With a sweet smile on her rosy-cheeked face, Marie* approached me after yesterday morning's devotion.

“Can I ask you who’s in charge of the music?,” she asked.

Her request was so polite and her demeanor so sincere that I just presumed that she wanted to make a request or even ask to sing herself for the evening’s meeting. 

“You know, I’m not really sure,” I told her.  “Let’s ask Pastor Tim.”

After a few more consultations with staff, it soon became apparent that her inquiry wasn’t about becoming more involved at all.  It was about the drums.  And her discomfort. 

Pastor Mike, who is in charge of the youth division, apologized and we all thanked her for her honesty.  At our staff meeting later that day, however, the decision was unanimous that the youth band was great and we were making no amendments.

This is the band in question, minus the vocalists, during their practice this morning.  I will try and get a picture when they are actually performing, but I'm usually spazzing and praying that I don't humiliate myself (and God) when I get up to preach right afterwards.  The clothesline/pins are where they hang their prayer requests as part of the morning devotions.

Then, the evening meeting started. 

I somehow missed the organized protest of 20 youth who got up and walked out, but let me tell you, the other leaders did not.  In fact, soliciting the attention of all but two of us (and one of us was preparing to preach at the time!), they continued to loudly complain about “the drums, the guitars, and the girls strutting their stuff up there [referring to the vocalists]” right outside of the meeting room.  Their ringleader was a sixty something year old conservative Adventist who also managed to wrangle the conference president (who was conveniently walking by during “the protest”), the division president, and a few other important people into the conversation.

For an hour after our evening meeting let out, the leaders discussed what the appropriate course of action should be.  Our division leader, Stanley (the same one who invited me to speak), was adamant that not only was there nothing inappropriate about the current praise team, but that we were not about to amend our current program based on the complaint of one group.  Also, the protesters have been complaining since their group of home schoolers was in the primary division (for ages 7-9).

As leaders, we made the unfortunate mistake of allowing the praise team to be present during the first half of our meeting.  The ultimate resolution was, of course, to allow them to continue, but the hurt expressions on their faces revealed what we all knew:  the protesters had missed the whole point of worship.  

By focusing on the fact that a (muted!) drum was being played and two guitars were accompanying the piano, they failed to notice that almost 100% of the youth present were engaged in worship.  They were singing loudly and were experiencing God.  Outside of the worship meeting, while staging “the protest,” those twenty youth were not.

I had just returned from my sister’s place in Asheville before this meeting and was so rushed that I didn’t get a chance to change out of the black pants, casual top, and flip flops I was wearing.  I am the child of a West Indian mother, so you can imagine the horror I experienced not preaching in a suit—much less in flip-flops!  And, of course, it would be this night that Stanley stopped by to hear me and then, had me sit next to him during the hour long staff meeting.  (I was blissfully ignorant of “the protest” while preaching, by the way. I noticed that the leaders only came in for the last ten minutes, but I didn’t know where they had been until afterwards.)

Worship is so much more than the way we express ourselves or the way that we look, though.

Tonight, after I was already dressed in one of the five suits I brought to preach in, I thought about why I felt compelled to wear it. I knew that not only did I have a better time preaching in flip-flops, but the only reason I really thought I should wear the suit was in case a conference official happened to walk by and notice how snazzy I looked.  Then, maybe I’d earn more credibility and get invited back—maybe to do something bigger.  Nobody else would really care.  I mean, the kids are running around in shorts and t-shirts and so are the other leaders (including me, during the day!).

I wasn’t invited here based on the way I dress or anything I do in or of myself, though. I was invited on the merit of God working through me and absolutely nothing else. So, I hastily flung my suit onto my hotel room bed and changed into a pair of black slacks with a simple dressy shirt and heels. It was in this attire that I knew I was more approachable and that the focus was unmistakably on Jesus–not on me. Besides, even after the flip-flops, Stanley was in attendance for the second consecutive night.

My family's family.  (See how I was slick, so we didn't have to do that description again?)  I'm sorry this picture is blurry!  I didn't realize it when we took it.

*Marie was not actually one of the "protesters."  I realized that was not clear after I finished writing this.  She just happened to complain on the same day.  Thankfully, she was a lot more tactful.  And appropriate.