Dear John/A Beautiful Sound

Disclaimer: John, if you're reading this, you can punch me Sunday morning.

My friend John cannot sing. Seriously, he cannot sing.

John is probably in his mid-fifties, a transplanted northerner with an obviously northern accent, the kind you'd hear at a Yankees game or something, and I often sit with him on Sunday mornings in the back of church. His wife comes with him sometimes, but a lot of the time I find John sitting on my left side. He's a friendly guy and a good friend. He owns and operates an electronic repair store in town. His shop sort of reminds me of my grandfather's old "shop" in his basement. When you walk through the main door to the building, televisions sets of all shapes and sizes (most are black, so I left out color) are scattered and stacked about like kids' building blocks with little apparent organization to them. John knows them by heart, of course. People that work in clutter generally don't think of their surroundings as clutter. If you ever need a good quality television and don't mind the fact that it's been used, broken and now fixed, then John is your man. I bought a nice Philips Magnovox from him three years ago, of the 27-inch variety, for a mere $90 and I've yet to have a problem with it. I think some of the tools on the remote, like "previous channel" and "repeat", don't really work, but as a guy I enjoy the fine art of flipping. I guess it's one unusual instance where I don't take joy in practicality. It doesn't really matter since this post is about how John can't sing worth a lick.

Shortly after I met John, I became keenly aware of his, shall we say, musically-challenged ear. It should be noted first that John knows the words to the songs. He's not one of those people that unintentionally replaces "sought me and bought me" with "fought me and wrought me" in "Victory in Jesus" because they learned it wrong a long time ago and now prefers to sing from memory rather than from the hymnal. He's a straight-lacer. John, also knows beat and rhythm. He's never off a step, lagging behind or sprinting to reach the finish before the rest of the congregation. He's steady.

But John can't sing. The words come out but there are no notes, no range, not even a hint of deviation in his voice. I even hesitate to say he's monotone, because it's like he's talking the words, like a chant or incantation. Occassionaly at a time when the song changes tempo or hits a climax, John's voice raises to a lounder pitch, but that's about it. He's not charismatic, since we're Presbyterians. He stands alert, back straight and head up like a serviceman, belting out the traditional old-school hits and the new choruses that all the kids love. And the truth is, that I love every moment of it.

When I first became aware of John's powers, I couldn't help but smile through each and every song, simply because he was sooo off but didn't seem to notice, or if he did notice he didn't seem to care. I guess part of me felt bad too, because I know some people would be really perturbed by such a bellowing voice droning on in their ear and "ruining" the song. Eventually though, I came to appreciate John's singing voice, not because it belonged out front on stage with the London Symphony Orchestra playing in the background, but because it was honest, raw and vulnerable. Maybe he thinks he's Lucianno Pavarotti and maybe he thinks he sounds more like a National Weather Service alert? It doesn't really matter, because the passion with which John offers his worship on Sunday is awesome and inspiring to me. He brings what he has to offer, gives it up and doesn't leave anything in reserve. He doesn't hold back to save face in front of others. It's him and God. And some Sundays I can't help but think that that's a more "pleasing aroma" to God that our four-part harmonies that soar over moving musical scores sung by army-like choirs garbed in flowing robes.

I wonder if God hears our finest musical offerings the way most people hear John's singing. "Wow, you're really off, but you're beautiful to me for giving what you have."

I look for John every Sunday to see if there's an open seat next to him, and usually there is. I guess not many people have trained their ear enough to sit next to him. That's okay by me because I feel like I've found buried treasure right in front of everyone's noses. I often will still catch a broad smile cracking across my face some Sundays, but it's not out of embarrassment or because I feel bad for him. It's because he reminds me that worship is all about the heart. Not about the sound.