Worshipping God in Prison

This past Sunday we had church in prison.  Butner medium-security prison to be precise.  We go about 3 or 4 times a year.  Last time I was confused/bewildered by how it was that the inmates had so much joy and hope and passion for God- and there were so many!  Approximately 250 men all crammed in to this tiny "Religious Services" room- passing peace to one another and celebrating God and God's work in their lives.

This time was different in that I came to the prison carrying something.  A guitar.  For anyone who doesn't know, I'm a recovering worship leader.  I started sometime around Jr High, I think, and never took a break until I was fired from a small church plant I helped start in Folsom, CA, two years ago.  My wife and I were so devastated from that fall out that I haven't picked up my "worship" guitar (no pun intended) since that time.

In case you are wondering, leading worship went really well.  The inmates have their own full band (we're talking keyboard, guitars, bass, drums, and small choir!) and they just jumped right in and played along with us.  Oh, and I say "us" because I told my pastor, Megan, that if she didn't lead worship with me I wouldn't do it.  Everybody seemed to get into it and I didn't have any major screw ups.  I had quite a few people afterwards tell me I had "the gift."

So, great, right?  I'm back in it?  Back to worship leading?  Maybe I can start leading worship at my small church?

NO FREAKING WAY.

Leading that group on Sunday was fun, and thankfully I had no panic attacks regarding my last church experience in Folsom.  But I also remembered WHY I DON'T DO THIS ANYMORE.

Leading worship in the Evangelical Church for me is like handing Gollum from Lord of the Rings the One Ring.  It's precious.  It's lovely.  It's power.  I mean, it's such an ego trip.  People judge you as "righteous" or "spiritual" because you stand in front of them and just play 4 chords over and over.  For a guy like me who is a bit of a people pleaser anyway to suddenly have the approval and attention of the entire room is like crack.  It's not healthy to have that much power.  Especially with how messed up inside I am.  It gives me this false identity- "worship leader Tim"- a persona that I can just click on and hide behind anytime I want.  I mean, when I am on stage or whatever, it's true that I throw my whole self into it- but that's not me being vulnerable- that's me just being a good performer.  And no matter how much I try to minimize that aspect of it- it's always there-- haunting me and calling me.

I'm done being that guy.  And I'm so glad to know that.

But at least I had a chance to "get back on the horse" that bucked me off 2 years ago and tell that fucker (on my own terms) to go to hell.

-Tim

Throwdown... a winner?

Tonight I went to a latte art throwdown.  For those of you not fortunate enough to attend one of these highly underground events...  I will fill you in.  A bunch of baristas (some good, some bad, some new, some veterans) all throw their names into a hat and compete one on one to see who can pour the prettiest latte art while under the pressure from a large group of devoted customers and friends.  Categories include "make a heart" "make a rosetta" "pour into a tiny-ass cup" and "pour some art blindfolded!"  There were only 6 of us tonight, at a small cafe in North Raleigh.  But it still felt great to get behind the bar and pour my heart out...

The first round came and it was announced that we all literally had to pour a "heart out."  How fitting.  As the crowd cheers and laughs, my own heart started to pound like I was about to go on stage and sing the national anthem in front of Obama or something.  I took a deep breath and approached the La Marzocco Linea espresso machine like I might approach a Grizzly Bear I might find in the wild.  Sure I know all about them, but here I am standing face to face with very limited personal experience.  Please don't eat me.  I test out the steam wand to see how sensitive the twist is.  It's not sensitive.  It's extremely sensitive.  The tiniest extra twist sends another 50+ pounds of pressure blasting into my milk.  I gotta play it safe or risk flipping a ton of nasty bubbles into my shay.

The shot starts pulling.

And there it is.  The stillness.  Suddenly, the sound of the bustling cafe and hipster music just fades into a perfect silence.  Like everything around me just got swallowed into a big fluffy nothingness cloud.  All that exists is this stainless steel steaming pitcher, this lovely milk, and these two ounces of espresso waiting for me in a ceramic love cup.  My competitor is gone, the judges are gone, the room is gone.  I release the steam valve and begin to caress the milk- a little bit of aeration here followed by a gentle spin there...  and after about a minute the temperature feels right so I return the steam valve to its original position and clean the wand.  I reach over and grasp the 8 oz cup with freshly pulled espresso waiting inside.  I tenderly pour the hot milk into the espresso, giving as much flair and panache as I dared-- still needing to meet the requirements of a "heart shape" to pass the judge's watchful eyes.  And then, it's finished.  The cup is full, my pitcher is empty, and the sound of the cafe fills my ears once again.

I set my cup before the judges, a little shy, a little proud perhaps, but still unsure of whether or not they believe my artwork to be the better of the two.  My competitor places his craftmanship beside mine and our eyes meet.

I shake the hand of my opponent before the verdict is called.  We know what we did.  We already know who was the winner.  His artwork had some class, but mine filled the cup with contrast and precision.  I won this time.  But it really doesn't matter.  We were both momentarily locked into a battle of skill and extreme pressure.  Many have strolled up to the bar only to have it smack them mercilessly across the face until they submit to its power and might.  We are the victims, just as much as we are the heroes of this underground game.

Sigh.

The rest of the night was a bit of a blur, I won some rounds and lost some, but I do remember that first pour, and walking out of that cafe with the first place prize: less than a quarter pound of a whole beans from a roaster I had never heard of.  Nice.

But who does it for the money?  Not us.  Not the few.  The proud.

The barista.

Man, I love my job.

Not sure what time zone I'm in

I think my body hates me.  I sent it 6 hours into the future when we arrived in Rome, then two weeks later I sent it 9 hours into the past when we arrived in California, and then I sent it 3 hours into the future when we got back home.  We've had late nights, early mornings, late mornings, and I got sick when we were in Barcelona.  It's just impossible to explain how freaking amazing the whole trip was, so I'm just going to say check out this link: EUROPE TRIP. 

I mean, I don't think it changed my life (at least not yet), but it definitely scratched that "travel itch" that has been plaguing me for awhile.  You know, that itch that says: "this place feels too small!  You gotta go get OUT there!  See the world!  Spread some wings!"

So Julie and I flew through Italy, France, and Spain- just really digging into the food, culture, and people.  It would have been nice to have more time, but by the end we were pretty dang BEAT!

Hope you are giving yourself the chance to spread out a few feathers and explore a culture different from your own.  It might be on the other side of the world... or it just might be down the road.  I know I want to get to know my neighbors better, and perhaps seek out some of the hidden subcultures in Durham.