Four and a half weeks from now, Pastor Jeff Barrow will officially become Bishop Jeff Barrow, and I will have the distinct honor of presiding over the music that day. But from the moment Jeff asked me to do that, he very frankly and soberly explained that for as much as he might want to do whatever the heck he/we wanted that day, the service needed to belong to the entire synod and be a reflection of it, musically and otherwise. So there was no way this could be – nor should be – the Barrow & Berg show. He asked that the two of us put something together, but our proposed service would need to be shared with a synod committee- but the gauntlet wouldn’t end there. Anything they approve would in turn have to be approved by the national church office as well. But since we hadn’t come up with anything terribly strange (it’s not like we were planning on sacrificing a chicken during the confession of sins) we were guardedly optimistic that what we put together would survive largely intact. And at the synod level, everything was pretty much approved.
And as the service was circulated at the national office it survived again, with the exception of a song which was going to be sung towards the beginning of the service. . . part of an opening sequence which someone at the national office thought was excessively long. (I actually think they’re right about that.) And to make a long story short, it looks like that song is going to be removed altogether, which is the simplest and most logical solution – and a solution which I endorsed.
Did I mention that the song in question was composed by me?
I have been digesting the news for the last four hours or so, and I wish with all my heart that I could be cool and logical about this. And I am to some extent, but there is this part of me that feels a bit wounded- not really at the decision itself, but more at the ease with which the decision seems to have been reached. I wanted someone along the way to say “we hate to do this because this is a great hymn” . . . but no, the removal of this song is not, as far as I can tell, causing anyone (except me) the slightest pang of regret.
And I say this not to accuse anyone of insensitivity or questionable taste in music. . . but rather to confess my own towering fragility and insecurity when it comes to my own music- an insecurity which is probably the single biggest reason why I have never sent anything of mine off to the big scary world out there for possible publication. Because as wonderful as it feels to compose something that the good folks of Holy Communion or the young singers of the Tremper High School Chorale or the members of Musici Amici love and appreciate, I know that it would be a soul-skewering disappointment if I were to submit something I’ve composed to a publisher and have it be met with indifference – or worse. I’m not sure I have a tough enough hide to endure that. And it’s not that I’m incapable of shrugging off disappointment- and it’s not that I haven’t tasted some significant, stinging defeats in my life. But when it comes to a piece of music over which I’ve lovingly labored and which springs from my soul, whatever tough hide I possess turns soft and pink and so very prone to bruising.
I am suddenly reminded of a moment back at Luther during my senior year when a freshman music major asked if he could sing for me a song that he had just composed. I was happy to listen to it and honored that he would want me to hear it. It turned out to be a love song – quite simple and maybe a little too predictable and repetitious – but (and this suggests that it was actually a pretty darn good song) I can still almost hear the melody in my ear and a few of the lyrics, which included something about how Jesus is my “number one” and you’re my “number two.” I don’t remember now what I said to Ross about his sweet song – or what sort of expression was on my face (knowing how I’m put together, I’m sure I wasn’t outwardly dismissive, or overtly critical) but I probably conveyed something less than enthusiasm – because I vividly recall him basically apologizing to me for the song’s simplicity, with this somewhat crestfallen look on his face. As I replay that little exchange from 28 years ago, I fear that I bruised this young man where he was especially sensitive and vulnerable. Of course, we’re probably not doing a young composer any favors by doing cartwheels over each and every one of their songs. . . and a young composer’s tools of trade should be not only pen and paper, but also a good- sized wastebasket . . . and they need to use it. (It’s so easy for a composer to see everything that flows from their pen as a wondrous miracle.) But as a soon-to-be-50-year-old composer, I am just as sensitive as I ever was when it comes to my music and ever more mindful of how intensely personal it to compose a song . . . and then to share it with the world – whether with a would-be publisher, a worship coordinator in the national church office, the choir at the local high school, or just an upperclassman music major you admire, in the privacy of a practice room. It’s so incredibly exciting and scary, and can yield amazing mountaintops of satisfaction or dark valleys of disappointment, depending on whether the song generates a standing ovation- or a yawn. And if I live to be 100, and live to write a 1000 more songs, I’m not sure I will ever grow entirely accustomed to the peculiar life of the song writer and the perpetual search for approval that’s part of it.
* * * Since I penned this blog entry, I got an email from someone at the synod level involved in putting Pastor Jeff’s service together- and there’s a chance that my hymn will still be sung but at a different point in the program. And whether or not it ultimately makes the cut doesn’t matter to me nearly as much as the fact that someone cared about the song and wasn’t going to let it end up on the cutting room floor without at least a second look.