How many lead singers does it take to change a light bulb? 

One.  The lead singer holds the bulb, and the world revolves around him.

Recently, I was talking to someone new to the Christian faith.  Which is also to say that he is new to the evangelical Christian subculture.  He knew that I was a worship and arts pastor, and so our conversation eventually drifted to the weekend services at his church.  In the conversation, he said something that jolted me momentarily.  He referred to the person leading worship at his church as the “lead singer for the band.”

At first I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt.  After all, he was a new Christ follower, and without a Christian background to give you a frame of reference, the obvious equivalent phrase to “worship leader” is “lead singer.

A little boy turns to his mother and says, "Mommy, when I grow up, I want to be a musician!"

The mother looks back at her child with concern and replies, "But honey, you can't do both."

I was told by my Mom that I had always wanted to play the piano, even as a toddler.  If there was a spinet in the room, I would inevitably be found scaling it, like a mountain climber ascending the shear face of a mountain, looking for a foothold or outcropping, daring gravity to grasp a handful of ivory above me.  It got to the point that my parents decided to get me piano lessons—at the age of "almost five."  By the time I was eleven years old or so, six years of piano lessons on our family's old mahogany upright had convinced me of my life calling:  I wanted to be a classical pianist.

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Hair fashionably mussed, a soul patch beneath his lower lip, the Singer steps onto the small stage and eyes the small audience seated before him.  A man in a dark T-shirt impatiently eyes the Singer.  Pen fidgeting in his mouth, he inquires tersely, "Okay, what do you have for us today?"

The Singer takes a deep breath before answering.  "Well, I'd like to start out with 'Not to Us' by Chris Tomlin."

"Okay," the man responds without emotion.  "Good luck."

Apprehensive, jittery, nonplused, the Singer takes a step forward.  And with all that he has, and all that he is, he opens his mouth.  And sings.

"Not to us, but to Your name be the glory," he proclaims.  "Not to us, but to Your name..." he repeats, each time with greater conviction.  The certainty of his beliefs seem to steady his voice, and he digs into the phrase deeper.  Taking a deep breath, he readies himself for the first verse.

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Scenario 1:   A married couple—he a gospel singer and she a talented painter—describe to me the shared frustration of having the man's work regularly encouraged and applauded in their church while she has no place or artistic voice to express herself.

Scenario 2:   I receive an e-mail from a Christian artist frustrated and deeply hurt by the continual lack of support for his art throughout his life.  From a father who deemed his painting as sissy to a home church that disallowed creative expressions outside of music, he carries both childhood scars and adult wounds for being an artist.

Scenario 3:    A friend of mine is excited to bring an arts conference to a few churches he knows.  But as he dreams and plans about the opportunity, he also shares his wariness over a particular denomination that is suspicious about anything having to do with visual arts or dance in the church.

Scenario 4:  I meet with a woman after a conference who confesses that she is a semi-professional jazz singer who won't tell her pastor what she does on Saturday nights.  She is fearful that letting her church leadership know what she does musically will disqualify her from her praise team.

Four hundred ninety three years after the dramatic beginning of the reformation, and the evangelical church still seems to have an underdeveloped understanding of the arts—and the artists.  Outside of the narrowly defined genres of hymns and choruses, most musical styles are misunderstood.  Dance is frowned upon, except under the guise of "worship movement."  The visual arts are often limited to iconic representations (e.g., doves and crosses), or as backgrounds behind the lyrics of songs.  Drama is limited to Christmas and Easter, or demoted to children's ministries.  Other art forms, like poetry, sculpture and painting are noticeably absent in the expressions of our churches.  Even a most basic aesthetic of beauty is being stripped from our sanctuaries, as we adopt a utilitarian approach to architecture and stagecraft.

The bigger issue may be how the arts are understood.  There are a lot of artistically hip churches out there these days—with worship concerts, theatrical lighting, and moving abstract backgrounds on wide screens.  But I suspect that many of these churches are driven by style, not driven from a Scripturally-based theology of the arts.  The immediate danger of this is that we become flavor-of-the-month churches, grasping at the latest fashion or fad.  The larger danger is that the arts become simply relegated to be a medium for a message, not primarily an expression of the Christ-following artist.  In a crass sense, art becomes part of the show, not a reflection of the bride of Christ.

So.  Can you resonate with any of this?  If you are an artist, do you find that there is a place for you in your church to express yourself?  Is the only venue for artistic expression the Sunday morning service—and you don't fit into it?   How does that make you feel?  What can be done to change it?  And what is the role of the church in unleashing the arts—and artists—in the church, to the world, and before God?

I have met a lot of frustrated artists lately, as well as with those whose job would be to lead them.  I'd like to dialogue over these issues over the next few blogs, so I invite your comments.  I want us to share our thoughts together, think through some theology, and maybe talk about some practical ways that the evangelical churches among us can begin to better unleash and uphold the Christ-following artist. 

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Haiti.  It is hard to imagine.

Tucked in the somewhat artificial security of middle-class American suburbia, I found my mind continually drifting back to this tragedy, trying to make sense of it.  The poverty of the area, the magnitude of the earthquake, the depth and breadth of the hardship and grief.  Because even though I could offer some theological explanations for the existence of evil and adversity in the world, there is still the reality of the personal suffering and pain.

If you think about it, the large-magnitude earthquake that struck Haiti could hit any of us.  Especially for those of us living in northern California.  So I live in this weird juxtaposition: I sip my latte and pray for Haiti.

Honestly, it paralyzed my blogging for a time.  I felt that anything I had to say in terms of faith and the arts paled in comparison to the larger issues of life and death, tragedy and circumstance, God's will and the brevity of human life.

