Chapter 4: The Lord's Song in a Strange Land

Continued from Chapter 3: Discord.

IBLP distributed a letter, supposedly signed by Peter Peters, pleading with American churches not to export Christian rock music. Below are some excerpts from the letter:

For thirty years we have suffered intense persecution. Now freedom is bringing another great harm to our churches. This damage is coming from Christians in America who are sending rock music and evangelists accompanied by rock bands. 

We abhor all Christian rock music coming to our country. Rock music has nothing in common with ministry or the service to God.

We were in prison for fifteen years for Christ’s sake. We were not allowed to have Christian music, but ROCK MUSIC was used as a weapon against us day and night to destroy our souls.

Now it is Christians from America who damage our souls. We do not allow this music in our church, but these “evangelists” rent big stadiums and infect teenagers and adults with their rock music. We, the leadership and congregations of the Unregistered churches urge you to join with us, and we advise you to remove rock music from America.

We call this music, “music from hell.” We urge all Americans to stop giving money for the organizations of such concerts in Russia. We only want traditional Christian music in our churches. This is the unanimous decision of all our leaders.

Peter Peters and Vasilij Ryzhuk, Unregistered Union of Churches, Moscow, Russia, April 15, 1992

I had grown up on Iron Curtain stories. Nothing motivated me like a martyr! In solidarity with the suffering of the unregistered church of the former Soviet Union, I was determined to stand against this soul-destroying music, alone if necessary.

And it was necessary, at Drivers' Ed. My parents sent me to the public high school for driver training and I was immediately on guard. I hadn't been inside a state school since second grade and I was uncomfortable in a group of my worldly peers. On campus in my long skirts and prairie dresses, I definitely stood out. Since this was my first encounter with the "unsaved" in a long while, I brought a few tracts to distribute to my classmates. And I tried to control my laughter at the jokes that seemed risque but still struck me as funny.

I had no trouble learning the highway signs and proper following distance, but a problem arose when the instructor popped in a videotape. The overhead lights were switched off and the intro music swirled through the room. In no time, my heart was racing and I was suffocating. I left my seat and walked out to the hall, warm, still, and empty on a summer morning. During the next break, I explained to the instructor that my faith in Jesus Christ did not allow me to sit through the training videos. Whenever he played one after that, I would wander the campus outside or diligently study my book. My parents were proud when I reported back on my time out in "the world". Heck, I was proud! My convictions had been tested, and I had stood firm.

A few weeks after my driver's license arrived, I boarded an Aeroflot jet to Moscow with a group of bright-faced, homeschooled kids dressed neatly in matching white and navy blue. Our parents were followers of Bill Gothard and we shared a common coded vocabulary from his seminars: "motivational gifts", "birth order", Wisdom Booklets, "clear conscience", "umbrella of authority", Wisdom Search, "courtship", and "Godly music".

Rock music was very much in vogue in the post-Soviet era of glasnost and perestroika. Eurodisco and technopop blared from kiosks everywhere, as ubiquitous as stumbling drunks and softcore porn posters, as we traversed the city making presentations in the schools. Often the schoolchildren would have cultural presentations prepared for us, as well, and we would thank them graciously. We were there to teach them good character: truthfulness and attentiveness and obedience and gratefulness, with a smattering of American history and Bible stories thrown in by way of illustration.

During my 10-week stay, I was taken to several different Russian evangelical churches. The ones our group attended used fairly traditional hymns, but one Sunday there was another American group visiting the same service. They presented a special musical performance that I found rather appalling--"Listen to the Hammer Ring!", in English. Disturbing lyrics aside, I felt uncomfortable. Was not this the sound Pastor Peters had denounced, the beat we had been trained to resist? My instinct was to flee, yet as a foreign female minor representing "the Institute" in a school building I didn't know, it hardly seemed appropriate to leave. Feeling like a caged animal, I tried to distract myself by focusing on the interpreter signing the lyrics for the deaf (pause here to savor the irony!).

Back at the ship, our floating hotel, leadership piped soothing or inspirational instrumental albums from Majesty Music over the sound system into our rooms and we felt cleansed. The closest any of the approved recordings came to syncopation was an Easter album with a choral cover of Annie Herring's "Easter Song". This very slight variation of timing lifted our spirits in the same way that Bill Gothard's arrival with a Snickers bar for each of us cheered us like Christmas. We prayed, we fasted, we had hymnsings on the upper deck, we learned to sing hymns in Russian, we rehearsed testimonies and prepared evangelistic skits and practiced Gospel piano duets, we invited teachers and students to our weekly evangelistic meetings. We were there to do spiritual battle in a formerly atheistic communist nation, after all.

We were not there to find spouses, as the leadership reminded us often. Though most of us were high school age, and we lived and worked in very close proximity to one another, dating was strictly forbidden. Dress was professional, never less than semi-casual, and girls and boys maintained a physical and emotional buffer at all times. If a boy asked us to as much as sew a button on his shirt, we were instructed to refuse and direct him to one of the married chaperones instead.

