A few years back, I was spending time at this home that cared for aged-out foster kids. Over time, I came to know one of the residents pretty well. He was eighteen, and I thought he looked like Jimi Hendrix. I think he was trying to look like him. As I hung around him more, I learned that he'd run away from his home with his brother, but he hadn't seen his brother in a very long time. He loved to play the guitar, and so one day one of the folks from our church bought him a brand new starter guitar.
So, he started practicing. He learned the chords. He learned how to sing and play at the same time. At first, he had a hard time keeping rhythm while he sang, after a couple months really got the hang of it. And as he developed his guitar skills, opportunities started opening up for him. He'd catch wind of an open mike happening somewhere, and though he didn't have a car, someone would offer to load up his equipment and take him to the bar to play.
Another thing about this guy was, no one could get through to him. Me and the other folks who would visit on a regular basis were on a completely different course in life. We were middle to upper class, had jobs, and had an education. And so, the things we thought my friend should do with his life were completely different than what my friend thought he should do with his life. There were many "come to Jesus" talks about how he should dress appropriately, and how he should be applying for jobs, and how he should've been working on going to school.
But all my friend wanted to do was write songs and play the guitar. And he kept getting in trouble at the home because he didn't want to stay there. He wanted to be free to chase after his dreams of making it big in the music industry. So he formed a band, and I had the pleasure of playing in some of his first gigs ever. I'll never forget playing in a country ballroom and he was the only black person around. While everyone was in Wranglers and Stetsons, he was wearing a leather jacket, a scarf, and dark-tinted sunglasses. He really looked like what I thought Jimi Hendrix would look like today.
He didn't care who was in the crowd though, and it made me not care either. Once the song would start, the audience vanished. It was just him, and I, and the lyrics. He'd get lost in the lyrics, and they would take him away to a place he'd never been before. The lyrics would infuse hope and beauty into his somewhat chaotic life, and you could watch it play out on his face as he sang.
I was scanning through some Facebook pictures yesterday and found some shots of us playing together, and it took me back. Then, I found that he'd started a page for his current band. He's been playing all over the place, at clubs, bars, and music halls, and he has a full band.
Throughout the process of my friend chasing his dreams, there were the voices of the religious, trying to persuade him to do what they wanted him to do. There were the voices of the parental figures, trying to step in and mentor him into a life of calm monotony. There were the voices of the friends, trying to persuade him to get off his high horse and to join them in there suffering.
And then, there was another voice. This voice wasn't audible to anyone around. This voice was calling him to a life that was a pipe dream to the people around him. But to him, this voice was the only one that mattered. It was the only voice that would satisfy his desires and calm his nerves and inspire him to dream even bigger.
And this voice was the one that called him out of the foster home. This voice called him out of the shackles of monotony and another meaningless existence. This voice took on a role of coach and motivational speaker, and, provider.
He ran with the voice. I haven't seen him in awhile, but I've seen pictures of his concerts. And I imagine that once people saw that he wasn't gonna do as they wished, they backed off and let him go. They let him listen to the one voice that mattered.
And it's that voice that my friend listened to that is so hard for most of us to listen to. It's the one that calls us out of our dreary existence and invites us into the land of not knowing. And usually, that land is filled with threats. But, the irony is that land is where our passions are. And the only way to get to that land is to stay so focused on the voice that promises to get us where we're supposed to go despite the obstacles and the scary beasts that may try to hinder us.
In Isaiah, we read about a tribe of people who knew of this voice. And they had tons of obstacles, both outside the tribe and inside. And they believed this voice was delivering them from oppression. This voice was coming from their God. And at this time, it was ridiculous to consider a God that had anything to do with humans. Yet, they believed this God was providing shelter to the homeless, food for the poor, security for orphans, and delivering them from their enemies. They believed this God had a better place for them, and to the outside world they were a threat, because the biggest threat to a world that lives in the status quo is a new idea. And so other kingdoms would try to overtake them and assimilate them into their own way of doing things, but the voice kept whispering and pulling them to a land that was made just for them.
After many episodes of falling, going backwards, and starting over, this tribe realized finally that no matter what, they had to stick to the little whispers that led them. They had to believe that what was in store for them was better than any of them could imagine. And so, they walked across deserts and mountains, through every weather pattern imaginable to get closer to this land they were promised.
The hard part about it is, there are gonna be tons of people who claim they hear the same voice. And they'll try to get you to assimilate into what they think the voice is telling them to do. But, no one hears the voice in the same way. The voice says something different to each person. It's a cruel reality to watch someone deny the voice of adventure in their own life to follow the voice of another, but it's happening all around us. If we're not careful, it'll happen to us.
We each have our own land to arrive at, not somebody else's. When we forsake our own for the false promises of another, we lose passion. We lose our sense of contribution to this world, and spend our time trying to make the best out of situations and jobs and relationships we were never intended to be a part of. And it kills us, because we still hear the echoes of the voice that use to be so familiar and so close to our hearts. And we drudge. The best we can do is put one lousy foot in front of the other, and hope things get better without our having to repent.
The same voice that called my friend out of that foster home and into the world of music is the same voice that called that tribe of nomads into a land that was "flowing with milk and honey" is the same voice that calls me to write this very morning is the same voice that's been whispering at you every day telling you something's gotta change if you ever want to see the land that's promised ya'.
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