Guitar 2

I occasionally wonder if I do anyone any good, musically speaking.

It’s a valid question. I love music, and even tried to major in music my first year of college. But I could never scream out a solo like the first chair trumpets or ring out the Messiah like the choir tenors. And in the years since college, I’ve never been able to wow audiences with my guitar playing ability.

I’m more or less at peace with the fact that I’ll never be a top flight musician, no matter how much I practice. I’m usually happy to have any part at all, whether that’s as the 12th chair trumpet or backing vocals or guitar 2.

But every now and then I wonder if what I do matters all that much. If Joe, the leader of our worship band, drops out, everyone knows. Same for Sid, the lead electric guitarist. And for the bass, and the drummer. If one of them falters, the rest of us stumble along until he gets back in or we give up and stop playing.

IMG_2926Not so for guitar 2. If my instrument suddenly vaporized in my hands during a song, it would not wreck the performance. The others would continue on, probably without missing a beat. Many of them wouldn’t even notice that the eighth-note drone in verse 2 or that extra D chord in the chorus had gone up in smoke.

Realizing that is a blow to the ego. When you understand that you’re not even good enough to wreck a song by your absence, it’s hard to feel essential.

But that’s selfish thinking, and flawed. Because the important thing is never the musician. It’s the music. And the music isn’t fully alive as long as one part—however small—is missing.

I realized that on Sunday during the band’s last song. My part was the most basic of patterns—eighth notes on two alternating strings, over and over again. Not the most interesting part to play, nor the most essential.

Or so I thought until I dropped my pick. I was only out for a few beats, maybe two measures. I could still hear the vocals, the drums, the bass, and the lead guitars. But the sound coming through the monitors was surprisingly empty.

Once again, my absence didn’t cause any musical train wrecks. But it did make the song less complete. The simple pattern I played was more important than I’d thought.

As I think over it today, that realization was a sign of grace, and larger than two strings of a guitar. It was a reminder that the music goes on, all around us, and will even without us. But what a privilege to have a part to play, no matter how small.

 

Open

I remember a visit from two of my annual conference representatives that took place while I was in seminary. During the course of their visit, the topic of contemporary worship came up.

“I don’t think I’d be very good at that,” I said. “I’m more of a traditional guy.”

“Good to know,” one of them said. “Believe me, there are plenty of churches in Arkansas that will be glad to hear that.”

Both of us said what we thought was true. Many people thought contemporary worship was nothing but an annoying fad. I thought I had about as much chance of participating in that genre as I did of joining the circus.

This memory struck me Sunday during worship while I was on stage at Fusion UMC, playing electric guitar with a worship band whose set included not a single song that had been written at the time of my conversation at Asbury.

Never thought my office would include pastoral tools such as these.

Never thought my office would include pastoral tools such as these.

I can see how I got here. The steps from picking up my first acoustic fifteen years ago to playing in church this Sunday are surprisingly linear. My reasoning for expanding both my musical skill set and my appreciation for contemporary genres is as logical as it is for any of my other life pursuits, and maybe more so.

But that doesn’t mean that I could see this coming twenty years ago. I couldn’t. Or at least I didn’t.

When I think about people I really admire among my elders, I often see a similar “never would’ve thought” pattern. My mother retired from teaching and starting making jewelry. James Williamson went from playing guitar for punk pioneers The Stooges to an executive office in silicon valley—and then, at age 60, back to playing punk rock guitar. My friend Boyd dreamed of parachuting from a plane like Charles Lindbergh. On his 65th birthday, he did it.

I used to think stories like this were fun anecdotes. Some people were luckier or more adventurous than others, and their lives took unexpected turns. It gave the rest of us something to gossip about.

But the older I get and the better I listen, the more I’m thinking that such surprises are not only more common than I thought. They are essential components to a healthy, meaningful life—not because of the surprises themselves, but because of the posture of openness that makes them possible. We cannot have positive change if we will not allow room for it.

Which is partly how I ended up on stage, playing electric guitar with a worship band at Fusion UMC in Mitchell, SD.

When these thoughts hit me on Sunday, I couldn’t help but smile, right in the middle of one of the songs. I love where I live. I love what I do. My life has taken a terrific turn, and it all started with a few simple decisions not to rule things out.

Who knows? Maybe the circus is next.