I've been thinking a lot lately about the evangelical theological constructs that surround me.  I’ve had some really great conversations lately with a number of deep-thinking people, so I end up floating around these things.  Without going into many details, I have begun to recognize more and more the differences between what I believe and experience, and the conceptual models that attempt to explain what it is I believe and experience.

For example, what do I really believe about me, in contrast to what do I see as the conceptual models that attempt to explain me?

The “Four Spiritual Laws” tries to explain me this way: God loves me, but because of my sin, I had separated myself from that love.  I am fundamentally a sinner, separating me from Him with an unfathomable gulf which cannot be bridged by my own efforts.

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Wow.  It seems like everyone these days has an opinion on Christina Aguilera and her now infamous rendition of the National Anthem. Radio talk jocks and internet bloggers, patriots and politicos, grandpas and pre-teens, professional athletes and armchair quarterbacks—there is no lack of spin coming from all directions.

Now, if you're looking for a blog slamming Aguilera for her performance, this ain't it.  It is true that I am neither a fan of pop divas (except maybe for Aretha Franklin), nor of the lifestyles they seemingly represent. I do know that Aguilera is an extremely talented vocalist (her performance on Herbie Hancock's album, Possibilities, still knocks my socks off).  But if you know me or read my blog, you know that I will occasionally rant against culture but purposefully not rant against people.

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One of the best things about Christmas—and this is just my personal opinion—is being able to play the music of Vince Guaraldi.  For those who don’t know, Guaraldi is the iconic jazz pianist and composer whose work flavors “A Charlie Brown Christmas.”  In fact, the music is so integral to the story that one cannot hear his music without thinking of Snoopy dancing his weird little happy dance.

Over the month of December, I’ve been sneaking in different Guaraldi interpretations into every gig—at a solo piano restaurant gig, the corporate Christmas party I gigged last week with my trio, the recent TV appearance I did with Bob Kilpatrick, and even Christmas Eve services at my church.  I love the quirky chord changes and sparse voicings and joyous feel to the music.  And I also love how children’s faces light up when I begin the “Linus and Lucy” theme.  His music has been covered by several notable artists, including George Winston, David Benoit, and my friend and jazz recording artist, Jim Martinez.

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Best-selling author Malcolm Gladwell wrote a book a few years ago called, Outliers: The Story of Success, which is, in his words, about “men and women who, for one reason or another, are so accomplished and so extraordinary and so outside of ordinary experience that they are as puzzling to the rest of us as a cold day in August.”  In the book, he looks at a wide variety of people and occupations, from airline pilots to entrepreneurs to hockey players to software engineers, and identifies and examines the attributes of success.  Beyond talent and intelligence and ability, many of the characteristics of success include things largely outside of our control, things like “culture and community and family and generation.”

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I mentioned in a previous blog about the pursuit of fame and fortune that drove me in my younger days.  In what I now refer to as “my rock and roll dream,” the long-term plan was to work as an engineer by day and a musician by night, writing and recording my material while getting exposure and experience in the local club scene.  It would only be a matter of time until I would record the killer demo, move down to LA, recruit some monster musicians, and launch my career.  From there, it would simply be a short limo trip to fame and fortune.

Of course, that didn’t happen, for a lot of reasons—talent, marketability, maturity, circumstance, and the Small Still Voice that invited me into a better way of life.

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Think of the word “artist” and several images come to mind.  A goateed man with a beret and a paint brush.  A red-mouthed diva in a glittering gown.  An aging rock star with a rider that includes green M&M’s and Evian bottled water.  The word implies a lot of things.  Talent, excellence, and a level of achievement reserved for people with record contracts or whose work hangs in museums.  But also weirdness, eccentricity, capriciousness, and ego.

The word “artist” seems to be an intimidating word for many, and I find a lot of people reluctant to apply it to themselves.  In short, the word carries a lot of baggage.

