteousness” (Psalm 17:15).

That I would learn this every day.