QUARANTINE LIFE: SUNDAY THOUGHTS

I admit I wasn’t always a fan of praise teams. 

I even felt some kind of creepy way when I was briefly a part of one. My participation had made me a target, but that’s a toxic, unfortunate story for another day—or maybe never.

I borderline detested praise teams—not the people, mind you, but the concept of pumping up parishioners. Praise teams seemed to negatively impact the weekly convocation, and cast aside beloved compositions in favor of cheeky ones. 

With their color-coordinated swag, radio-friendly song choices, questionable choreography, bullying instructions, and hand-held mikes, praise teams single-handedly murdered the choir. 

They’d inadvertently established a problematic hierarchy in the music ministry, eradicated hymns, and muted the voices of the congregation. 

Corporate worship dwindled in many places with the emergence of praise teams, and the show took over. There was a lot of talk about ushering in someone you'd learned in Sunday school was already supposed to be there. 

There was endless reference to "atmosphere", but it reeked of mimicry, showboating, biblical error, and vague, trite, repetitive, self-centered songs that didn’t need any more “charging”. 

Congregations had been reduced to spectators, and needed lyrics on the screens. Choir members, many of whom remained seated, and close-lipped as praise teams performed, may as well have been cardboard cutouts. 

The hymnals were banished to the backs of the pews, and if you didn’t follow contemporary gospel music, you didn’t know any of the songs even if you wanted to sing along. 

The praise team virus spread throughout Christiandom as it seemed to be more expedient to work with a few, supposedly elite singers than an entire choir. 

Churches were broadcasting more, and the dedicated people who’d faithfully served in choirs for years, were suddenly not good enough for the airwaves. Older members were just disregarded altogether. 

The sincerity and consistency of the worship leader, borne out of an actual relationship with God, were rare. Technical skill eclipsed anointing. 

Most often there’d be some blinged-out, drill sergeant-type-screaming-banshee, acting as if God didn’t show up unless THEY said so. You couldn’t hear what they were saying by virtue of being shocked or blinded by what they were wearing (or not wearing), and God help your soul and salvation if you didn’t stand up and applaud the noisy spectacle of people trying to get “house” in what was supposed to be God’s house. If you didn't "get with" the praise team, you'd get called out for not being grateful, thankful, or a conscientious believer.

Church after church adopted the praise team model, and incubated yet another source of strife in an auxiliary already known as a harbor for divisiveness, envy, and competition.

In spite of my upbringing, there came a time when I’d become deeply disillusioned with “church” period, let alone praise teams. I admit, the style of worship at Zion Church, where I found a soft place to land, also afforded me a terrific place to heal and hide. You could roll in, take a seat in the darkened sanctuary, worship with total strangers, get a timely, relevant, intelligent, useful message and roll out—and it would still be daylight. 

I learned I wasn’t the only DMV worshiper longing for safety and fellowship, and not wanting to abandon church attendance altogether. So many people had found sanctuary at Zion, and were quietly, yet exclusively “dating” whichever campus was closest to home. They just wanted to be free from the cult-ish politics, oppression, and messiness of churches that had slowly morphed into profit-making shrines to men and women. We were like a bunch of asylum seekers whose only desire was a drama-free worship experience. “Happy” and “breath of fresh air” were words I heard most often from those I'd run into in the parking lot, who’d stumbled upon Zion bruised and bewildered. Going there was refreshing. The music, we agreed, was refreshing, too.

The singers shattered, and forced me to rethink my perceptions about praise teams. Their voices and love for God simply radiated. They even seemed to love, like, and support each other! They weren’t exclusive in their delivery. Their joy was infectious. In their singing, they didn’t point you to themselves, or their greatness. There was no arrogant hijacking of the service. It was glorious, encouraging, and healing to hear them sing. It made my heart glad.

One young worship leader made me do a double take the first time I saw him, because he bore an uncanny resemblance to crooner, Will Downing. When I met him for the first time, we joked about it. He laughed and said he’d get that all the time. He was so gracious, well mannered, and kind. I remember sharing with him that sometimes, as a singer, you just want to be a sponge. Sometimes you're on “e”, and just need to be ministered to. You need to be reminded why you even love to sing and dare to. Whether in person or virtually, whenever he stepped forward he consistently repped the God he loved so well, and motivated others to gladly raise their own voices. He was the antithesis of everything I couldn't bear about poorly appointed worship leaders. He was a singer’s singer.

A few days ago, I learned of his passing. It stunned and saddened me, as the silencing of the beautiful voices of nice people always does. Voices like his are sorely needed these days. It just didn't seem right or fair to see his young face on yet another social media post announcing another death. "Not him", I thought. "What a shame. His voice will most certainly be missed".

I’m glad I had the chance to tell Charles C. Brown what an encouraging light in this world he was. 

My sincere condolences to his loved ones, and I'm confident that included the dedicated and enthusiastic members of the music ministry at Zion Church who, I hope, will continue to inspire as he did.