Monday, March 28, 2016

Worship (Internal) Wars

The morning began much like any other: the smell of fresh-brewed coffee, the sun peeking over the mountains to the east, the calm reflective time before the day began in earnest.

Was he awake, or had he dozed off again? Which is another way of asking: "Was it a vision, or just a random dream synapse misfiring?"
Whatever you want to call it, the salient point was this: he heard himself in conversation with... himself. Or perhaps it would be more accurate -- if dreams/visions can be measured for "accuracy" -- to say that his left brain and his right brain met for a heart-to-heart talk.

Or more specifically, his Pastoral side and his Artistic side sat down at the same table for a much-needed, long overdue conversation.

"I feel that I owe you an apology, Artistic Side of the Brain," began the Pastor. Leaning forward, his brow was furrowed with sincere concern and a desire to understand.

"I've felt convicted by the Holy Spirit about the boxes I've tried to shove you into, 'for the good of the church'. There have been times when I've written you off as 'professionally offended' and 'flaky'. I deeply regret that." 

"I'm glad we're talking about this," agreed the Artist, somber and pensive. "I've been reflecting on life, the universe and everything, and I realized that, at times, I've painted you into a corner and kept you there. So, I owe you an apology, Pastoral Side of the Brain."

"I've mocked you as 'spiritually constipated' and a 'casualty of seminary cemetery'. I wish there was some way to take those words back."

"I failed to appreciate the sheer beauty of God-given creativity," the Pastor admitted, looking sheepish. "I couldn't see what the point of art was, unless it could somehow illustrate my new sermon series, or advertise our latest church program."

"I need to repent to you for only valuing your art for its pragmatic use."

"And I've been a hypocrite," confessed the Artist, hanging his head. "I spend hours and hours honing my craft: practicing scales, memorizing new licks, learning from artists more experienced than myself..."

"But whenever you tried to hone your craft, Pastor, by reading books, taking seminary classes, or going to conferences, I arrogantly mocked you for pursuing 'man's wisdom'."

"I called you 'all heart and no brain'..." the Pastor blurted out, his eyes brimming with sudden tears.

"I told myself you were 'all brain and no heart'..." said the Artist contritely, as he reached across the table to take the Pastor's hands in his own.
Unrehearsed, they blurted out with one voice:


The man awoke with a start. The sun was now fully up, and the coffee was still waiting to be enjoyed. But the man felt more together -- more integrated, more unified -- than he had felt in years.

Dream? Or vision?

It didn't really matter. He felt... whole.

No comments:

Post a Comment