At
some point in our lives, most of us have gathered enough observations about
something that we feel very passionate about (and which we fear has escaped
other people’s notice or equal passion), that we just have to let the world know about it. Some take the time to listen,
while others may just roll their eyes and tell you to “get off your soap box.” Given
today’s technology, we might shout, “Can someone mute this guy!?!”
Last
week was one such occasion for me as I spoke to the choir off the cuff, even prefacing my comments with some casual aside
like, “I’m going to get up on my soapbox now.”
[Being the curious fellow that I am, I later reflected on the origin of
that concept, and naturally, Google came to my rescue. Apparently, there really is no exact origin
of the phrase, “get up on my soapbox.” It is an idiom that came into our
culture and just stuck. The soap box itself does, however, have a history. In
the early 1900s soap was delivered to retailers in large wooden crates. After
the soap was unloaded, the boxes were discarded in the alleyway. The
construction of the box was very sturdy.]
While the
soapbox made a wonderfully supportive platform for street corner entertainers and public
speakers, the fact that this phrase is rarely greeted with enthusiasm
from the listener would suggest that it was a pretty
rickety device for actually influencing thought. Why?
Because it was mainly one-way communication. The elevated one talked. Those lower
down listened. Who knows, this might
have even been the origin of the much loved phrase, “blah, blah, blah!”
This is a
lesson I learned (once again) this week. Monday morning, in fact. I received a
special gift in the form of a personal visit from a choir member. I say gift,
because though her words and observations were a bit hard to receive, they came
from a loving heart and a desire for us to stay united. Every leader should be so blessed. She came,
not to talk about what I had said, necessarily, from my soapbox, but rather what she had heard. After listening, I couldn’t help but marvel
at what kind of gap (a chasm really) there appeared to be between what (I
thought) I said and what she received.
This, in a
nutshell, is the problem with soapboxes and other rickety forms of
communication. There is no dialogue—only
a monologue. And, after reflection, I
realized that even if I had thrown open the door for discussion, many, if not
most, probably would not have felt the freedom to voice their questions or
challenges to my opinions.
So what was
the big issue anyway? Well, for more on that you’ll just have to wait ‘til next
week, when I actually address what I was trying to say in greater detail. (For those who were there, I’m sure you are
just dying to hear it all over again. I see your eyes glazing over.) Specifically, I was addressing the topic of reading
music. I was trying to state it as a principle, a value, a goal, if you will,
that all of us can and should be pursuing, but particularly those in leadership in the church. What was received, however, is that this principle
or standard should be the universal measuring
stick or litmus test for any and all participating in this ministry.
Though the issue
was about learning to read a musical
score, I could have been addressing being
punctual. Or more consistent in
attendance. Or better prepared each
week. Or more loving to one
another. Or dressing appropriately at
all times. Smelling better. Whatever.
It doesn’t matter. All are areas
in which we, as Christ followers and God’s image-bearers,
can assess, grow, improve. What I sought
to say was “let’s keep learning, let’s keep moving.” As a team, let’s outdo each other in finding ways
to honor God and one another.
But because
I chose the soapbox instead of the town meeting approach, I was left to
hope you got what I meant, and you were left to wonder if you were still needed
or wanted on the team. Thanks to one
brave soul among you, I was able to hear the truth in love and keep a short
account with you. Please forgive me if
you left that rehearsal or have left any
rehearsal with the feeling that you’re not welcome. You’re not good enough. That only a few music specialists belong
here. Under my watch, there will never be
such litmus tests. There will never be
such a pecking order or musical food chain.
Each one of you is precious to me and exactly where you belong—leaders,
learners, followers, stragglers.
What I can say is that just like you and I face
challenges daily to keep up with technology and artistic expressions thought unheard of in our lifetimes, we must
resist the temptation to settle in
the area of how it is we do our ministry. It is because God loves us just as
we are that He must be worthy of
nothing less than our very best. It’s
supposed to be a sacrifice of praise,
remember?
In the meantime,
as your leader I commit to doing more consensus building and less bloviating.
OK, you may have to Google that one.
tad
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