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America's most popular reality show, "American Idol,” begins Season 9 this week.  One more season of judge in-fighting, audition train wrecks, pop divas, contestant theatrics, and some authentically talented vocalists.  And I couldn't care less.

Before you start writing your rebuttal response, let me say:  I don’t really hate American Idol.  It’s just that AI exposes some things about our society that run in both subtle and flagrant opposition to things I feel very strongly about—things like faith, art, personal expression, and even basic human principles like decency and the golden rule.  Besides, “hate” is a strong and vulgar word to me, one that I use sparingly.  So I guess when I say “hate” American Idol, I really mean to say something more akin to “cringe with embarrassment and aversion.

Traditionally, I take the week off after Christmas.  For a worship pastor like myself, this is a bit of a sacred time—to spend with family, physically and spiritually refuel from the long fall and Christmas schedule, and do a little reflecting on life.  This last week, I also fired up my project recording studio, collected all the odd and unformed lyrics I have jotted down over the past six months, and gave my right brain an opportunity to play a little bit.  (I also snuck onto my daughters' new Wii a few times, but that may be irrelevant.)

Every songwriter works in their own way.  Some like to start with a melody; others begin with a lick or a lyrical phrase or some chord changes.  There are no rules, no procedures, no single formula for writing a song.  There is only this inexplicable thing called inspiration—that seems like luck and works like magic and feels like madness.

The most gifted and hard working artists seem to be inspired all the time, but that is not true.  When there is no inspiration, it is then that skill and gifting can carry you.  A gifted songwriter can write a song whether or not they are inspired, simply because they understand the craft of songwriting.  A gifted painter can create an amazing work of art simply because they have a canvas in front of them.  And a gifted writer can write a great article simply because they are under a deadline.  All of this begs the question: Is inspiration a requirement for creativity?

As artists, we are obligated to steward the gifts God gives us, through diligent discipline.  Artists must be attentive to their craft.  In other words, having talent is not an excuse for not working hard.  Quite the opposite—the greater the giftedness, the greater the obligation to steward those gifts, to work and hone our craft.  It is a matter of the parable of the talents, applied to our talents.  And so, because I understand and practice the craft of songwriting, I can write songs that are creative.  But I don't always write songs that are good.  In fact, I am really quite good at writing mediocre songs.  So where does the inspiration come in?

Jeremy Begbie states that "art is...inherently dialogical."  And I believe that includes a vertical dialogue, a transcendent and spiritual component to our art.  When we are inspired, it feels like we are tapping into this wholly other thing.

This last week, I was feeling inspired.  And for me, this inspiration—that seems like luck and works like magic and feels like madness—took me somewhere I don't think I could have gone by myself.  

As a Christ-follower, I believe that all true inspiration ultimately comes from the Spirit of God.  I also know that the Spirit of God is a much better songwriter than I am, so I am often reticent to give him credit for the stuff I write.  But this week, I walked into my studio with a some unhurried time, a few scratched-out ideas, and an attentiveness to the Inspirer of things—and I walked out of my studio with three new songs.  And so far, they still sound pretty good.

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Our family will be stirring in the kitchen—the twins will be making their school lunches, and I'll be in the middle of my bleary-eyed coffee-making ritual—and in the dreariness of that morning moment, my son Justin will suddenly belt out in a loud and chipper voice, "I'm singing!  I'm singing!  I'm in a store and I'm singing....!"

Around my house this time of year, the one movie that gets quoted more than any other is "Elf."  Starring James Caan, Bob Newhart, Zooey Deschanel, and a surprisingly PG-rated Will Ferrell in the title role, the movie exudes elfin charm, wide-eyed innocence, and more than a knowing wink-and-nod to the traditional Christmas classics.  Besides "Napoleon Dynamite," it may be the most quotable movie ever.  My kids and I will randomly throw out quotes at each other over dinner, during chores, or even while playing Madden.  

One of the things I like about the movie is that there is this clumsy and naive, yet unrestrained moral anchor that underpins the central character.  In contrast to the soiled and unsafe world of New York City, Buddy the Elf's morality seems quaint and old-fashioned, but ultimately—and in Hollywood fashion—wins everyone over in the end. 

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One of the Christmastime traditions my wife and I established with our children when they were young was looking at the Christmas lights around our community. Bundled up under blankets in our minivan (the twenty-first century version of the horse-drawn sleigh), the entire family would drive down one street and up another, seeing all the decorated houses in our neighborhood.

And people would go all out. Life-sized reindeer. Nativity scenes. Santas coming down chimneys. Snowmen with top hats and pipes. Candy canes lining people’s driveways. And lights. Lots and lots of lights. The more the lights, the more we’d “ooh” and “aah.”  Then we’d drive back to our house and have hot cocoa.

It was in their third Christmas that my twins, Rachel and Paige, were old enough to really appreciate the event. And that they did. Through their little three year old eyes, our neighborhood was a magical and amazing place. Every house glowed like fresh baked gingerbread. Trees glistened like the moonlight on fresh-fallen snow. And everywhere there were lights, Rachel and Paige announced excitedly, “Ommagosh, it’s bootiful.”

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David Bayles and Ted Orland, in their book Art & Fear, suggest that the artist needs two things from their audience: acceptance and approval.  They assert, “acceptance means having your work counted as the real thing; approval means having people like it.”  In other words, we crave the acceptance of our critics and peers and opinion leaders to validate our work.  And we crave the approval of others to validate us.

I think this is normal for any artist, to seek not only approval but also acceptance.  We ask ourselves the deep questions of being. Does what I do have merit?  Am I touching people with my song, my book, my poem, my painting?  Is there some significance to my work, beyond my own skewed self-perceptions?  Is there some significance to me?  These are all valid and deeply felt questions that strike at the very heart of who we are and what we do as artists.

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