I lost my dignity somewhere outside Atlanta.

Friday I drove down to Decatur, GA, just outside of Atlanta, with Treva and Ben for a show at Eddie's Attic. I'd never played there before, but I had seen it a bunch of times on various folks' tour listings, so I was looking forward to the mini-road trip and gig. We slogged through some rush-hour traffic, got there, and loaded in while a quality band from South Carolina called Tent Revival did their sound check.

Strike 1:
Within 30 seconds of seeing the other band sound check, I definitely started to feel insecure about myself because they had a pretty killer cellist / electric guitar player who is way better than me. Now, most players are better than me, and I at least project a degree of being ok with that, just as a matter of fact in recognizing my limits. I go back and forth between wishing that I had other people's gigs and being content with where I'm at--in terms of my abilities and the great opportunities that I've already had to make music with my friends. I'm good at simultaneously projecting confidence and self-doubt.

Strike 2:
Within 30 seconds of our own sound check, the sound guy started giving me a hard time and really disrespecting me. After the third remark, I just stopped him and calmly said something like, "I feel like you're talking to me really condescendingly, and you don't need to treat me like that." He mumbled something about how he was stressing out with the craziness of trying to sound check four acts that night, and he backed off a bit after that, though he never apologized. For my part, before and after I called him out, I complimented the sound and thanked him multiple times.

So it didn't exactly make for a fun time in the lead up to the show. I was already a bit uncomfortable cause I was going to be running through the other cellist's setup. And I've mentioned the insecurities. And now out of nowhere, the sound guy was getting on my case. It took a lot of self-control to not go off on him. I knew that would only make things worse, but I definitely wanted to throw a fit and tell him in no uncertain terms that he was being a big fat jerkface. Instead, I bottled up that angry response--which usually means that I'm on the verge of getting emotional--and I just spoke calmly and clearly on the outside. I didn't dwell on it and try to shame him over and over--I just called him out then and there.

Anyway, after sound check, Treva and Ben and I sat down to dinner (at least the venue does take care of its artists with a meal coupon and two drinks), and they both commended me not only for speaking up and saying something, but for saying it kindly (Ben got a bit of the same treatment from the sound guy, too, but I definitely bore the brunt). Praying grace together was a good reminder of God's sovereign presence over us and our desire for him to be glorified even when things are getting messy like that.

The show itself was pretty solid, a couple misses but mostly strong. Though since we didn't really know everybody else on the bill, it definitely had a different feel from shows that you do with your friends as the other acts, where you're really able to make music in community and just be really supportive of each other without agendas. Otherwise, I think the music thing can get a bit mercenary (mea culpa)--preoccupations with swapping shows (you play with me when you come to my city, I'll play with you when I go to your city) and who's playing whose drum set and the order of the lineup and all that business of advancing yourselves.

Otherwise, hanging out with Treva and Ben was great, the food and drink were solid, it was a treat to hear a bunch of live music in a listening room environment where the audience is really attentive to it--but it was still a lot to process internally. I know that I'm still a bit hurt/angry for the way the sound guy treated me. For the fact that he never apologized or even offered me a perfunctory "hey, nice job, you guys sounded good" just to openly push the reset button and try to start over. Like I said, I reached out a couple times--thanked him right after our set, but he didn't even make eye contact with me that time, then thanked him again outside in the parking lot at the end of the night. I don't even remember what he said back--maybe "sure thing"...?

Treva and Ben saw me go up to him that last time in the parking lot just before we left, and when I got back to the car, she said something like, "You're a sweet man, Hitoshi." And all I could come up with was, "No no, I just know the transforming love of Jesus Christ, and that makes all the difference." And yet, I hyper-analyze, and I am way too thin-skinned--I wish it were easier for me to just let go of crap like that and brush it off. But it usually leaves a mark and can be hard for me to move on a lot of the time. To be honest, given the opportunity to play there again, I wouldn't want to go, at least not right now. So pray for me, if you're inclined, that I might let this go, truly forgive and make peace in my heart in the face of all this stuff.

That's only the half of it, of course. Somewhere in the whole mix of all that craziness going on, seeing the other band and their cellist, it really did bring up so much self-doubt, to the point where I was overwhelmed by an acute feeling that I had nothing to offer God right then and there. I'm trying to figure out what about that is true and what isn't. I think at least part of that is something to be ok with: if I were stripped of everything that I have--even the good things that I might use for the building up of God's kingdom--and all that I were left with was Jesus, that would be ok. He is my life and my praise. And only I can give God the praise the he desires of me.

Just as we started playing our first song, I felt pretty helpless (useless?) and prayed to God that somehow this would bring him honor and he would use this to be glorified. It doesn't make sense to me that my shortcomings and all my lack can be used to bring God glory--I feel like I have to play well and not make mistakes and create beauty as best I can. But so often, I just can't, can't do it well. At the least, even if no one else is blessed by my not-super-awesome playing (and I mean that in a very straightforward way), and even if no one else can see it, I trust that he is doing a work in my heart--maybe something of what it means for me to worship him in spirit and in truth.

The New Performance Standard

I appreciate how my church eschews false gospels of new laws masquerading as Gospel truth: the subtle twists and pulls that ultimately leave you with "do more of this, be more of that, and God will love and bless and save you more."

The truth that the pastor preaches often is to look to Jesus all the more. But sometimes it feels like that message can become its own burden--to do that better, harder, more. Turning my eyes upon Jesus is a true thing that I need to hear and do. It's absolutely vital to my life as a believer to recalibrate my standards and my gaze off myself and the world around me, back to the source of all truth and goodness and faith, to the one who did everything that I would ever need to do. But sometimes that can be hard to do. And what I feel is missing sometimes is some loving encouragement in the way that message is spoken, at least for the particular frailties of my own heart.

I do a decent job of preaching the facts of the Gospel to myself, at least in my head. I recognize the importance of being able to do that. But I don't love myself well--I don't preach and believe God's great big beautiful, pursuing, unrelenting, unconditional love for me:

"I see you struggling. I see that it's hard for you to fall down at the cross right now, to fall upon Jesus' love, to repent and believe and be set free. We both know that's the truth you need. And I see that it's hard for you in this season of your life, and I love you anyway."

So it was a real refreshment several weeks ago when a friend down in Peru pointed me to some truth that I needed, while also simply loving me, no strings attached. Some others have been encouraging along the way in the quiet ways I need, letting me know I'm not alone.

Anyway, that's how I feel sometimes.