Facing the Music (9 page)

Before I knew it, I was fully engaged. Everywhere there was music in the church, I was there. By the following year I was the FCA worship leader, responsible for learning the catalog of worship songs with which everyone expected to open the meetings. I was a member of the contemporary worship team at my local church, and had even been asked to join a Christian rock band.

eight

I
t seems like every guitar player I've ever met dreams of being in a band. One guy meets another guy who knows a drummer, who knows a bass player, who knows another guy who can sing or maybe write some decent lyrics. I suppose it makes sense that eventually you might want to join forces with other like-minded people who want to make some noise, but it was a bit of a foreign concept to me. I had always been rather reclusive with my guitar.

I never had any specific intentions when I bought my first guitar. I just figured that it was a good idea to have a concept of how string instruments worked, since I was going to be a music major in college. So, in the summer before my freshman year of college, I happened to see an old, barely functional acoustic guitar hanging in the rafters of a local flea market and decided that I'd give it a go.

For fifty bucks, I bought what I later learned was a classical guitar improperly strung. Her neck was bowed by the strain of the metal strings and could scarcely stay in tune. My little hands could barely reach across her broad classical frets enough to form the most basic chords, but I persisted. That guitar was a clunky beast that seemed better served to decorate the rafters of a flea market than inspire musical passion. How I learned to play guitar on such a ramshackle instrument, I have no idea.

I didn't have the kinds of aching lust that most guitar players eventually become infected with: I had yet to be charmed by the alluring craftsmanship of Martins, Gibsons, or Taylors. I had no idea about the sensual nature of exotic, resonating woods or comely mother of pearl in-lays. For all I knew, it was just a box with metal strings stretching across it that you could use to pluck out a couple of tunes, and that was good enough for me. I was after the education more than the seduction of being a rock star.

Like every other instrument I had picked up, I set out to learn in solitude. I grabbed a couple of books to learn some chords and jumped right into it. It wasn't until I had a few basic chords under my belt that it finally dawned on me that I could attempt to play some of my favorite songs. I figured out that I could play some Cowboy Junkies, R.E.M., and even a little Tracy Chapman. Along the way I wrote some songs of my own creation. I didn't think I was very good at it, but I enjoyed the private hours when I could close my eyes and sing away. It was like a secret therapy that I kept to myself. An instrument that didn't have all the pressures and demands of precise execution like those in my classical world of trumpet playing. I didn't have to share it with anyone, nor did I want to. It never occurred to me to want to perform with it until my friends from church learned of my secret musical skills.

It was a minor miracle that I ever agreed to start playing guitar in church. I barely knew how to keep my guitar tuned, let alone play through a catalog of praise and worship music, but the invitations to play in a group setting helped me become more confident in all the practice.

Before long I got asked to join a band that a few of my
friends had pieced together. They were a band of Christians from my college and church who wanted to write and perform Christian pop music. I had written a few songs of my own by then, but I didn't think they were good enough to be performed by an ­established rock group. But my friends were eager to have me join the fray. They had the idea of writing original music and dreamed of performing concerts like real rock stars do, and seemed convinced that I would fit in their plans nicely. It was novel and something to do for fun and, although I had no idea what I was in for, I said
yes
. With the enthusiastic backing of our local church, the band set out on a mission to be a good Christian version of so-called worldly music. We named ourselves Captured (as in captured for Jesus) and began seeking out opportunities to play local concerts for youth groups and summer camps.

Initially, we were rather disorganized. We had several eager members, three lead singers, a violinist, three guitar players, and a guy who was willing to play bongos to keep time. It wasn't until Byron, a bass player from our church, agreed to join us that we even stood a chance of taking the shape of a proper performance group.

We were all excited that Byron had agreed to jump in. He had the experience of performing in rock bands and touring the Christian music scene. To land his expertise gave us a chance to up our game. Byron not only knew what it took to rehearse pop music, he also had an idea as to what it took to deliver a performance that people would actually want to listen to. His talents and experience helped give Captured
a cohesive vision, organizing us to the point where we were finding opportunities to play well beyond the polite invitations of our home church.

Thanks to Byron, we had a decent schedule of performances.
From time to time, we even got paid to play. It was an exciting day when we'd earned enough money to print our own band T-shirts! We finally felt like we were a legitimate rock group. All we had to do now was get a record deal!

The whole idea of becoming rock legends seemed fanciful to me. While it was all well and good to play about for a bunch of highly churched teenagers, it seemed another thing entirely to think that we had what it took to be professional musicians. I had little idea of what that actually meant anyway. Besides, I wasn't overly excited about using my musical talents solely for singing songs about Jesus, but I was working on my spiritual attitude. When the music we were playing left me feeling a bit cheesy or embarrassed, I comforted myself, figuring we were probably not going to make it to the big time anyway. It was all in good fun, but I wasn't looking at making a career of it.

