88 Watchful Keys: How the Deconstruction of My Beliefs Led to the Deconstruction of My Music
*First published in Hyssop + Laurel magazine March 2023
Who knew deconstruction would mean the deconstruction of more than just my faith and religious beliefs?
I never expected it to lead to the deconstruction of my art, music. And yet, here we are.
My piano sits in my living room collecting dust along with the Holy Book I once read faithfully. A symbolic representation of my current relationship with both.
After being part of my daily life for decades, now, I don't know what to do with either.
The disentangling is exhausting, and it's easy to become apathetic. Most of the time, I choose to leave them be. Let them gather dust as I wait for some sort of sign or miraculous motivation.
My eyes lock with eighty-eight black and white keys. They gaze back longingly. I walk by them, pausing only for a second.
The expectations surrounding them are palpable. It's a sensation I've grown well-accustomed to after having lived much of my life striving to meet impossible expectations and standards.
The difference is now, I don't feel compelled to meet them. Quite the opposite actually. My deconstruction path has led me to the realization that I get to choose. Something I've never gotten to do before.
Being told you're going to hell for not following God's will and path, isn't really a choice, is it?
And when you grow up in a family of musicians, worship leaders, and pastors…well, that doesn't feel much like a choice either.
These mantels were passed down generation to generation, like Elijah to Elisha.
Starting from the time I was a child and spanning well into adulthood, I was placed in similar positions based on the "giftings" I possessed, the ones handed down from my ancestors.
They called me worship leader. They called me psalmist. They told me I should write songs, that this would please the Lord.
And that's all I wanted. To please the Lord. To exceed the expectations. To be found acceptable. To belong among The Righteous. To be found worthy of salvation from eternal damnation.
To be found worthy of love.
And so I tried my best to live up to these titles bestowed upon me, believing this was my way to earn that love and acceptance I so desperately needed.
I wrote compelling, "theologically-sound" songs. I led the congregation in spectacularly curated, "spontaneous" worship moments. I created setlists that I knew would "move the spirit" along with the gathered crowds. Perfectly planned and perfectly timed. I sang and played with all that I had to give.
"All for the glory of God."
But was it? Is this what God wanted?
There came a time, I could no longer deny the questions knocking around in my brain; the questions I had tried so desperately to lock away. I dared not speak them. I tried so hard not to even think them. But they were there whether I welcomed them or not.
"If God really loves us so much, why would he send us to Hell for eternity?"
"How could it be true that we are both good and 'fearfully and wonderfully made,' but yet, we are also inherently evil and broken?"
None of the answers I'd been taught through the decades seemed to quell the growing flame of doubt.
Despite the questions, I kept singing the songs that I wasn't sure I believed anymore.
I kept strumming rhythms on the treasured Taylor guitar my grandfather had given me.
I faithfully played melodies on the piano he had given me, too. The very same piano that now sits in my living room collecting dust.
Music, what used to heal my wounds, what used to soothe, it only serves as a reminder of hurts, losses, loneliness, and grief. I lost way more than just a stage. I lost my desire to create music. I lost a community. I lost friendships…
I lost approval.
I still hear their voices in my head sometimes, voices of approval, complimenting my abilities and encouraging me to keep creating music.
"You sang so beautifully this morning"
"The Spirit was all over you today."
"We love it when you lead worship. You're so much better than so-and-so."
That last one was a double-edged sword, inflating my ego along with my need to constantly compare myself to everyone else. After all, how could I be acceptable and loved if I wasn't as good as or even better than everyone else?
The compliments made me more than a little uncomfortable. Despite this, now that those words of praise have been silenced, I grieve their loss.
It makes me wonder if I was ever singing for the "glory of God" as I so desperately desired.
Was God even present in that building, on that stage, among the crowds?
There were many moments that I felt sure there must be something bigger than myself at work, but was I simply manipulating the emotions of the gathered crowds?
Was it all a performance after all? Was I subconsciously basking in the spotlight, glorifying myself with the crowd's energy and praise?
I see church members out around town. They say, "we sure do miss you singing on that stage!"
But do they miss me? Or do they miss the gifts I presented to them each Sunday that made them feel better for just a while?
I was told I should play music. I was taught I should share my talents because I'm gifted to do so.
"That's why we're given gifts--to share with others, and above all, to glorify God."
But that's not how gifts work, is it? Gifts are gifts. No strings of expectation attached, aren't they?
I look at the gift my grandfather gave me, yes, that dormant piano sitting in my living room. It was a gift given without any strings (except the ones there to create the sound, of course).
And I hear the music call to me. I sit down on the bench and slide my fingers delicately across the keys collecting dust with my fingers as I do so.
I try to remove the thick layer of dust with a better dusting tool, but pieces seem left behind with every swipe like leftover pieces of the past.
I quickly lose interest. It just feels too hard.
What do I do with all these years of knowledge and experience?
Do I even want to play or write music anymore?
It's become like that favorite hoodie leftover from a previous relationship. The person long gone, the hoodie hanging in the closet. No thought to throw it out, perhaps it will have a use again in the future. Perhaps someday it won't be so painful. Perhaps someday it won't be a constant reminder of all that was lost.
Again, I see those same church folk on the street. They ask me if I'll ever play music again.
And I wonder the same thing myself. Another question, another uncertainty added to the growing list.
I think, "I should find an answer for them. I owe them that." But I don't owe them anything. That's not true. That kind of thinking is just a leftover piece of dust from the past.
I think, "Maybe I should find these answers for myself." That's a bit better, but I'm not sure I'm ready.
I think, "I should at least try to play some music."
But I'd rather start playing it again in my own time, in my own way, removed from the expectations and the desire for approval.
I've spent too much of my life doing exactly what I "should," in order to gain the approval of others. I don't want to live that way anymore.
I don't want to live my life from the "shoulds," from obligation, from the desire for approval from others.
I am learning I don't need to earn anyone's love and approval. I'm already loved. I'm already approved.
And even if that approval comes from myself and not from some outside source, the love and approval is there because I choose to give it freely. No strings attached.
I get to choose.
So for now, the piano will continue to sit along with the Holy Book.
And for now, my questions may remain unanswered.
And perhaps, that's ok for now.
P.S. This essay originally appeared in Hyssop + Laurel Magazine. They provide a much-needed space for artists and writers who want to share their work inspired by faith deconstruction. Be sure to check out their quarterly magazine here: https://hyssopandlaurel.com/.
And be sure to sign up for my free, monthly newsletter. It’s been a while since I wrote this essay, and I have some others thoughts to add that will be available to my subscribers only.
