The Lie of Perfection

I’m going to take a brief detour from Swaziland tonight. I’m going to explore something personal and uncomfortable, and maybe near the end I’ll be able to tug this story back to Mholsheni, where it belongs. Forgive me this self-indulgence.

I left our service tonight full of disappointment and frustration. The only thing going through my mind was that I stunk.

I went to church full of excitement and energy, looking forward to the set and the evening and the message. I was ready to play bass through the set, and I was set to do lead vocals on “You Are the One,” a Lincoln Brewster number I truly love. I hadn’t been able to practice the bass numbers much, but I’d spent two good hours this afternoon working the chords and trying to find a groove I could cling to. By the time the kids and I got to Reynolds I was jumping up and down in excitement.

I should have known there was something wrong on the first practice run of “You Are the One.” I heard my voice like it was a blind man trying to hit a bullseye in a dart game. I was all over the place in search of a solid note, and I think I winced visibly the first time I heard myself in the monitor. Such a simple, elegant song. Long, supple notes, open vowels… but I couldn’t find it.

And then I just couldn’t get the feel for “You Are Good.” I didn’t know what chords to play during the lead, couldn’t slap because my new 5-string has so little space between strings, felt I was way behind the drums on the chorus.

I was sure things would get better by the time the service started and we swung into our first song. But I missed the simplest of notes in that very first song. I couldn’t sing background vocals and keep on top of the beat on the bass. On “You Are Good” I completely forgot the chords to playing during James’ guitar lead, then messed it up by dropping off-key clunkers in its midst.

I moved up to sing “You Are the One.” It wasn’t any better than the practice had been. I heard my disembodied voice floating through the big room in search of the right note, and felt like asking the band to stop and start over again. I found myself thinking about the last time I’d stood up front singing lead vocals two weeks before, and how I’d botched “Cry Out to Jesus” by trying too hard to sound like Mac Powell.

Anyway, Jared gave a sermon that was inspiring but that I couldn’t engage in, communion was served but I missed its meaning, and we closed our set. By then I just wanted to go home.

An hour later I put on my running shoes and grabbed Jack’s leash and went for a run.

I’ve never thought of myself as being a perfectionist, but I guess I probably am in many ways. (I’m sure my kids would respond with a rousing “DUH.”) But being able to participate in worship means so much to me. It pulls pieces of my life that were long left behind into the present, and aims them at the One that has changed my life. Sometimes, though, I get the act of worship mixed up with the subject of that worship, and I lose my way.

So after my run I knelt down in the back yard with Jack panting beside me and with my back against the fence and I prayed. I asked Jesus to please forgive me my botching of worship, and then to forgive my ego and my self-centeredness. And the response I imagined was something like this:

“Of course, Michael. You are always forgiven, even before you act. But friend, you need to change your path. You need to move aside. Aim your songs at our Abba, and not the critic in your heart who you fear and have always served. He is poison, and he’s stealing from the One who loves you.”

There in the back yard tonight this post finally made the circle back to Mhlosheni. I have cared a lot—too much—about how well I play and sing during worship. It may hurt sometimes to say it, but it would not be a tragedy if I never played or sang again. I doubt that God would cry.

But every child that goes to bed hungry and frightened makes God cry. And in Mhlosheni, hunger and fear are the very stuff of life.

My job is not to do worship perfectly. Or to nail each note or to solidly plant the root of every chord. My job is to be transparent, to help the people around me raise their own voices to God in praise and in thanks. Will I ever get my priorities straight?

I'm very good at "performing" in the broadest sense of the word. at work I "perform" by planning products and strategies and demonstrating them in the field, and then I hand them over to sales and marketing. I manage these things, but in a sense I don't engage with them.

When I think about this it makes me wonder how much of my life is a performance? Probably much, much more than I'd care to admit. This may be true for all of us.

My role in worship can't be "performing," but must be one of "leadership." (I often distinguish at work between "leadership" and what I call "pushership," and I make that distinction here as well.) Worship leaders must not "perform," but must humbly lead.

This is another point that brings me full circle to Mhlosheni and our trip this October: If I treat it as a performance in any way I will dissapoint myself and probably my peers. I need to engage. I won't be there to "perform and observe," but to "observe and enagage."

All I experience through music and through worship is a gift. It's one of millions of background soundtracks to the work of Jesus in this world. It's better to remember that, and to be real, than it is to be perfect.

I suspect I'll forget this again the next time I get to join the worship team, but I trust Jesus to remind me.