Byron, on the other hand, saw something in me that he wanted to bring to the fore. Through his encouragement, I went from singing mostly backup to fronting a majority of songs. He encouraged me to write more music that I could contribute to the group, and pushed for me to play more guitar. I was having a good time for sure, but I didn't really have the vision for it like everyone else did. Byron went a step further and suggested that I consider the idea of doing some work on my own. He thought the music that I was writing was particularly good, and was sincere in thinking that I had the ability to do more. He started encouraging me to think about doing some solo concerts. I had enough music to do so, he said, and he could find me some places to play.

It felt like a dirty coup against the band, but Byron actually followed through with the idea of getting me solo gigs. I started
to play just as many gigs with just me and my guitar as I was doing when I was playing with Captured. Essentially, he started managing me as a solo artist. For a while, I was happy to go where the wind blew me.

Captured had started by putting together a decent run of paying gigs while, at the same time, I was also getting an equal amount, if not more, solo dates on the side. Tensions were starting to mount as to where my and Byron's loyalties truly were.

One night, after one of the best-attended concerts, the members of the band called Byron and me over for a side meeting while we were packing up cables to go home. Our lead guitarist explained that everyone in the band (besides Byron and me) had voted and decided that they wanted to disband the group. Captured would be no more. As it turned out, Byron and I were being fired. The group would go on in another incarnation, but they would do so without us.

From then on, Byron and I set about starting what would be the beginning of my career as a solo artist. I had no idea what I was doing, but I kept showing up and singing wherever Byron got me a place to play. He started schooling me as to how to set things up so that I had enough money to travel, and even fund a recording or two.

Until I met Byron, it had never occurred to me that I could make a career out of writing and performing music. There were times when I had struggled to understand how my new-found Christian faith was supposed to be a functional lifestyle but, with music, everything started to come into focus. If being a Christian meant that everything that I did had to be motivated in a Godly direction, maybe it was possible that I could serve with music. I didn't see myself getting into ministry or being a stay-at-home
mom, home-schooling her good little Christian children, but maybe I could sing my way through it?

Byron offered me the hope of direction. He saw potential in me and nurtured the idea that what I had to offer through my music could be meaningful to a lot of people. He helped me make sense of the strange and bewildering community of Christian culture. What started out as a lark was evolving into a pathway of finding my own longed-for significance. I had come upon Christianity at a time where I needed to rediscover my own value and strengths, but I also needed the guidance and encouragement of Byron to get a glimpse of the possibilities. I needed the structure of doing something that would build my faith, and music was starting to do that.

Byron's enthusiasm for making a difference with music dared me to dream in ways that I never had before. I couldn't imagine the idea of being a recording artist, it was too far down the road, but Byron kept paving the way, one gig at a time. Before I knew it, he had me booked with a steady stream of performances, introducing me to a genre of musical expression I had never known existed: Christian music. He helped me earn enough money to buy a halfway decent guitar, put some gas in the tank of my rusty little pickup truck, and sent me out onto the road.

nine

B
y 1995, the end of my junior year of college, I had now been living my life as a converted Christian for nearly three years. I focused all my attention on trying to absorb and adopt the lifestyle changes that were expected of me, so that I could be called a Godly woman. I really was an entirely new creation and was fully committed to being faithful to my calling. I was finally clean and sober but, more than that, I was starting to believe that I was capable of being a person worthy of being loved. That, in itself, seemed the greatest miracle of all.

I'd put the drink behind me, stopped sleeping around, and even managed to stop swearing (
mostly
). The fact that I had so many significant un-Christian behaviors to undo, and that I was making headway against them, made it clear to me that God was at work in my life. Just a short while ago, I had been at the brink of death, hopeless and desperate, but I had been saved by the grace of God. I was getting back to the spirit of who I had once been—an eager student, a hopeful musician, and now, finally, a worthwhile human being. I had a new lease on life and I was so grateful for it that I couldn't help but write and sing about it.

When I struggled with feeling like an alien inside the church culture that I had been grafted onto, I sang the prayer of who I
hoped I could be. When I was ashamed of my past, I faced it head on. I wrote it down, looked it in the eye and sang it into submission.

Papa, I think I messed up again

Was it something I did, was it something I said

Didn't mean to do you wrong, it'
s just the way of human nature

It's time to get down on my knees and pray

Lord, undo me!

Put away my flesh and bone 'til you own this spirit through me

Lord, undo me!

—“Undo Me,”
Kansas

The things that had sustained me through the hard times—writing, music, and, now, faith—all of a sudden seemed to have come together to make perfect sense. I was relieved to fall into the comfort of them, compelled to follow their collective muse wherever it led. Whenever anyone asked me to play, I played. So far as my church, my friends, and I saw it, these sustaining gifts were from God, and the trials I had gone through were so that I would have a reason to sing of how God has sustained me through it all.

