GPBC Blog

The very day I became a Christian, I felt burdened to learn music. Up until that time, I never once even thought about music in any meaningful way. Music was never a part of my family, and, given my annoyance with the kinds of music my friends listened to, I believe I might have said that I didn’t much care for music. But that all changed on that day for reasons that remain unexplained.  

I never aspired to be the best performer, but rather, I wanted to understand what music was and how it worked. That was the spring of 1986, around Easter—if not Easter itself. A few weeks later, I was actually making music on the worst guitar I’ve ever touched. The strings were too far off the fretboard, making it difficult to hold a clean note. The guitar would stay in tune on one part of the neck but be noticeably out of tune on others. Looking back now, I had no idea how difficult my introduction to music-making was, but I kept at it.  

By the end of the second year, I was playing semi-professionally in a little band of honest-to-goodness musical geniuses. They taught me so much about music, much of which I have since forgotten, but, more importantly, they taught me to listen. They taught me to listen to things others might not hear—not just chord changes and intervals, tempo-toe-tapping and subtle shoulder shakes, but deeper things. Soulish things. Spiritual things. 

In 1999, I joined the band at GPBC, and, over the years, I’ve been challenged to understand why exactly we make music on Sunday morning. Obviously, making music on Sunday morning was something quite different than on a Saturday night in a rural bar, but music is music, or so I thought. 

What am I doing when I am up on stage making music on Sunday morning? It’s actually more complex than I first imagined. There are competing virtues that ebb and flow depending on the social connection with other musicians, the lyrical text, congregational response, and how I happen to feel in the moment.

These are, in no particular order, some of the things I am mindfully doing on Sunday:  

• Lead the congregation in heartfelt praise and worship. (Psalm 100, ad nauseam)
• Support musically, relationally, technically, and emotionally the worship leader who, in the processes of leading music on Sunday, carries a heavier cross than I do. (Galatians 6:2)
• Practice and demonstrate my essential call to discipleship by learning to listen to God’s voice and the voices of His people. (John 10:27)
• Personally worship God by bringing Him a sacrifice of my time and talent. (Romans 12:1-2)
• Artfully perform music as a co-creator with God. (I Corinthians 3:8-9)
• Lift our collective spirits. (I Samuel 16:23)
• Encourage non-believers to follow Jesus. (I Corinthians 14:24–25)
• Represent, in microcosm, what the Church looks like when we remember that we are a diverse people with diverse skills, personalities, and purposes working in unity. (I Corinthians 12:12-27)

Others may have different answers (or emphasize one of these over all the others), but for me, my main goal is to listen, listen to God, listen to the worship leader and my fellow musicians, and to listen to the congregation. On Sunday mornings, we all make music together. We all imperfectly play the instrument God has given us, whether we feel it out of tune, whether we sing a clean note or not. We respond inwardly first to the words of Christ living in hearts; only then can we make music together, outwardly. In those few minutes of public unity, we graciously exhort one another toward the abundant life in Christ.