What an absolutely wonderful weekend this is turning out to be -- wonderful and heartwrenching. This weekend, in my church family, is all about T.
This weekend we celebrate Thomas Coker's 25 years in ministry at South Main Baptist Church and 50 years in ministry. That is the wonderfulness of it all. Then he retires. That is the heartwrenching part.
The celebration has been true to South Main's longstanding tradition of doing things well, in excellence, decently and in order. Earlier this afternoon we had a concert featuring just about all of our music ministry, and including participation by returning "alumni." What a joyous time we had. The music in all respects was top notch, from our kindergarten group to, well, our more seasoned members.
Let's digress for a moment, for just a little "TC" background: Thomas has pursued an excellence in music at South Main Baptist that sets our music ministry apart from what people normally expect of a church choir. We have done (and done well) sacred works like King David, Elijah, Messiah, Requiem (Brahms & Rutter), Mass in G (V. Williams) and more; and we have done (and, again, done well) Broadway shows, including Hello Dolly, The Wizard of Oz, Man of LaMancha, Into the Woods, and even more. It is difficult for someone who thinks she has a decently-rounded background to be hit in the face with "stuff I've never even thought about doing." He has had to drag this writer out of her box, sometimes kicking and screaming. Often inwardly questioning his song selection, she was reminded of telling the choirs she directed, It's not about what you want or even like, it's about helping worshipers make a connection to God, reinforcing the theme of worship through music. Being whipped by the sermon she had so often preached to others, she had to swallow hard, dig in, and yield to T's directions. In learning that song, whichever one, she learned to love what she had previously professed to loathe.
Near the end of the concert, Pastor Steve Wells asked us to show our appreciation for Thomas, and there erupted a standing ovation like none I had ever witnessed! Thomas, in the style of a true minister, would not, could not take a bow. Obviously moved by this outpouring of love and appreciation, he stood with right hand over heart. It seemed that he may have even been a bit uncomfortable by the demonstration. At one point he raised his hands, both index fingers pointing upward. Had we been at a baseball, football or basketball game, the raised fingers would most likely be followed by a chant: WE'RE NUMBER ONE! WE'RE NUMBER ONE!
Not so in the instant case. When I saw the ascending fingers, I knew instantaneously Thomas was thinking soli deo gloria -- to God alone be the glory. Soli deo gloria has been T's tagline since before I knew him. And from my observations, it is the way he has lived his life of ministry. Time and again, whether Bach to Broadway or King David or Elijah or My Eternal King -- going over and over . . . and over and over . . . and over . . . whatever section of music, pesky phrase, or that single vowel that is just not right . . . over and over . . . it was not about getting it just right to justify it being dubbed excellent, but getting in just right to give glory and honor to God by giving Him our very best.
T's got things in proper perspective: God gave us His very best, and we should give Him no less.
Thank you, Thomas, for knowing, and showing the real importance of music ministry done well.
Soli deo gloria.
To God -- and God alone -- be the glory.
Showing posts with label Worship. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Worship. Show all posts
Saturday, June 2, 2012
Friday, April 22, 2011
Recovering From Worship???
Today is Good Friday. For Believers we’re talking about something super special – the day we commemorate the passion and crucifixion of our Lord and Savior. But, first, let’s back up to yesterday – Maundy Thursday – the day Believers commemorate the last supper.
This writer cares not for the technobabble about how the dates for Holy Week and Resurrection Day change from one year to the next, just as this writer gives no thought to December 25 not being the Savior’s birthday. None of these issues negate the beliefs of those of my ilk: that He was born of an immaculate conception, He walked the earth, He suffered and died, and He was resurrected. What is of significance that we remember. In fact whenever we worship, we should be reminded. So, how does that work? Well, let’s talk about it.
Back to yesterday, Maundy Thursday. It was a typical April day in Houston, Texas, in a word, hot. It is the time of year when my beloved sun because one of my worst enemies, causing the manifestation of Sarcoidosis-related issues – like not being able to breathe, reddening and blistering facial skin (not easy for this Chocolate Bunny, but it actually turns red), and a total draining of every bit of energy in my body. Yet, it is Holy Week. And despite the climate, Holy Week calls for daily treks to the Westmoreland Chapel on the campus South Main Baptist Church for worship at noon, and, if one is so inclined thereafter, a nice lunch served in the shade of our Chafin Educational Building (we have an absolutely awesome kitchen staff – okay – that’s a plug, but true).