I’ve been speaking to a number of people lately who are trying on the word, “artist.”  In various venues, I’ve been talking to people who are exploring what it is to be made in the image of God, the Master Artist who painted the stars, sculpted the planets, formed our beings.  And if it is true that we were made to be creative—to build and explore and express and make art—how does that affect the way we see ourselves?  Can we use the word “artist” to describe the human condition?  Can you use the word to describe you?

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He came into the meeting a little late, hair tousled, his typical gravelly voice apologizing with a sincere smile.   A group of local worship pastors and leaders had gathered at the regular spot, a trendy cafe off the beaten path, for our monthly fellowship.  We welcomed him to our circle. 

We were tossing around small talk and funny anecdotes when he spoke up.  "You know," he began, "It's gotten to the point where I've planned eighteen Christmas Eve services."  He paused momentarily.  "And one day, I came into the office and realized that I couldn't do nineteen."

I remember just sitting there in the awkwardness of that moment, not knowing what to say, sipping my coffee, feeling his pain.  You see, we'd all been there, far too many times. Anyone who is in ministry knows this feeling.

It's no secret that in my younger days, I wanted to be a rock star.  It was simple, really.  I would compose cutting-edge but timeless music, with relevant but flippant lyrics, creative but mindless dance grooves, and inventive but totally catchy hooks.  And rock and roll babes would flock to me, asking for my autograph, tugging at my leather pants, undressing me with their eyes, but loving me for my mind.

Actually, I was never that naive.  But I was close.

You see, the greatest part of my naivete was not that I thought it was easy, nor that I thought I was good enough.  It was that I didn't realize how vain and fruitless the quest for fame is.

This striving toward celebrity is embedded in many of us artists, isn't it?  When we are brutally honest with ourselves—and some of us may not have the emotional quotient to understand ourselves with that degree of authenticity—we find that our drive can come from unhealthy places.  The  pride which bubbles beneath the surface of our public image; the inflated self-image that we are cooler, more talented, more deserving than we really are.  Or the poor self-image that drives us to posture and pretend, forever comparing ourselves with others and coming up short; the insecurities that drive us to succeed so that we might break the chains of our self-perceptions. Then there is the unstated and untrue belief that fame will somehow bring us happiness and love and acceptance.  Ultimately, the things that drive us to want celebrity may often be found in a complex web of lies such as these.

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It is less a contrast than it is a similarity. Two men, both highly educated Jews, both bold and passionate preachers of the message of the Gospel, both leaders in the first century Church.  Paul and Apollos were both used by God to build His Kingdom in the precarious, turbulent infancy of the Christian faith.  But only one of these men still has a ministry today.  Indeed, Paul’s contribution to the New Testament is central to our understanding of the Gospel.

Why is Paul’s influence greater than that of Apollos?  Spiritual calling aside, there seems a simple reason:  He Wrote Stuff Down.

I’m a big Writer of Stuff.  I have To-Do lists, archives of song lyrics, sermons and speeches, unpublished books and written meanderings.  According to the stats counter, my personal blog site just hit 100 blog entries last week.  I even have an archive of carefully documented calendars that stretches back to my freshman year in college, which I can’t bear to throw out.  What if I suddenly need to know what I did during the summer of 1984?

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Our twin girls, Rachel and Paige, just started Middle School, and in the course of this last summer, they seem to have transformed before our eyes.  As one would expect, there is a sudden hyper-heightened awareness to the things of their age, like appearance, style, clothing, friendships, pop culture.  And music.

It is one of our new family rituals now, that they would usurp control over the car radio during trips, commutes, and even errand running.  Step one: Slip into the back seat, talking non-stop.  Step 2: Flip from sports talk radio (my default setting) to the local pop station.  Step 3: Turn up nine decibels.  Rihanna, Shontelle, Pink, and Lady Gaga suddenly invade my Ford Explorer, and I find myself feeling really old, as I internally resist the urge to yell, "get off my lawn," in a graveled raspy voice, and pop in a Steely Dan CD.

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