A Great Piano Makes Not A Sound

Recently I was in Los Angeles producing a CD for a classical pianist. For those who are not familiar with the term job description “producer”, that’s the person hired by the people paying for the recording and who is responsible for insuring that the recording is finished on time, under budget and sounds like something that someone will buy. It’s a very stressful job so for a break I would go down the street to the Starbucks and get a sugar-free, blended chai tea and sit outside in the sun where I would convince the artist that the pieces we were recording sounded good and take phone calls from the executive producer and assure him that it was still under budget. One morning while sitting there a young man who said to me, “I love all your movies” approached us! I was confused and didn’t know quite what to say, but he continued talking, “do you have any advice for me?” I thought for a moment and told him, “don’t give up your dreams.” He grasped my hand, thanked me, and scurried down the street. Welcome to LA.

But the real point of this story happened the first day we were in the studio. The pianist endorses Bosendorfer pianos so they delivered a nine-foot, six-inch, glossy black concert grand. Even in this studio that was an impressive instrument and one of the engineers came into the room to see this wonder. “It’s beautiful.” He commented. The artist starting explaining all the sonic marvels of the piano when the engineer cut him off, shaking his head and said, “this is LA, man, it looks good, that’s all that matters.” In a city that celebrates appearance above all else these stories are expected. But in our Christian life are we sometimes like that piano? It looked good but until someone sat down and used it the way it was intended to be used it was a $150,000.00 piece of furniture and made no music on it’s own. If we allow ourselves to be used we might suffer the fate of the piano and pick up and few scratches, maybe blood on the keys and not always be perfectly in tune, but used for our true purpose. By the way I never found out whom the young man thought I was, I was afraid to ask.

Remember, I’m listening.

Ralph Sappington

Singing Thier Own Song

It’s summer in Cape Town. The waves are crashing off of Cape Point where the baboons are looting the cars that were left unlocked in the parking lot, gathering anything edible, and sitting on the hoods of the cars eating their purloined spoils. The church is full on Sunday morning where the parishioners sit for two hours, drenched in sweat, listening to a liturgy translated from German into Afrikaans; the language imposed on the people by the former apartheid government.
“How I wish we could use our own language and sing our own songs.” Motsamai laments to me after the service. We stand on the front steps of the church and watch the congregation create a cloud of dust as they make their way towards the former township, two miles down the road.
“Perhaps in my lifetime.” Pieter Pretorius answers, optimistically.
“But Pieter,” Complains Mercy, his wife of fifty four years, “this is the way we’ve always done church.”
Motsamai was thirty-four and Pieter and Mercy were in their seventies when this conversation took place about ten years ago. Not much has changed except that Motsamai is now the assistant to the bishop and he is still struggling to change things in the South African church before all the young people have left the church for good. You see, they just don’t want to hear that old language anymore.
“How did you change things in America?” Motsamai asked me. “America was once a colony and now you do your own music.” He was visiting the states and came to a worship service where we did a jazz liturgy. I had to tell him that even though on this night, in this Lutheran church we may have played indigenous music on most Sunday mornings it was just like that Sunday in Cape Town; we still were afraid to use our own language and play our own songs.
It’s winter in Cape Town and the rain pours off the roof of the Lutheran Youth Centre. The children running between the building gleefully kick at the puddles of water. Inside the pastor begins the service by intoning, “God es liefde.” Even though it’s in Afrikaans I know it means, “God is Love.”

How does this relate to us? On April 22nd we are presenting the choir cantata “This Is My Story”, the life of Fanny Crosby in story and song. Fanny wrote over 8000 hymns including “Blessed Assurance”. She started writing hymns because the songs they sang in her church were dull, boring and didn’t relate to the people her age who were leaving the church. This was New York in 1856, but it sounds like the story from South Africa in 1996. Come at 10:30am and hear the music and the story of American legend, and one of our first contemporary musicians.
Remember, I’m Listening.