The noon worship on Maundy Thursday focused on the text found in verses 53 through 65 of the 14th chapter of Mark, and Pastor Steve’s question: Who killed Jesus? (If one recalls Mel Gibson’s movie The Passion, one might also recall the clamor at that time about just that question: Who killed Jesus? One might also recall the close-up of various hands nailing Jesus to the cross, among them being the hands of Mr. Gibson.) And toward the end of the message, Pastor Steve began answering the question by calling the roll: Jews killed Jesus – not all Jews but Caiaphas and the chief priests, the teachers of the law, the Sanhedrin that were assembled that night – a kangaroo court in Caiaphas’s home; and the Romans – not all Romans but those who handed Him over to Pontius Pilot; and, theologically, God the Father, who sent His Son into the world for just this purpose; and Jesus, who allowed Himself to be killed. And, of course, there are more – many, many more: our sins killed Jesus. I killed Jesus. You killed Jesus. And so it goes, folks: we all had a hand in nailing Him to the tree. Wow. Folks who only want “feel-good” church would have left unfulfilled and very much disappointed rather than convicted – and convinced that the only way we will stop killing Jesus is to become more like Him.
The day of worship continued Maundy Thursday evening, with the most somber worship time of any at South Main – the Service of Shadows – the time when we reflect on the betrayal, arrest, desertion, trial, scourging, crucifixion and death of the Only Faultless One to ever walk the earth. Amidst voices pouring out words in haunting melodies and lush harmonies, words that salve and soothe one’s soul, our Ragan C. read from The Word, the scriptures that so vividly paint the picture that tells the story of how we all participated in nailing Him to the tree. By the end of worship, there is silence and darkness – how the world was left then after they/we had killed Him – and words fittingly descriptive, even today, of lives that are without His light. Wow.
And Holy Week continued today. Yet, another trek to the Westmoreland Chapel for noon worship, a Silent Service – an intentional, deliberate means of focusing the worshiper, once more, on the sacrifice of our Savior.
This service is comprised of a series of scriptures, each followed by a song played by our resident prodigy, organist Daryl Robinson. Daryl is a favorite of this writer. His musicianship is beyond comparison, going far beyond the mastery of his performance abilities, but technical knowledge as well. What had not been realized until today, was Daryl’s tremendous gift of marrying scripture to music. Thoughtfully choosing* familiar texts and melodies, as well as works that may not be known to many of us at all, Mr. Robinson took worshipers on a journey, from Christ’s condemnation, to the Via Dolorosa, to Golgotha, to the tomb. Complementing the words of the chosen music, were the music arrangements themselves, employing harmonies, progressions and nuances that added more texture and brilliance to the pictures the Scriptures and lyrics painted.
Feel the moment of condemnation, knowing that what lay ahead was even worse than what had already transpired:
Feel the weight of the cross beneath a battered and emaciated body.
See Simon of Cyrene carry the cross for Him.
Feel the agony of the women who wailed for Jesus.
There is a balm in Gilead
to heal the sin sick soul
(Negro Spiritual).
Feel the nakedness of His body as the soldiers divided His clothing:
See the nails being driven into His hands and feet, but if like this writer, just try to avoid imagining the added pain they caused:
Feel the darkness creeping into the world as He breathed His last breath:
See them take His body from the cross:
See Joseph wrap Him in a linen cloth and lay Him in a tomb hewn out of rock:
As worshipers left the chapel in silence, words and music remained alive. Just off the sidewalk, leaning against the accessible parking pillar under a tree (that must be older than any building on the campus), providing protective shade while God wrapped his arms around me in a light breeze that tempered the afternoon heat preventing pulmonary discomfort, the words and the music washed over me again, leaving images of the 24-hour period that began at noon on Maundy Thursday, and a thought: how awesome it is to live on this side of the resurrection, to be able to look back and see that whole picture. Kevin Sinclair, our minister to youth, spoke as he passed by, asking if he could be of assistance. Oh, I’m just recovering from worship. Sometimes it takes me a while. He gave me an understanding nod, and left me to continue me reverie.
Finally collecting myself, I drove away with another thought – a question: how does one recover from worship? In retrospect, that just seems odd. To recover – meaning to bring back or get back to normal – totally negates the purpose of worship. Quite often, a prayer in worship at South Main includes the plea that we be transformed so that we will be less of what we used to be and more of what we ought to be through Christ Jesus. And so, folks, recovering from worship is just not the desired thing to do. To leave worship the same as one came is to spend an hour (or two, or however many) going through some ritual, reading words, singing songs, joining in prayers, and listening to sermons, that are no more than water off a duck’s back. So why bother?
