It was the mid-eighties—the era of big hair, Levi 501s with Converse high tops, and girls who just want to have fun—and I was in a local cover band called Fixation.

Actually, the band was really just a duo most of the time, although we would add a drummer or bass player, depending on the amount of money we were paid. My partner, Bob, played electric guitar and vocals and I filled out the sound with right-handed keyboards, left-handed key bass, a drum machine triggered with my left foot, and vocals. Armed with a play list that included Motown, trash rock, oldies, and post-disco, we played all sorts of dive bars in the northern California area, from Placerville to Sacramento to Stockton to Vacaville. My favorite compliment: “Dude! You sound just like a band!”

Fixation was one of many musical expressions along the adventure of my life, one short on highlights but long on memories. I did it for a number of reasons. For one, I felt that I needed the experience of playing these hard four-hour sets. Also, I used the money to buy more music equipment. And finally, in a weird kind of way, I actually kind of liked it.

We were booked for the weekend at what was then called the Woodlake Inn, a huge venue with an expansive dance floor and a wide bar that stretched along the back of the room. It was a convention hotel, with extensive stage lighting, a high stage, and the obligatory disco ball hanging from the ceiling, so our duo was swallowed up by the room. It didn’t really matter though, because there was no one there. By contract, we began playing our first set at 9 PM to about 150 empty chairs and stools, one bartender and two waitresses. It was going to be a long night.

During the first break, the double doors suddenly flung open, and about a hundred people floated in. “Finally! A crowd,” we thought to ourselves, as a convention group had apparently let out for the evening. We hustled back on stage and began playing our best dance stuff: Huey Lewis, flat out. And as we finished the song with a big trash can ending, the crowd responded—with deafening silence.

Beads of sweat began to form on our foreheads. Okay, maybe they aren’t Huey fans. So we quickly launched into an exaggerated version of “Caribbean Queen.” If there was one dance chromosome in the entire room, this would certainly summon it to the hardwood. But despite the pounding kick drum and driving bass (and the disco ball), the floor remained empty. After the song ended, I could almost swear I heard crickets.

Everyone likes the blues, Bob reasoned, so we launched into a soulful B. B. King-inspired version of “Stormy Monday.” And after that was over—yes, those were definitely crickets outside. I checked my watch and did the mental calculation. Okay, Manuel, you can do this. Only 153 more minutes and it would all be over.

In desperation, we played a slow ballad, I can’t remember what—something by Hall and Oates maybe. And between verses, I squinted to see beyond the blinding stage lights. What I saw almost stopped me in mid-song. There, across the tables, were a hundred people—laughing, drinking, unwinding—and silently gesturing to one another in sign language.

This blogsite was born, in part, out of a desire to understand myself. One day, after being a creative arts pastor for over 14 years, I suddenly came to the realization that I had no real theology of art. That is, I did not have any systematic understanding of God as it related to art and the artist. More personally, I had no practical understanding of God as it related to the artist that is me. I had some ideas, things I had learned and picked up over the years, but I really didn’t have a “theology” upon which I could understand myself as an artist, or how God perceives and receives my art, or the nature of God as an Artist, or even in my role as a creative arts pastor. In a real sense, I realized that my understanding of my art as it related to my faith was insufficient, ineffectual, incomplete. And if that is the case, then do I really know what I’m doing with my life?

I have found this to be true of my peers as well. In my experience, very few ministers of worship, music directors, pastors, and especially professional and amateur Christian musicians or other artists, have any sort of working framework for their faith and their art.

There are many tens of thousands of passionate and skilled artists—including musicians, painters, dancers, photographers, filmmakers, writers and actors—who would describe themselves as Christians. And yet, ask any of them to explain how their faith in God influences and forms their artistic expression and most of them would be at a loss.

And without that understanding, how can artists understand how God perceives and receives their art? How can we understand our God-given calling as artists? And how could the church understand the importance and role of art and the artist in the Biblical community? Like Bob and I on that massive stage, could we be artists oblivious to our Audience of One?

Adventures in Faith and Art invites readers to ponder the theological and philosophical underpinnings of their faith in relationship to their art. I hope to be thought-provoking and insightful, though not academically comprehensive. Most of all, I hope to speak to the head and the heart of all artists. It is my hope that the blogsite will help artists deepen their understanding of God and art, and realize their special place and calling in the world.

Of course, faith is a journey. And the journey is often more the point than the destination. So this is simply my understanding of it all so far. Above all, it has been an adventure, in my faith and in my art.

And our nightmare gig playing for the convention of hearing-challenged people? They approached us between sets and told us to turn it up. Way, way up. You see, they couldn’t hear the music, but when we played louder, they could feel it. And after we upped the decibels, they spent the last two sets dancing to every single song we played.