Oh me of little faith

Last weekend I participated in the churchwide Assembly for Mission and Life. What fun! People came from all over Argentina and Uruguay to represent their congregations, share their stories (and their struggles) and to participate in communion with on another.

About a week beforehand, I had been asked if I would be a part of the music team (apparently word had spread about our late-night jam sessions in the seminary cafeteria...). It was an honor to be asked, and I quickly accepted. And I looked forward to it, right up until the point where my fellow musician Ivan came to my desk and plopped down a sheaf of sheet music.

"What's this?" I asked him, though I already knew what he was going to say.

"The music for the assembly," he told me. I was right.

Now what? What Ivan didn't know is that though I can play the piano confidently and pick out a tune by ear, I've never been particularly good at reading music. And certainly not that much of it. And in such little time.

I thought about giving up, but I had given my word. And, I reminded myself, I was really looking forward to this! So after a few days to calm down, I took my stack of music to church and sat down at the organ. The first thing I did was translate the notes into 'my' system (here, they use Do, Re, Mi, etc, even for chords). And then I began to play through the songs. Some of them, I was pleased to find out, I knew from home!--I simply hadn't recognized the Spanish titles. There were others that I had sung so many times since I got here that I guess I had 'absorbed' them. And there were even a few that I was able to fumble through the music and throw something together. When it was all said and done, there were only five that I determined were too hard, and I set them aside.

Then the Assembly came. I was almost immediately thrown into the hotseat when one of the pastors said, "Can you just go play something? It doesn't matter what." So I did. But as things got going, communication improved and I started to get the hang of it. "I can play anything on this list," I told one of the pastors during a break, "except these five." I circled them in bold, black ink.

The pastors who led the sessions were mostly respectful of those restrictions. But the larger group simply didn't know about the limits I had developed. Most of them simply saw me as a competent pianist who could probably play whatever music was set in front of me. Over the course of the two days, they began shouting out song titles. This was great if I knew the song they were requesting, but if it was one of those five, I was in trouble.

A few times, I told them that I simply couldn't do it, and when they insisted, I bristled. "How can they do this?" I asked myself. "Don't they know how much time I've put into learning all of these other songs? Why can't they just choose another one? They've got more than enough to choose from." One time, I gave in and tried a new song. I was uncomfortable and, sure enough, my playing was a disaster. No one else seemed to mind, but I took it as confirmation that I was right and that what I was being asked to do was unreasonable.

Fortunately these uncomfortable moments were few and far between, and for the most part, the assembly went well. Good times, great people, lots of tears and laughter. Our time was imbued with a sense of excitement. It all culminated in our closing worship, in which we served each other Communion and reflected on our shared weekend. Personally, I was pleased with my musical contribution and glad that nothing had gone horribly wrong. In that sense, I was also glad that it was over.

Or so I thought. As people were saying goodbye and beginning to clean up, Pastor Andrea Baez came over to the piano and asked if I could play some exit music. "Only if you sing with me," I said, and winked. "OK," she said. "What should we sing?"

I went first for several songs that I liked but that we hadn't used very much that weekend. It was fun, but they soon ran out. "What about 'Dios Familia'?" asked Andrea. I recoiled--that one was on my no-fly list, and the music was particularly complicated. But, I figured, what the heck. Nobody's listening, anyway. So we gave it a try. I kept waiting for it to derail, but somehow, it didn't. We made it all the way to the end. We tried another one. Same thing--in fact, I kind of liked the tune. People were still leaving, but we were beginning to pick up momentum! Hungrily, we looked for the next one. Great success. We were now trying new songs with reckless abandon. And it was working. Were they perfect? Obviously not. But they weren't bad, and they were really quite a bit of fun!

Right in the midst of so much excitement is when it hit me: these are things I had said I couldn't do. I had put a dividing line around my own abilities and confidence. As I had shared that limit with others, I also had been reinforcing it in myself. But this 'last hurrah' showed me that my boundary had been based on fear and not reality. If I had only placed more faith in my abilities--and in the power of the Holy Spirit--I could have opened up the song book and avoided some of those needless moments of conflict. I would also be able to relax more and enjoy myself, rather than worry that my abilities were not good enough. In other words, faith makes all the difference.

It reminds me of the words of Henry Ford: "Whether you think you can or whether you think you can't; either way, you're right."

The Sands of New Caledonia

Last Sunday I had to learn a few tunes to accompany a Bolivian worship service, scheduled for later in the afternoon. As I made my way to the cafeteria to use the piano and the wifi, I heard music. Good music. Jazz piano, to be precise. It's not every day that you hear jazz piano in Buenos Aires (they tend to prefer tango), and I figured someone must have been playing a recording.

As soon as I opened the door, I saw that I was wrong--this music was en vivo! There was a big guy with a beard sitting at the slightly-out-of-tune piano, his fingers dancing gracefully over the keyboard playing complex chords and delicate arpeggios--seemingly without effort.

He looked at me and smiled, and kept playing. I sat down at one of the tables, enjoying the music and wondering how long it had been since that old piano had gotten such a workout. When he finished, I told him, “Che, tocas muy bien!” I saw that he hadn’t understood, so I tried English: “Man, you play really well!” That clicked a little more.

Through a little more broken conversation, he told me that he was from New Caledonia, a small island nation near Australia and New Zealand. French is the national language, but his English was better than his Spanish (and better than my French), so that’s what we used. I pointed to my chest and said “My name is Chris.” He smiled and told me his name is Nulu.

I later found out that he was with a group of artists and musicians who had come to Argentina to do cultural workshops for kids up in the Chaco. It must have been very difficult for them to come to a country without knowing the language, and I was impressed with their willingness to travel so far to share their musical and artistic gifts with young people.

I had my laptop with me, which we used to teach each other about our respective countries. The pictures of New Caledonia were absolutely gorgeous--beautiful clear skies, white beaches, blue ocean--I must admit that from the smoggy metropolis of Buenos Aires, it looked like paradise. Nulu was equally impressed with the pictures I showed him of my friends and family back home in the US. When I showed him pictures of when I used to play in the Wisconsin Marching Band, he realized that I was a drummer, and he grabbed my arm and led me excitedly back to the piano.

He played a tune by Charlie Parker (he had figured out the sax solos), and I accompanied him, improvising a drum set out of my knees, thighs, and chest (anyone who’s spent even a little time with me has probably seen me do this). It was absolutely incredible—such a beautiful, unexpected moment. We started trading fours, and then had to end because we were both laughing so hard.

Nulu couldn’t stay long, but before he left, he took a coin out of his pocket and flipped it to me. I admired it for a moment, but when I tried to hand it back to him, he motioned that it was for me to keep. "Merci," I told him, recalling my long-lost French lessons, "Merci beaucoup." He smiled again. "De rien," he said.

So now I have a New Caledonian coin on my desk to remind me of this shared moment. It makes me think of one of those movies where the guy dreams about walking on the beach--a beautiful moment in which he feels alive and at one with the world. The alarm clock rings, and he is disappointed to be jolted back to reality--only to look down and discover that his feet are covered in sand.

Speaking of beaches and sand, New Caledonia is now at the top of my list of places to visit!

All in a day’s work

A police officer stands on a corner in Grand Bourg, watching the traffic go by. As he stands there, I wonder: is he on duty, or is he just waiting to cross the street?

I soon get my answer. As a motorcycle zooms by, he points to the driver and yells, “Put a helmet on!”

It reminds me of a referee giving a penalty in a football game, except this game doesn’t stop. Traffic keeps moving—including the motorcycle—and the officer steps back onto the sidewalk.

Looks like my work here is done, he says to himself.