And so, rather than recover from worship, perhaps I should have told Kevin, I’m still renewing through worship:
Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God's will is – his good, pleasing and perfect will. (Romans 12:2, NIV). Perhaps with a little more renewing and transforming, we would kill Jesus less often.
Out of the most agonizing time of the first century A.D. was born the grace we experience today. Because of that, even in silent worship, there are conviction and comfort; veil-lifting and vindication; peace and promise; enlightenment and edification, and hopefully, a desire for renewal and transformation.
_______________________
*All right, thoughtfully choosing is conjecture on my part; still, this writer is sure it took more than a few minutes while nursing his favorite Starbuck’s beverage, for Mr. Robinson to well devise a worship service that so wonderfully reflects the gravity and majesty of the moment.
This writer cares not for the technobabble about how the dates for Holy Week and Resurrection Day change from one year to the next, just as this writer gives no thought to December 25 not being the Savior’s birthday. None of these issues negate the beliefs of those of my ilk: that He was born of an immaculate conception, He walked the earth, He suffered and died, and He was resurrected. What is of significance that we remember. In fact whenever we worship, we should be reminded. So, how does that work? Well, let’s talk about it.
Back to yesterday, Maundy Thursday. It was a typical April day in Houston, Texas, in a word, hot. It is the time of year when my beloved sun because one of my worst enemies, causing the manifestation of Sarcoidosis-related issues – like not being able to breathe, reddening and blistering facial skin (not easy for this Chocolate Bunny, but it actually turns red), and a total draining of every bit of energy in my body. Yet, it is Holy Week. And despite the climate, Holy Week calls for daily treks to the Westmoreland Chapel on the campus South Main Baptist Church for worship at noon, and, if one is so inclined thereafter, a nice lunch served in the shade of our Chafin Educational Building (we have an absolutely awesome kitchen staff – okay – that’s a plug, but true).
The noon worship on Maundy Thursday focused on the text found in verses 53 through 65 of the 14th chapter of Mark, and Pastor Steve’s question: Who killed Jesus? (If one recalls Mel Gibson’s movie The Passion, one might also recall the clamor at that time about just that question: Who killed Jesus? One might also recall the close-up of various hands nailing Jesus to the cross, among them being the hands of Mr. Gibson.) And toward the end of the message, Pastor Steve began answering the question by calling the roll: Jews killed Jesus – not all Jews but Caiaphas and the chief priests, the teachers of the law, the Sanhedrin that were assembled that night – a kangaroo court in Caiaphas’s home; and the Romans – not all Romans but those who handed Him over to Pontius Pilot; and, theologically, God the Father, who sent His Son into the world for just this purpose; and Jesus, who allowed Himself to be killed. And, of course, there are more – many, many more: our sins killed Jesus. I killed Jesus. You killed Jesus. And so it goes, folks: we all had a hand in nailing Him to the tree. Wow. Folks who only want “feel-good” church would have left unfulfilled and very much disappointed rather than convicted – and convinced that the only way we will stop killing Jesus is to become more like Him.
The day of worship continued Maundy Thursday evening, with the most somber worship time of any at South Main – the Service of Shadows – the time when we reflect on the betrayal, arrest, desertion, trial, scourging, crucifixion and death of the Only Faultless One to ever walk the earth. Amidst voices pouring out words in haunting melodies and lush harmonies, words that salve and soothe one’s soul, our Ragan C. read from The Word, the scriptures that so vividly paint the picture that tells the story of how we all participated in nailing Him to the tree. By the end of worship, there is silence and darkness – how the world was left then after they/we had killed Him – and words fittingly descriptive, even today, of lives that are without His light. Wow.
And Holy Week continued today. Yet, another trek to the Westmoreland Chapel for noon worship, a Silent Service – an intentional, deliberate means of focusing the worshiper, once more, on the sacrifice of our Savior.
This service is comprised of a series of scriptures, each followed by a song played by our resident prodigy, organist Daryl Robinson. Daryl is a favorite of this writer. His musicianship is beyond comparison, going far beyond the mastery of his performance abilities, but technical knowledge as well. What had not been realized until today, was Daryl’s tremendous gift of marrying scripture to music. Thoughtfully choosing* familiar texts and melodies, as well as works that may not be known to many of us at all, Mr. Robinson took worshipers on a journey, from Christ’s condemnation, to the Via Dolorosa, to Golgotha, to the tomb. Complementing the words of the chosen music, were the music arrangements themselves, employing harmonies, progressions and nuances that added more texture and brilliance to the pictures the Scriptures and lyrics painted.
Feel the moment of condemnation, knowing that what lay ahead was even worse than what had already transpired:
Christ, who saves us by His cross,
And no sin committed
(J.S. Bach).
