I'm Sorry, and I Humbly Repent

“I’ve walked into rooms much scarier than this,” I thought to myself, recalling the many difficult (sometimes darn near impossible) situations I stepped into willingly when I worked in the hospital. I tried to build my confidence, but my brain refused to signal my legs to move. I sat there, frozen in my car across the street. Why was I so nervous? My friends were in there. They invited me. So, I took several deep breaths, shut off my car, opened the door a crack to keep from driving off and texting an excuse for not making it. Finally, I coaxed my feet onto the pavement and walked across the street to the front door.

It was a song-share. I write songs. Sometimes I write good ones. Sometimes, people listen to them, but only a few. Once I walked through the front door, I knew I’d be among some incredible writers and singers. Several people in the room have been on big stages and well-known TV shows or regularly have millions of streams on YouTube/Spotify/Apple Music.

In comparison, my last YouTube video currently has 14 views, and I average 1 Spotify listener per week, and about 20 people showed up for my last gig. I’m not exactly climbing the charts, but my friends invited me. I felt like an imposter whose cover was just blown.

A song share isn’t a performance. There isn’t an audience. It’s just a chance to get together and “workshop” new songs. Songs shared are typically still coming together. They need adjustments to a word or an additional verse. Maybe a chord progression still feels too predictable. Regardless, the songwriter shares the song. Everyone goes around the circle and plays a tune, however raw. It’s a vulnerable experience but a great way to get encouragement and immediate feedback as a writer.

I missed the first few songs because of my anxious inability to get out of the car when I arrived. But then, after three incredible songs (one of which could/should be a tremendous hit), it was my turn. What should I sing? I have several new and incomplete songs. Which one should I play? I was already anxious, so I just leaned into it. I often advise people to be present with their feelings and befriend their anxiety. So, that’s what I did. I took a risk and sang the most honest song I’ve ever written.

Another songwriter sends handwritten song prompts on postcards to her patrons monthly. A recent one she sent me said, “Write an apology letter. It can be to anyone. You may have someone in mind, but it can be a stranger, too. Underline the parts that made your heart feel like it was breaking. Ask yourself: is it difficult to write this letter? If so, why? What would this person write back to you?”

When I first read this prompt, I thought, “I’m pretty good at making amends.” Then I started second-guessing. “Maybe I’m not! What if I’m not self-aware enough to see all the people I’ve hurt along the way? What if I owe many apologies but have avoided them too long because I don’t like conflict?” My brain is a mess sometimes.

I’ve worked as a “ministry professional” my whole adult life. I love what I do. It is meaningful and valuable work. And I have hurt people along the way.

Sometimes, it is just guilt by association. I’m lumped in with priests, pastors, and other Christians who have harmed marginalized and vulnerable people… sometimes “in the name of God.” It’s not fair, but that’s how it is. It makes me sad, but the harm done by some with whom I supposedly share a faith is real. I can understand why my title and position, and even my faith, is reason enough for some people to always remain at what they feel is a safe distance. I love Jesus, but religion frustrates and often saddens me. Weird for a pastor, I know. Or maybe that makes me normal, and I'm growing more comfortable admitting my discomfort.

 So, “The Apology Letter” song prompt became an apology to everyone the church has hurt… and everyone I’ve hurt, directly or indirectly, by my wrongdoing or by association. And as I leaned into my anxiety and feelings of imposter syndrome at the song share, this is the song I played. 

[VERSE 1]

We invade your shores and call you savages and whores
We call for inquisition and homogenize traditions
We bow unto our flag while we condemn you as a fag
We hide behind a smile, protecting priestly pedophiles

I’m sorry, and I humbly repent

[VERSE 2]

We preach about good news but horde it only for the few
We proclaim God as a mystery while we whitewash all of history
We build museums about “creation”, insist that we’re a “christian” nation
We speak of salt and light but worship 2nd amendment rights

I’m sorry, and I humbly repent

[BRIDGE]

I’m sorry if I’ve been part of the problem
I’m sorry for not speaking up more often
I’m sorry, and I’m asking for forgiveness
And I really want to learn about what love is 

I’m sorry, and I humbly repent.

I sang poorly and fumbled the melody a bit. My fingers never worked as they once did, so my guitar buzzed as I fretted the chords. But I sang it. I sang my apology in front of these amazing songwriters I respect, and it felt real, honest, and good.

“Man, that felt like worship as you sang, ‘I’m sorry, and I humbly repent.’ That really hit me.” One of them said. 

Another said, “I need that song!” She texted me the next day and asked for a copy to send to a friend who is going through it right now. 

This song isn’t a hit. I know that. That’s ok. If I ever release it, it will probably cost me more gigs and listeners than it will gain me. What is half of one? Is it possible to have half a listener? Are there venues that feel full with only ten people? No, it’s not a hit, but it felt good to sing it. It felt good to write it. I’m not angry or down on the church. I love the church, and I love serving in it. With all its faults, I still feel like the church has a vital role in the community's life and faith. I still feel like the church can be a beacon of light in the dark world. But, man, we mess things up sometimes, too. I mess things up, and we all have some amends to make. I’ll start with this:

I’m sorry, and I humbly repent.