THE HIGH AFTER THE LOW AFTER THE HIGH
It was April of my freshman year in college. I was in a Christian a capella group, and we had just finished our spring concert. I played the main character in a drama that played out between songs, culminating in my solo as our last number. I was by no means the best voice on the squad; in fact, there was one note that I had never managed to cleanly hit all semester long. But on the night of the concert, I hit it. What a rush.
Afterwards, I basked in the glow of a successful event. All of our hard work and prayers had paid off. Christian friends told me they were deeply moved by our music; some told me the overall message of the night had left an impact on non-believing friends they had brought to the concert. I hugged and partied with my other singers, like you always do after slaving so long for one night and then seeing everything come together.
I got back to my dorm room and it was eerily quiet. My roommates were pretty late partiers, so they were out, not to be back until the wee hours. My ears were still ringing from the buzzing of lots of laughter and voices just a few minutes ago, but now I was all alone, in the darkness and quiet of the early hours past midnight.
And I began to get scared. For some reason, I called to mind sins from the past and present. I began to think of what a hypocrite I was to sing with such gusto and joy and fervor just a few hours ago, when I was filthy dirty with all manner of activities and thoughts that were displeasing to God. I began to spiral in my mind, now feeling distant from a God who I knew could not be happy with someone so godly on the outside and so depraved on the inside.
It was music that started this all, and music that got me out. I thought of the hymn, “My Jesus, I Love Thee,” and it began to make sense. Yes, I am depraved and hypocritical and sinful. It is for these reasons that people need Jesus, and it is for His work in saving them that people love Him. I shed my need to be perfect in order to stand up in front of an auditorium and minister through song, and I embraced the reality that I was a sinner saved by grace.
And the thought, like the song said, made me love Jesus. It made me want to sing to Him, to express that love. The silence of my dorm room was pierced by my voice. I do not recall, nor did I care at the time, whether I sounded good or hit the right notes. For I knew then, as I know now, that God did not care. What He wanted from me in that moment was what I gave Him: a pure expression of love and gratitude for the forgiveness of sins.
I sang a long time that night, and then fell happily and peacefully into bed. My roommates finally came home several hours later, oblivious to the high, low, and high of my night.
It was April of my freshman year in college. I was in a Christian a capella group, and we had just finished our spring concert. I played the main character in a drama that played out between songs, culminating in my solo as our last number. I was by no means the best voice on the squad; in fact, there was one note that I had never managed to cleanly hit all semester long. But on the night of the concert, I hit it. What a rush.
Afterwards, I basked in the glow of a successful event. All of our hard work and prayers had paid off. Christian friends told me they were deeply moved by our music; some told me the overall message of the night had left an impact on non-believing friends they had brought to the concert. I hugged and partied with my other singers, like you always do after slaving so long for one night and then seeing everything come together.
I got back to my dorm room and it was eerily quiet. My roommates were pretty late partiers, so they were out, not to be back until the wee hours. My ears were still ringing from the buzzing of lots of laughter and voices just a few minutes ago, but now I was all alone, in the darkness and quiet of the early hours past midnight.
And I began to get scared. For some reason, I called to mind sins from the past and present. I began to think of what a hypocrite I was to sing with such gusto and joy and fervor just a few hours ago, when I was filthy dirty with all manner of activities and thoughts that were displeasing to God. I began to spiral in my mind, now feeling distant from a God who I knew could not be happy with someone so godly on the outside and so depraved on the inside.
It was music that started this all, and music that got me out. I thought of the hymn, “My Jesus, I Love Thee,” and it began to make sense. Yes, I am depraved and hypocritical and sinful. It is for these reasons that people need Jesus, and it is for His work in saving them that people love Him. I shed my need to be perfect in order to stand up in front of an auditorium and minister through song, and I embraced the reality that I was a sinner saved by grace.
And the thought, like the song said, made me love Jesus. It made me want to sing to Him, to express that love. The silence of my dorm room was pierced by my voice. I do not recall, nor did I care at the time, whether I sounded good or hit the right notes. For I knew then, as I know now, that God did not care. What He wanted from me in that moment was what I gave Him: a pure expression of love and gratitude for the forgiveness of sins.
I sang a long time that night, and then fell happily and peacefully into bed. My roommates finally came home several hours later, oblivious to the high, low, and high of my night.
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