Karate Kid Worship

When I was fourteen years old, my piano professor left me.  After having bounced around from  teacher to teacher over the course of seven years, my parents found a legitimate, classically-trained  instructor to mentor me.  Professor Kraus was a big German man with burly hands and a friendly accent who didn’t just teach me—He challenged me, focused me, inspired me, and taught me to love music.  He was like Mr. Miyagi, and I was the Karate Kid.  But after a few years of intense Bach Paint-The-Fence and Mozart Wax On-Wax Off, he left for a position in Germany.  I no longer had someone to play to, play with, play for.

This was a great period of self-discovery for me, as it would be for any teenager. I had to learn to love music on my own, apart from the challenge of learning a curriculum or impressing people.  And I also began composing music on my own, which in itself was an expression of my self-discovery.

After a few more years of this, my parents decided it was time I cashed in on my talents, so they encouraged me to begin teaching.  They put the word out to several people, and before I knew it, I had a half a dozen five and six year old piano students.  At the age of sixteen, I had become a piano teacher.  And I took it seriously.

I studied the piano books and learned—beyond playing—how to communicate the language of music.  This isn’t as easy as it sounds.  Basic concepts like quarter notes and measures can be difficult for children who don’t yet understand the concept of fractions or subdividing.  And try teaching the concept of a “rest” to a five year old!

Two things.  It gave me a great appreciation for those whose vocation is teaching.  And it also forced me to understand music theory in ways I couldn’t have gotten any other way.

In a few weeks, I’ll be leaving for a trip to the Philippines to teach a two-week intensive on worship and the arts.  I’ll be teaching at the Bicol Center for Christian Leadership (BCCL), a bible school supported by our denomination, the North American Baptist Conference.  So over the last month, I’ve been developing the curriculum for eight 3 hour sessions.  And I find myself back again—like I was sixteen—relearning the things I’ve learned, so I can teach the things I do.

Trinitarian worship, dialogical worship, Levitical worship, sacramental worship, defining and designing worship, lifestyle worship—I find myself diving into the deep end of the concepts that have molded me over the last 21 years of ministry.  Because I need to know it well enough to communicate it to people who haven’t ever received any formal teaching in worship theology.  And I’m finding myself being refreshed and re-ignited in the coolness of these deep waters.

So in two weeks, I’ll be setting up a little worship dojo, teaching to worship deeply with both passion and theological understanding.  In the words of Mr. Miyagi, “Better learn balance. Balance is key. Balance good, karate good, everything good. Balance bad, better pack up, go home.”  I’ll be blogging while I’m there, so stay tuned.  And if you’d like to support my trip, please contact me.

2011: By The Numbers

Time to take stock of the previous year and think about what goals and aspirations the following year brings.  There have certainly been a lot of challenges and difficulties in the last year, but I find myself thankful to God for His continued faithfulness.  As always, I am grateful for all the opportunities and all the people I meet along my adventures in faith and art.  Here’s a summary of 2011, by the numbers…

Number of Worship Services: 107.  That sounds like a lot of worship services, and maybe it is.  I did a rough estimate of the number of services I’ve probably led in the past 21 years of full-time ministry and I came up with about 4,000.  That’s a lot of time leading God’s people in worship.  Which is to say, I have the best job in the world.

Number of Gigs: 50.  I guess I’ve been pretty busy playing out, but few really memorable gigs, except for a few ML3 concerts for various non-profits like the Twin Lakes Food Bank.  The most difficult thing is that my long-time drummer and friend, Steve Liberti, has moved to Germany with his family to be full-time missionaries for Proclaim! International.  This set me back a bit, though I’m happy to say that I have a new drummer in Chad Jackson, a young and inventive percussionist who I know you’ll love.

Number of Speaking engagements: 9.  The highlight of my year speaking-wise was visiting my friends at Moody Publishers in Chicago, the publishers of my book, Imagine That.  There, I was given the opportunity to speak at Moody Bible Institute for their 125th Anniversary Founders Week.  Nothing like a Chicago blizzard to make you appreciate what you have.  I also spoke at the Worship Conference at William Jessup University, the CCD Expo in Sacramento, a few national radio programs, and the Oak Hills’ Intersections: Faith and the Arts Conference.  Slam it here if you’d like to hear me speaking on the Chris Fabry Live! on Moody Radio.

Number of Missions Trips: 0.  With the economy the way it is, and with a lot going on at home, I felt it best not to pursue any missions opportunities in 2011.  However, I am extremely excited to begin a new ministry to the Philippines next month.  I’ll be teaching at the Bicol Center for Christian Leadership in Legazpi City, sponsored by the North American Baptist Conference.  Read more about this opportunity here.

Number of Funerals: 8.  No better way to put it—the year 2011 sucked.  We said goodbye to a good number of very dear friends in this last year, all of whom died before their time.  Much, much grief experienced in 2011.

Number of CDs Produced: 2.  In 2012, I had the privilege and joy of producing an album for my dear friend, Cate Morris, a Christian recording artist and worship leader out of Alaska.  Her new album, RED SKY, is available on iTunes and cdbaby.com, and the songs are amazing.  Read more about it here.  I was also able to produce a compilation album of songs from my last three albums, entitled SO FAR.  Read about it here, and see or email me if you’d like to purchase a copy.

Number of Blog Entries: 33.  Culture, beauty, metaphors, and the mechanics of art.  Book endorsements, artist profiles, and upcoming events.  Stories about bad haircuts, Christina Aguilera, and a Little Drummer Boy.  After four years of blogging, the number of hits to my website increased about 50% this last year, which was pretty startling.  I’m very grateful to all of you, my readers, for the privilege that you give me of giving me your valuable time to read my blogs.

