The Sunday Musician

(This post is part of Fred McKinnon's Sunday Set List Blog Carnival.)

And don't forget to check out the other posts - some weird stuff this week...

Several years ago my friend Steve, a part-time music director, invited me to be a part of his Sunday band.  At the rehearsal on a weekday evening, I noticed a guy standing in the back of the room, watching us.  He was maybe 35, jeans and untucked shirt, longish, 70's hair, fairly clean-cut looking guy.  Swaying with the music, eyes closed, he sang along with us.  I assumed he was on staff, happened to just wander through the room, stopped to enjoy, maybe indulge in a little impromptu worship. 

After about five minutes, he walked up to the band, and asked Steve, "Can I say something?" 

Steve said, "Um...sure.  Make it quick."

I thought, wow - they must have a good working relationship for Steve to talk to him like that.  Or maybe Steve was having a bad day, or perhaps even he was just jealous of practice time--something I appreciated.  But I was wrong on all counts.  This is what the guy said:

"Your words are like surgery, cutting me open, opening up my veins..."  (Here he made a cutting motion, as if he were slashing open his forearm).  "The blood that flows from my arms redeems me..."

And so on.  He went on for about two minutes, thanked Steve for letting him talk, and walked out. 

We all looked at Steve, who grinned, shrugged, and said, "That's Bruce.  Every church has a Bruce, right?"

Anyone who's hung out at church long enough knows people like Bruce.  Bruce was messed up.  I knew nothing about his history, but Steve moved up another notch in my eyes because he had compassion on Bruce, and didn't shut him out.  I'm messed up too--maybe not so obviously as Bruce, but I too need compassion, and to feel like I belong. 

Churches attract messed up people, but we shouldn't be surprised.  It isn't surprising to find sick people in the doctor's office.  This morning I looked around the room during worship time.  We meet in a downtown area, very near the Rescue Mission, and there were several 'Bruces' in the audience.  It humbles me, because God had compassion on us when he sent Jesus to die so we could get un-messed up and feel like we belong. 

Today's songs:

'Tis So Sweet To Trust In Jesus

Wholly Yours (Tomlin)

Our God Saves

Beautiful, Scandalous Night

Prayer meetings, theological discussions, personal support--that's what I expected from church work. The luxury of time and space devoted to making really great music. I envisioned sitting with guitar and piano, collaborating with Phil (my friend and new boss), cooking up really cool musical stuff. My first day in the office I expected a long conversation about what we did, why we did it, maybe some talk about ideas for new direction now that I was there.

I was wrong.

I was there 15 minutes and Phil said, “Here's what we do.” He grabbed a stack of photocopied music and literally ran to the front office. Not hurried, not walked fast – ran. When I caught up he already had the music in the hopper of the photocopier.

“Here's how you copy the music to be sent out. You stick it in the top here, punch in how many copies to make, then hit start. While that's running, you grab manila envelopes, which are kept here.”

“How many will we need?”

“Just grab a handful.”

I grabbed a handful and hoped it was enough. Marsha the Receptionist, early 60's (age, not style...well, both) walked in. “Is this our new boy?” She gave me a sideways hug. “We're excited to have you here! Gonna give our Phil some much-needed help, I hear.”

Phil took the stack of copied music and trotted back down the hall. I slipped out of Marcia’s hug and followed, trying to catch what Phil was saying over his shoulder.

“We try and send the music out at least 10 days in advance, so people have time to look it over. We also send out cassette tapes of everything in the envelopes.”

He veered into the conference room, sat down at the empty table and began stuffing the music into envelopes. I would have helped, but he was going so fast.  When he was done he grabbed everything and walked back into our office. The empty envelopes he handed to me, and began popping cassettes into the full ones, from a stack on his desk. When he was done he stood up wordlessly and started again for the front office. I grabbed the empties and followed him.

From a filing cabined he pulled out a folder.

“Here are labels for all the musicians and singers.”

He was out the door again, and Marsha held out her hand for the empties I was still holding. “I'll take those.” She nodded toward Phil's office and said, “Good luck keeping up with him.” There was a look in her eye I couldn't quite interpret: admiration? Awe?

Back in the conference room Phil peeled labels from the sheet, apparently from a list in his head, and slid each one onto an envelope in one quick motion. Wetting with his tongue, he sealed the envelopes and banged them into a square stack.

“That,” he said with a smile of satisfaction, “Is what we do!” He seemed to be expecting me to say something. When I didn't, he said, “The list of songs for the 16^th is on my desk. I have a lunch meeting in 20 minutes.”

I looked over the list of upcoming songs...liked that one, didn't like that one...wondered if there was room to make some changes, and wondered when he and I would sit down and start talking about new songs. The next day I found out how the new songs were picked. How, in fact, the services where actually put together – a committee.

The next morning, with a can of coke in hand and my shirt untucked, I sat at the conference table with a group of 7 or 8 sweaters and stainless travel mugs, Franklin Planners open to today's date, and a tin of Altoids making it's way around the table. This was the creative team. The mood was jovial and scarily corporate, and when somebody excused herself to get more coffee before the meeting started, I ran to my office and grabbed a legal pad and pen. I was clearly unprepared.

That pace never let up.