An Easter To Remember

I remember quite a few Easters. There was the one when I was four years old and I got a large egg made out of sugar, with candy decorations and an Easter scene inside. I never ate that egg; I loved that egg and would look at it and study the details and the paper cutout figures inside. I kept it in my sock drawer for eighteen years until Rhonda made me throw it away after we were married. I remember those Easter breakfasts that the youth group prepared. There were mounds of scrambled eggs and bacon, biscuits, gravy, orange juice and coffee. We would drink coffee; well it was mostly cream, like we were grown-ups as we served breakfast to the people of Florence Avenue United Presbyterian Church. I remember getting hired to play trumpet at sunrise services. One time we were standing on the cliffs of San Pedro overlooking the Pacific Ocean and we played “Jesus Christ Is Risen Today”. Over the years there have been Easter memories that I treasure but the one that is the most vivid memory occurred in 2001. That was the year I spent Holy Week in a hospital bed from Good Friday until Easter Evening. I’ll never take Holy Week services for granted again. Maundy Thursday morning I woke up to find my left leg and arm strangely stiff and unresponsive. I kept working at my tasks trying to pretend nothing was wrong but by Good Friday I found myself in the emergency room. I couldn’t walk and I was somewhat incoherent. They told me that I had suffered a stroke. I told them I needed to conduct a choir that evening. They told me that wouldn’t be happening. I quit arguing and lay there thinking that life, as I knew it was over. The rest of that day and the following Saturday were a blur of tests, doctors and nurses hurrying in and out, visitors, but most of all there was a deep loneliness. I slept fitfully Saturday night, watching television as I drifted in and out of sleep. The next morning I was startled awake by organ music. I looked up at the television and saw my old high school friend, Johnny Carl, playing “Jesus Christ Is Risen Today”. I thought that I had died and Johnny was the organist in heaven. I looked again and Robert Schuller was there, “I don’t remember him passing away.” I thought, but then it struck me; it was “The Hour of Power” television program. I wasn’t dead, nor was Robert Schuller and Johnny Carl didn’t have the gig in heaven, just the one at the Crystal Cathedral. I went home later that day walking with the help of a cane and began the long road towards recovery. But that Easter caused me to love Holy Week services. Join me on Thursday as we communion together, Friday as we reflect on the gift of life Jesus gave us by sacrificing His own life. And finally shout with me on Easter Morning, “He Is Risen Indeed”! Those three days in 2001 remain etched in my memory. I felt the loss of communion together, the loneliness of Friday and Saturday, but most of all I remember being awakened by “Jesus Christ Is Risen Today”. Come this week and celebrate. It will be a weekend to remember.

Getting A Tattoo

Learning To Let It Go

I’m thinking about getting a tattoo. It’s not a fashion statement or an act of rebellion - the three earrings already took care of that for me – it’s a reminder. It’s going to be a cross with a rose wrapped around it and the words “Let It Go” will be written below in some manner of elaborate lettering. I want to put it on the back of my left hand, facing me, so I will see it at all times. Just what is it that I need to let go of? You name it; I’m an emotional packrat. I hold on to perceived injustices, unkind words, unfortunate situations and bad reviews. I keep all these handy for the times I feel the need to beat myself up so I have plenty of ammo available. For example, I recently played at an event where there were plenty of complements about there music but I overheard one comment about the trumpet playing that was not favorable and that stayed with me for days. The problem with this way of thinking is that if our arms are full of the baggage that we struggle to carry along with us on our way to the cross God will have difficulty giving us the things we really need for the journey. My ongoing exercise is to let go of all of my useless junk and lay all of it at the foot of the cross. I can then open my arms and receive from God all the blessings that He has in store for me. This Lenten season let’s all practice “Letting It Go”. Believe me you’ll feel lighter and free to move.

Remember, I’m listening.

Ralph Sappington – Director of Worship Arts

South Africa - Part Two

Several people asked me what Sister Ross’s house looked like after they read last weeks messenger. I found this photo of a house near Sister Ross’s. This photo was taken in 2000 during our second trip to South Africa. We had played a concert the night before at the church in Upington and we were visiting some of the church folk in the surrounding townships. Several people in this neighborhood told us that they couldn’t make it to the church for the concert but they were glad we came to visit them. After a little discussion we found a house three doors down that had power so we hooked together two extension cords, these are 230 power cords by the way, and strung them over two fences to reach the porch of the house that sat right behind this one. We sat up all of our equipment on the concrete slab porch and played a concert right there. The whole neighborhood came, bringing their chairs from their kitchens, and watched. The folks in the photo showed up just to watch us setting up.