Thanks to the encouragement from Byron and the urging of my home church, I had finally began to fully embrace the idea of serving the church with my music.

Byron filled my summers with concerts to perform. Before I knew it, I found myself driving alone through hot, solitary plains of the Midwest. Up I-29 into Nebraska, I-80 over to Iowa, down I-35 through Missouri, and back again to Kansas. I saw more of
America in the span of a few months than I had ever imagined this small-town country girl would ever get to see.

Many days I would find myself in a simple little country church where I'd stay with the pastor's family, or with a youth group leader. I had no previous experience as to how to cope with being a travelling minstrel; always the stranger in a new place. All I had to go on was the comfort of knowing that we all shared the common bond of our faith. I took to heart the honor of being an invited guest, called there to share the testimony of how I came into the fold.

I played countless Sunday morning worship services, where I would sing my one special song, so that I could be introduced to the congregation, letting them know that I would be there later that night performing during the more relaxed evening service. In particular, the youth of the church were encouraged to join in the fun—the concert being a fun way to hang out at church and stay out of trouble.

As I traveled around to different churches, I began to notice how often people referred to my music as a great alternative to secular music. The comments were usually delivered with high praise and gratitude, but I found it difficult to receive them as a compliment. To me,
all
music came from a deeply spiritual place. It got even harder when a youth pastor once asked me what music inspired my own writing and I innocently answered, the Indigo Girls.

“Oh, no, no, no, no! You can't do
that
!
” he practically screamed, “They're
gay!”

It had never occurred to me that this was any kind of problem.

He thundered on, “You can't listen to that stuff any more. You're a new creation. You put that stuff into your head and it
will
ruin
your heart. Honey, you best burn all of that devil music and start filling your ears with the music of the Lord!”

Mental note: Next time, only mention Christian music artists that you like and don't be gay—Okay, got it.

Well, I didn't burn my records, but I certainly learned to stop talking about them in public. As for the gay thing, I hadn't really considered it one way or the other, but at least now I knew what I was in for if it ever came up. And thus continued my immersion into the world of all things Christian.

Most of the time, I enjoyed the adventure. I was starting to get the knack of how to perform, and I was meeting plenty of interesting people along the way. Over the course of the summer I came to appreciate how diversely people approached their spiritual lives. I found myself in the company of Methodists, Episcopalians, and Baptists, even singing alongside charismatics, who spoke in tongues. Scattered among them all were those who claimed to know the
true
faith. If ever there was a time when I grew certain of what I thought Christianity was supposed to be, I'd find myself in yet another new church, surrounded by new people, practicing their faith in ways that were true to their own views of God but very different from my own or even the last church I had been to. When their ways were unfamiliar to my own experience, I did my best to look for the commonalities of our shared inspiration.

Because I had adopted my faith as a matter of choice, rather than inheriting it from my parents, as many of my peers had, I had a particular appreciation for what it felt like to be pressured to conform. There were times when I felt like I was the clumsy new member of some kind of exclusive club. For whatever part I had to play in being an ambassador for Jesus, I hoped I did so in such a way that helped people see how worthy they were of love
and respect. The way I saw it, life wasn't always so clear cut as to call one thing a sin and another thing holy. Sometimes, you just had to give people enough space, time, and grace to find their way to safety. Despite whatever mistakes I had made in my own journey toward faith, I couldn't see how forcing the issue upon others did much to speed up the process. Still, it didn't seem to stop some folks from trying.

It certainly didn't stop one youth pastor I met in Missouri. I'll call him “Skip.”

I met Skip during my junior year of college. When school was in session, I spent most of my time bouncing back and forth between Kansas City and my college home in Pittsburg. Skip was a Southern Baptist youth pastor who worked for a church in Kansas City. They had a healthy budget for their youth group activities, and he was always eager to give me a place to play. Skip wasn't my favorite kind of guy in the entire world. There were times when his idea of sharing his faith differed from my own, but, for the most part, we got along. I was grateful for church leaders like him, who were often kind enough to share their network of contacts. Their support not only helped me develop a great regional following as a performer, it also proved financially fruitful enough to help pay my way through college.

In my second summer of touring, Skip invited me to perform a special concert at his church's camp in the northern woods of Missouri. I wasn't a big fan of being part of youth retreats. I much preferred to come in, do my shows, and head on to the next church, but Skip insisted that I come as early as I could, so that I could enjoy the solitude of the place. Feeling the pressure to not disappoint him, I agreed to go.

I was to arrive the night before, hang out and connect with
the kids during the next day, then, the subsequent evening, perform. After a long hot day of driving, I was really looking forward to the solitude of the cabin in the woods he had promised me.

