Remembering an old fantasy of mine. . .
A church specifically tailored for musicians—only musicians. Would it work? It's something I've thought about for ages. Would it be like bumper cars, except that there would be egos crashing into egos? Part of the requirement for membership would be a willingness to bring an instrument and/or voice and sing in public places.
Or, instead of musicians exclusively, a congregation of artists. Assorted, like a box of doughnuts: some a bit plainer than most, unassuming; some gooey and excessively sweet; others that completely stand out from the rest, and you can't help but wonder what they're made of.
But then you'd have cliques, right? The painters and graphic artists in one brilliantly lit corner; the singers and instrumentalists in another corner where the acoustics are out of this world; the thespians probably in the center, already doing their thing; and the poets and writers in a dusty, dark nook, suitable for shelves and thick tomes.
Yikes!
All of a sudden, I'm thinking of the great Psalmist of old. I was recently reading Psalm 56; something about it impressed me, which I don't think I had noticed in the past. The introduction to the psalm, actually:
To the choirmaster: according to The Dove on Far-off Terebinths. A Miktam of David, when the Philistines seized him in Gath.
Alright, so what's so unusual about it being addressed to the choirmaster? Well, let's see; the psalm begins as follows:
Be gracious unto me.
O God, for man tramples on me;
all day long an attacker oppresses me;
my enemies trample on me all day long,
for many attack me proudly.
I'm imagining David, walking up to the choirmaster, asserting: "I have written something spectacular. Summon the choir! Let's perform this one tonight!" I mean, this guy is chasing down Philistines, as well as Moabites, Edomites, Ammonites, Amalekites, and maybe even some Goflyakites—or so I've heard—and somehow he has the time to sit down and compose and hang out with the choirmaster? You know, in between military victories? He's quite a character. Imagine subjecting peoples and destroying kingdoms, then writing poems about your conquests, as soon as you find some spare time to grab a brush and some fresh papyrus.
But back to David and the choirmaster. David says, "Summon the choir!" right? Upon reading the psalm verses, the choirmaster asks, "You want our choir to sing this sad, dark lament? You want the congregation to listen to this?" After which David insists, "Absolutely! It's raw, and honest, and autobiographical!" Actually, the choirmaster should be asking himself: How often does one encounter a warrior-king who was once a lowly shepherd, killed a Philistine giant with five smooth stones, plays the lyre and sings, composes psalms, AND actually even found the time to plunder one hundred prepuces? Imagine the choirmaster laughing hysterically upon considering suggesting "One Hundred Prepuces" as a song title idea to the great Psalmist-King?
But back to the church made up of musicians—or artists, in general. Crazy, I suppose, and I know life is not an old, quaint Dr. Pepper commercial, where everybody happily dances out in the street, or a series of carnivalesque scenes from Godspell. But stranger things have happened. I'm willing to bet someone has tried it. Would it work? Would it be chaotic? Would it be chaotic AND work? But it would have to be organic, not contrived. Raw, earthy, experimental, and daring, unencumbered by excessive programming, gadgetry, and annoying chatroom meetings.
Ah, the meandering paths of an unbridled imagination—and some wishful thinking.