The man is the owner of the house that he had built with his own hands. He was building a concrete block house behind it that would house the rest of his family. In several different colors of spray paint he had inscribed the address, Aurora 8, on the front of the house. Aurora 8 was the sight of the most successful concert I ever play because without any advertising or advance notice we had a great audience who enjoyed the music and let us know it! I have played many beautiful venues in front of larger audiences but nothing will ever top the porch at Aurora 8.

Remember, I’m listening.

Ralph Sappington – Director of Worship Arts

Thinking About South Africa

NOISES FROM THE MUSIC OFFICE

I’ve been thinking about South Africa recently, about the time I spent there and about the people that I miss. Let me tell you about one woman who made a lasting impression on me. Her name was Katrina Ross but everyone called her Sister Ross. She lived in Upington, a dusty farming community on the border of the Kalahari Desert. I met her in 1996 when she invited us to have tea at her house. Her house was in Louisvale, a township outside of Upington, and her house was one built by her own hands. It was built from scraps of wood and corrugated-metal, the former government called these dwellings “Informal Housing”. Sister Ross welcomed us into her home like a queen welcoming guests into her palace.
“Sit please.” She invited.
There were several chairs and a tattered sofa in the living area and improvised shelves that held small knickknacks and a clock that always told the time as 2:36. I wandered around the corner into her kitchen area to ask if I could help. The kitchen was an open-air affair with a fire pit and several hot plates powered by a car battery.
“Danke, Mr. Musicman.” She said as she handed me a plate of “Kooksisters”, a twisted, doughnut-like pastry, covered in honey and sesame seeds, to take into the living room. She followed with a tea service, a gift from a former employer, that she had treasured for many years.
I can’t recall exactly what we spoke about that afternoon, but I can recall the dignity of the woman and the hospitality that she extended to us in the midst of surroundings that we would find embarrassing. We might be depressed living in such a place but Sister Ross was thankful for the things God had given her. She had worked in the homes of the rich and did not covet their wealth but prayed for the poverty of their souls.
I returned to South Africa four years later and was saddened to find that Sister Ross had passed away just a year after we met. She died while walking down the dusty road to church. I visited her grave and later went to her house where her daughter now lived. I handed her a CD that I had recorded that included a song titled, “Sister Ross”. As she studied the CD and the dedication to her mother I explained to her the impression that her mother had made on me and I told her what a wonderful woman her mother was. Through tear-filled eyes she looked up at me and simply said, “I know.”
Remember, I’m listening.

Playing The Guitar

My father was a rodeo cowboy who came to visit me at my grandmother’s house six or seven times a year. One of the highlights of his visits was when he would pull out an old guitar that he kept stashed under my bed. He would carefully tune the guitar and take it out to the front porch and sit, with his ever-present cigarette dangling from his lips, playing “Under The Double Eagle”, “Wildwood Flower”, and a few Johnny Cash songs. The scene of a cowboy sitting with his guitar on the front porch of a house in the largely African-American neighborhood of inner city Los Angeles must have been quite a sight to the local denizens, but they never even turned their heads to notice. I would sit at his feet and try to memorize the movements of his hands. After a few days he would leave and I would clandestinely take the guitar out and attempt to replicate the sounds he made. I’m still trying today and I want to invite you to give it a try with me. Starting May 1st at 6:30pm I’ll be teaching a guitar class at the church. The classes will run six weeks until June 5th and we will meet in the Sanctuary. There is no cost for this class and I even have a few guitars to loan out if you don’t have one but want to give it a try. Just call me at the church or at home (245-6497, drop me an e-mail at RSAP@AOL.COM or stop by my office at church to let me know you’re coming so I can have the materials ready. I guarantee that you’ll be playing three chords by the end of the first session and in the words of Bob Dylan all you need in life are “three chords and the truth.”