Back in the day, when we used maps and directions rather than GPS systems, I managed to find my way off the main roads, through the dark woods and into the remote Bible camp. In the late hours of the night, Skip greeted me warmly, then led me to my cabin, some distance from the main camping grounds. All was quiet. The kids were nestled in their bunks somewhere away in the darkness and I was set to enjoy my own private space. I had a hot shower, and, Skip assured me, eight hours of uninterrupted sleep to look forward to.

“There'll be breakfast in the morning if you want it, but don't worry about coming down for us,” Skip said. “Get your rest. And when you're ready, come down to the main grounds and find me. I'll be on campus somewhere.”

Exhausted, I changed into my pajamas and hit the sack.

I'm uncertain how long I had been asleep when, suddenly, I was startled awake by a banging at the door.

“Jennifer! Jennifer! Wake up!”
It was the voice of one of Skip's minions.
“Jennifer!”
More banging. “
You're going to want to see this! You have to get up!”

I was dazed and suddenly filled with adrenaline. I jumped out of bed and went to the door, where I was told that my assistance was immediately required.

“What's going on?” I asked. But Minion didn't give specifics. He hemmed and hawed, but bubbled with a wide-eyed enthusiasm. Whatever in the world was going on, he insisted that I come immediately and wouldn't close the door until I agreed.

Still in my bedclothes, I had to push him out of my doorway
so I could get some privacy to put some proper clothes on. “Gimme a minute,” I said in groggy agitation. “Let me at least put a bra on and I'll meet you outside in a second.”

Once outside, in the pitch dark of the night, I began to wake and realize that, indeed, something was afoot. In the distance, down the hill toward the main campus, there was a steady stream of what sounded like a frenzied crowd in chaos. Minion led me through the woods toward the ruckus and into a clearing where I could finally get a visual.

The scene was pandemonium. Flashlights were waving around in the dark. People were shouting. Children were on their knees crying. Someone was blowing a whistle. I stood there watching all this trying to figure out what in the hell was going on. Meanwhile, Minion was tugging at my sleeve trying to get me into the mix, but to what purpose I hadn't quite figured out.

I focused on a twenty-something male leader towering over a few young campers kneeling on the grass. He was shouting, “
What are you going to do
?
” while pointing a flashlight at their faces. “
Who will you choose
?
”He was screaming like he was the drill sergeant from
Full Metal Jacket
.

“
Jesus is here! He's here right now! The world is at an end! You must choose this instant
!
”

I was so stunned that, for a few moments, I almost believed the end-of-days rapture was actually happening. I had to rub my eyes and slap myself to make sure I wasn't actually dreaming.

The children were scattered everywhere. Some fell at the crier's feet, weeping uncontrollably, but these supplicants were not in spiritual ecstasy. They were sobbing and trembling with terror. All around me, I began to hear the responses of the children in the dark. Many of them were begging for the onslaught to stop.

“Please, please. I choose Jesus,” I heard one of them acquiesce.

This isn't salvation
, I thought,
this was awful!
There was no spiritual revelation in their voices. Those kids were terrified and in distress! The poor things had been shouted out of their sleep with bullhorns and, now, the camp counselors were jeering at them.

Christ has returned and you are going to die. Choose you this day who you will serve. God or man? Satan or Christ? You will die tonight! Where do you want to spend eternity? Heaven or hell?

There were only two options for relief from the barrage: to make a confession for Jesus Christ, or collapse in exhausted dysfunction. It wasn't until a child made his or her proclamation that they would be released from the drill. Confessors were rewarded with celebratory hugs from the more compassionate counselors and escorted out of the terrifying darkness into the light of the camp sanctuary; all others were left trembling beneath the stars.

At one point during the affair, I caught sight of Skip marshaling the troops. Puffed up, sweaty, and excited, he kept watch over the exercise, interjecting the occasional command. When he saw me, he turned to me. Grinning wildly, he shouted over the chaos, “Isn't this fantastic?”

I found myself so angry that I became physically ill. I was stunned by what I was witnessing. It was utterly abusive and unholy. Somehow, I had managed to avoid any spiritual suspicion when I held back from participating, but I still felt guilty. By my silent witness, I felt complicit to a spiritual and psychological crime.

Skip, on the other hand, was proud. “We are literally scaring the
Hell
out of them!”

The kids weren't the only ones who were scared. I was
freaked out, too. I felt powerless to get any of this to stop. I was outraged, for certain, but I had no clue about what I was supposed to do. It felt like a trap. If I didn't find a way to agree with some part of what I was seeing, then it must have meant that something was wrong with
me.
Maybe I was spiritually weak?
Surely if I were a faithful Christian, this would have made some kind of sense to me.