Feel the weight of the cross beneath a battered and emaciated body.
Must Jesus bear the cross alone
and all the world go free?
(George N. Allen/Thomas Shepherd).
See Simon of Cyrene carry the cross for Him.
Shun not suffering, shame, or loss;
learn of Christ to bear the cross.
(Richard Redhead/James Montgomery).
Feel the agony of the women who wailed for Jesus.
There is a balm in Gilead
to heal the sin sick soul
(Negro Spiritual).
Feel the nakedness of His body as the soldiers divided His clothing:
A purple robe, a crown of thorn,
a reed in His right hand,
Before the soldiers’ spite and scorn
I see my Savior stand.
(David Wilson/Timothy Dudley-Smith).
See the nails being driven into His hands and feet, but if like this writer, just try to avoid imagining the added pain they caused:
God, give us each our own death,
the dying that proeeds from each of our lives.
(Camil van Huise/Rilke)
Feel the darkness creeping into the world as He breathed His last breath:
Grim death, with cruel rigor,
hath robbed Thee of Thy life;
Thus Thou hast lost Thy vigor,
Thy strength in this sad strife
(Brahms/Bernard of Clairvaux).
See them take His body from the cross:
When I survey the wondrous cross
on which the Prince of glory died.
(Edward Miller/Isaac Watts).
See Joseph wrap Him in a linen cloth and lay Him in a tomb hewn out of rock:
Were you there when they laid Him in the tomb?
Oh! Sometimes it causes me to tremble.
(Negro Spiritual).
As worshipers left the chapel in silence, words and music remained alive. Just off the sidewalk, leaning against the accessible parking pillar under a tree (that must be older than any building on the campus), providing protective shade while God wrapped his arms around me in a light breeze that tempered the afternoon heat preventing pulmonary discomfort, the words and the music washed over me again, leaving images of the 24-hour period that began at noon on Maundy Thursday, and a thought: how awesome it is to live on this side of the resurrection, to be able to look back and see that whole picture. Kevin Sinclair, our minister to youth, spoke as he passed by, asking if he could be of assistance. Oh, I’m just recovering from worship. Sometimes it takes me a while. He gave me an understanding nod, and left me to continue me reverie.
Finally collecting myself, I drove away with another thought – a question: how does one recover from worship? In retrospect, that just seems odd. To recover – meaning to bring back or get back to normal – totally negates the purpose of worship. Quite often, a prayer in worship at South Main includes the plea that we be transformed so that we will be less of what we used to be and more of what we ought to be through Christ Jesus. And so, folks, recovering from worship is just not the desired thing to do. To leave worship the same as one came is to spend an hour (or two, or however many) going through some ritual, reading words, singing songs, joining in prayers, and listening to sermons, that are no more than water off a duck’s back. So why bother?
And so, rather than recover from worship, perhaps I should have told Kevin, I’m still renewing through worship:
Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God's will is – his good, pleasing and perfect will. (Romans 12:2, NIV). Perhaps with a little more renewing and transforming, we would kill Jesus less often.
Out of the most agonizing time of the first century A.D. was born the grace we experience today. Because of that, even in silent worship, there are conviction and comfort; veil-lifting and vindication; peace and promise; enlightenment and edification, and hopefully, a desire for renewal and transformation.
_______________________
*All right, thoughtfully choosing is conjecture on my part; still, this writer is sure it took more than a few minutes while nursing his favorite Starbuck’s beverage, for Mr. Robinson to well devise a worship service that so wonderfully reflects the gravity and majesty of the moment.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Just live; just worship
It was a rehearsal like any other, and yet, it was unique in its own way. As usual, our gathering began with a little stretching of most bodies tired from the day, and vocal exercises for already strained voices. Still we go through these exercises and find that afterwards we are, as usual, a little more relaxed and a lot more focused on the plan of attack devised by our minister of music.
As the rehearsal progressed from one musical work to the next, it was more like worship. Getting caught up in the message and movement of a song is nothing new to this writer. And it matters not when or where. Somewhere in the middle of "At the Name of Jesus, every knee shall bow and every tongue shall confess that Jesus Christ is Lord" the 60 or 70 or so folks seemed to number in the thousands. At that moment I was reminded of soap-box speeches from years ago, reminding my choirs that worship is not just what you do on Sunday morning; it's about how you live. Tonight I was reminded that even in the process of preparing for worship, there is worship indeed.
I cannot help but wonder if remaining mindful that living is itself a form of worship, will folks see -- hear -- and experience from this vessel -- more of Christ and less of Andrea? We shall see.
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