2012 and Beyond.  I’m not sure what 2012 will bring, but I do have some projects in the works.  I’m working on another book right now and in the process of seeking a publisher.  I’m preparing for what I suspect will be the first of many missions trips to the Philippines.  I think I’d like to record a new album of material this year.  And as always, I always have my hand in a number of artistic things.

Of course, the Mayans could be right, in which case we’ll all be singing in heaven.  Which wouldn’t be a bad thing.

Short Story: Pa-Rum-Pa-Pum-Pum

Mom was quite insistent.  “Manny!  Marcel!  Fred!  Come out here!  You have to practice!”  Sheepishly, we filed into the living room, dreading this moment—and the moment yet to come.  Our oldest brother, Robert, was already sitting at the piano, having had to learn the tune we were now supposed to sing.

“The program is this Saturday,” Dad reminded us, as Mom placed us all in line in front of the piano, oldest to youngest, like a less-toothy, more-tanned version of the Osmonds.  The goal was simple—We were to perform for the local Filipino Community’s annual Christmas program.  Our song: “The Little Drummer Boy.”

The entire act was, of course, carefully masterminded and choreographed by our parents.  Dressed in matching cardigan sweaters, Robert would play the piano, while the rest of us sang.  Our baby brother, Marcel, had the most important job, which was primarily to look cute, and to ding a little bell at the end of every phrase.

“Come they told me, pa-rum-pa-pum-pum,” we would all warble, and Marcel would respond by tapping the bell in time, “Ding!  Ding!”

Honestly, the only thing I had in mind was what we were getting for Christmas.  I glanced longingly at our blinking artificial tree, now swollen with presents.  I was sure that I had been a good boy this year.  Perhaps a cowboy six-shooter, a Battleship board game, Lincoln Logs, a model airplane.  It was easy to figure out which gifts were clothes and which were toys.  It was just a matter of being able to peel back the cellophane tape without ripping the wrapping—something we were all black belt experts at.

“No, louder,” Mom would encourage.  “Fred, stand straight.  Marcel, smile!”

You could almost hear our eyes rolling.

So we did it again.  And again.  And again.  I was determined to be a good boy, all the way to the end.  After all, it was my role in the family.  And I wanted to ensure a permanent place on the Nice List.  So I sang, loud and proud, so that even Santa sitting in his North Pole workshop would hear me.  “So to honor Him, pa-rum-pa-pum-pum, me and my drum!”  Ding!  Ding!

The night of the program was filled with excitement, I remember.  Mom had her raven-black hair pulled up in a beehive, and Dad had one of his best suits on.  Santa was rumored to arrive later that evening, bringing all sorts of gifts to all the boys and girls.  Dinner was a culinary mix of Filipino staples, like pancit (a noodle dish), lechon (roast pork), and lumpia (like Chinese egg rolls, only a gazillion times better), as well as standard Christmas goodies like candy canes and sugar cookies.  Hyped up on sugar, we were all dressed in our Christmas best, with our matching sweaters over scratchy white shirts and clip-on ties, and our hair slicked back with a small dollop of banana pomade.

Soon it was time for the program.  A dozen or so child acts fidgeted nervously for their cues.  I assumed that this was some sort of ancient Asian tradition, passed down from one reluctant and embarrassed generation to another for centuries.  I could almost picture some tired Nanay in a beehive hairdo yelling to her son from her nipa bamboo hut, “Sing louder!  And ding your bell!”

Suddenly, it was our turn.  The Master of Ceremonies announced us, and my three brothers and I shuffled our way to the beat-up mahogany upright on the stage.  I gulped purposefully and took a deep breath.  And Robert began the low quarter-note octaves that introduced the carol.

“Come they told me, pa-rum-pa-pum-pum,” we sang.  Ding!  Ding!

Except that “we” weren’t singing.  My three brothers had suddenly become as silent as a broken dog whistle.

“A new born king to see, pa-rum-pa-pum-pum,” I crooned.  Ding!  Ding!

Their singing had now become a barely audible murmur, like Charlie Brown’s teacher whispering faintly in another room.

“I have no gift to bring, pa-rum-pa-pum-pum,” I continued confused.  Ding!  Ding!

And suddenly, starkly, sinkingly—it became obvious.  Our quartet had become a solo.

“To lay before the King, pa-rum-pa-pum-pum! Rum-pa-pum-pum! Rum-pa-pum-pum,”  I sang with all my might.  Ding!  Ding!

The “Pa-rum-pummings” had begun to sound like the drum sting at the end of a bad vaudeville joke: “Take my wife, please!  Pa-rum-pa-pum-pum!”  But I couldn’t back off now.  After all: The. Show. Must. Go. On.

Thankfully, it was soon over, and I quickly began the process of turning that moment into a scarring childhood memory.  But I also remember a white-bearded Filipino Santa delivering presents to all the boys and girls.  I remember getting a soap-on-a-rope toiletry set, which at the time, I thought was both cool and stupid.  And I remember Mom and Dad being proud of us for what we did.  And at the end of the day, there was nothing left to do but slip on my jammies, climb into bed, and wait for Christmas morning.

Did this really happen to me?  No.  But this is exactly the way I remember it.

[Lower Photo: My family, circa 1966, immediately after the Christmas program.  I'm the cute one in the green sweater.]