Fall Colors

Fall Colors

Fall is spectacular. I hadn't noticed, really, until this weekend when I was blissfully stuck at  a place in the almost mountains of Tennessee where none of my technology worked. No TV. no phone, no computer, no iPad, no radio, no stress. No doubt the world at the foot of those hills was going on just fine without me being plugged in to it, and when I descended from my sacred seclusion, I was no less informed for what I didn't know of the happenings below.

News. Such a broad word for such a small use of it. Health care, war, politics. News news news. Human beings missing the point of being human. We're made for love and connectedness, relationship with God, people, creation and ourselves. Most of the news, as far as I can tell, is about disconnectedness. At present our Country seems to be in a cold civil war. It's easier to hate a political party or a religion, though, than to have to face the angry sorrow of broken relationships within our homes, churches, or workplaces, or within out own hearts. Hence, the news.

My own heart. That's where the real news happens. I learned a long time ago that my problem was not low self-esteem, but low God esteem. Being rightly related to God covers a multitude of reasons to hate the world or myself. In my experience, God doesn't let me off the hook, but doesn't condemn me, either. It's like Fall. Things die, so things can be reborn.

So, I was cloistered this weekend with a bunch of real Christians. They're everywhere, real Christians. In fact, I suspect that many of the so-called fake Christians are being real as they know how to be. Who gets to make that call anyway? I just know that the people with whom I took communion on that mountain are the real deal and that I can count on them.

What is the distinction between a real Christian and a fake one? Is being real about telling all, the good the bad and the ugly? Is being real about living a Christian lifestyle perfectly? Which manual should I use for the guidelines of perfect Christianity? Baptist, Church of Christ, Nazarene, Lutheran, or Catholic? Technically, a genuine fake Christian would be someone who pretends to be a Christian in order to get something they want, right? They wear religion like a fake mustache.


Well, Groucho, who are you to judge? I get it. Hypocrites mess up church like moisture in the salt shaker.  Frankly, I'm sick of the word hypocrite being thrown around so loosely. I'm sure there are Jews, Muslim, Democrats, Republicans, and sports fans who are hypocrites, pretending to love the game so they can come to the parties, but it's like the world waits and watches for the Christians to stumble into a moment that taints the light.

The truth is, I don't prefer the company of the more judgmental Christians, the ones who wouldn't want a gay person in their church, or the ones who would leave because of the color of the new carpet. You know the type, the I'll-pray-for-you-so-I-don't-have-to-talk-to-you-opps-too-busy-to-pray Christians. I just don't get it, but I'm still glad they show up at somebody's church on Sunday. Church matters.  All in all, I'm glad for all Christians, fake or real, who gather to worship  God and lift up the name of Jesus Christ, His only Son, Our Lord. It's an eternal use of time and collective energy.

I was sitting by a gas fireplace wondering if the fire burns as hot across the fake logs. Those logs won't be consumed. There's no mess to clean up. No ashes. Just a gas-line and flames. Fake logs with a real flame. And so I thought, maybe that's how it is with Christians. The fire is the Spirit. It's the Spirit that reaches people. God's word is proclaimed in many ways, through many voices.

Well, anyway, I'm an organic log for the Lord. And I was with some real logs this week-end, and we can all laugh together for the "foolishness of God that is wiser than the wisdom of man." It was a good use of time and spirit. My life is richer for it. My pain is less. My heart is full. And somehow, Fall is more spectacular.

Flying Monkeys in the Land of Oz

You learn to write by writing and if anyone responds, even if it’s

only your Mom, no, especially if it’s only your Mom, then you’ve done

something worthy of the time it took to do it. My Mom was my first

barometer, because she took such delight in each new song, or cried if

it moved her, or quoted my lyrics to friends who needed

encouragement. She would give recordings of my songs to people,

clerks at checkout counters, the Charlie's Chips delivery man, or friends

at work, and tell them, “You need to hear this; it will help you.” She

did not get me a single career connection, did not enter me in beauty

pageants, and did not promote me to talent scouts. I’m sure she would

have, but she was too busy responding to my music from her soul, and

if it helped her, it would help others. Her honest heart-felt response

and the piano she bought for me were the best gifts she could have

ever given me, that and a glimpse of faith. I began my artistic

journey with the firm belief that my music mattered, that it was

powerful, and that people needed what I had to offer.

A song is art. That is its spiritual power. That’s how it heals,

comforts, compels you to dance, or gets stuck in your head; because it

is art.

The music industry is the business that makes the art available to

people. This seems so basic, but it is so easily forgotten. My Mother

didn’t care if there was a music business and neither do any of the

other people who are moved by your music.

I had the privilege of writing with some of Nashville’s top writers

the first year I moved to town. One of them had a string of hits

happening. He was making great money and was in high demand. He

said to me, “Start right now giving your music the priority. You have to

take time to write. It’s the most important thing you do, but time to

write will be the first thing to go once you get into the business.” He

was right. Suddenly you’re at this meeting and that meeting, number

one parties and how-to panels, playing writer’s night after writer’s

night contributing to the vibe of the town and gradually writing less of

your best. The distractions will swoop and swirl around you like those

creepy flying monkeys in the Wizard of Oz. The tyranny of the urgent

overtakes the important, and if its not the biz doing it to you, it will be

relationships, financial pressures, family, the dog, alcohol, or getting

the oil changed in your Corolla.

Once you sign your first publishing deal, the danger becomes

writing for the industry instead of for the people who need your songs.

On the streets of music row you hear much complaining about the

sad state of radio, the same songs being played over and over, the

same songs being played over and over (see what I mean?). This is

one of the few things that has never changed since I’ve been in the

business. It is because most writers and the publishers who sign them

quickly forget the rule my friend taught me. Don’t let anything get in

the way of the writing, not even flying monkeys.