IBLP Russia Team, 1993

IBLP was officially working under the Russian Department of Education, so we were sometimes asked to participate in special events. That spring our group was "invited" to attend an inter-school performance in a crowded arts center auditorium. Even the Patriarch of Moscow was in attendance. The lights beyond the stage were dimmed and the show began. Children in colorful costumes and bright hair ribbons danced and sang and performed puppet shows. Then a teenage couple took the stage. A rock song began to throb through the auditorium and they danced--a beautiful but intense and [to me] sensual dance.

I was agitated. I looked around to see how the others in my group were responding. Some seemed as uncomfortable as I was. I thought about Pastor Peters' letter and I felt terribly, terribly guilty. I leaned over to the Russian interpreter beside me, "We did this to your country, Sveta," I whispered. "I'm so sorry." Then I began shaking in my seat, my heart was racing, a full fight-or-flight response. I felt sure I was feeling demonic oppression. How long could I resist? I left my seat and fled for the outer concourse where I found the matrons of our group trying to calm several other girls who were in similar states. Twenty years later, I realize I was simply having my first real panic attack.

I had been conditioned to fear a certain beat, and I developed a fear response. It was as simple as that.

My experience with the outside world was fraught with unseen dangers. By now, I only really felt safe within the safe bounds of ATI and those who shared my beliefs about music. It would take years, rejection by Bill Gothard, and another missionary venture to free me from the legalistic bondage.

Continued at Part 5: Cognitive Dissonance

Chapter 3: Discord

Continued from Chapter 2: Musical Chairs.

I didn't know about panic attacks yet. I only knew I hated the feelings that preceded walking out of the service when everyone else was listening politely.

It was worse when the soloist was a girl my own age. She sang "Lamb of God" one Sunday night. I spent most of the evening entertaining my baby brother in the lobby while feeling ready to burst into tears. Twila Paris had been one of my very favorite artists just a few months earlier, so the song stirred up all kinds of conflicted feelings.

Whether to proselytize her or to spare myself more discomfort, I listened to the Striving for Excellence tapes, then found the courage to loan them to Kim. We had been mere acquaintances; I don't think she ever spoke to me again. After a few weeks, when I left a phone message for her, she discreetly left the cassette album in the church's food pantry bin for me to collect.

Wandering the halls in the church basement, my whole day could be ruined if I encountered a poster like the one on the right outside the youth room. I loved church, but described it as "the happiest and hardest, saddest and gladdest place I ever go". I even prepared some kind of speech to share with the youth pastor "how ungodly music almost destroyed my life". I was nothing if not intense.

Some cousins came to visit us from another state. While they were very musically talented, their church had an even narrower view of wholesome music than we did. They introduced us to Majesty Music, a music publishing and recording company with close ties to Bob Jones University--an organization we had mostly associated with homeschool textbooks.

I am indebted to my cousin for introducing me to music theory, patiently teaching me the names of the notes on a hand-drawn staff. But the night before they left, her parents must have helped my parents cull their tape collection. Over the next week, I noticed some of my favorite albums missing: Joni Eareckson's musical debut, for example; the lyrical folk-rock anthems of John Michael Talbot, the Catholic troubadour; and Dallas Holm's Easter cantata that moved me to tears the first time Dad played it for us. Really? Were the voices of these Christian brothers and sisters too dangerous to keep in the house? These deeply emotional expressions had always helped me to reconcile my Christian faith with my experience. I was confused, I missed the familiar sounds of my childhood, but I was determined to hold up the new standard anyway.

I wrote continually in my journal about music. It symbolized the gulf fixed between me and my peers at church--the only place I saw other teenagers. When the church started offering a contemporary early service, with a drum set on the stage, we finally left. (The elders weren't happy with us continually walking out anyway!) But church was hardly the only problem.

Eating out, a treat that became more rare as more babies arrived, was fraught with anxiety. We would choose a restaurant, drive there, then wait in the parking lot while Dad went inside alone to "check it out". He would ask to look at a menu, I think, but really he was listening for evil sounds. If it was acceptable (usually that meant silent), or if they were willing to turn their music off, he would come out and collect us. If not, well, we'd have to try another place. As the oldest, I felt tremendous internal pressure at such times. I wanted to anticipate the dining experience, but was afraid of having my expectations disappointed. So I would scan Dad's face when he exited the restaurant doors, searching for a clue to the result. Unfortunately for me, Dad's expressions can be hard to read. We never really knew the verdict until he announced it. By then my stomach would be in knots.

Shopping was another danger zone. I learned to mentally block out background music at Kmart or the mall. My husband is still incredulous when I don't recognize a song, "But it was so popular! It got played everywhere!" Maybe so, darling, but I was busy jamming the frequency in my head so I wouldn't get demons of rebellion or want to have sex. I didn't know the Beatles from the Beach Boys. Despite growing up in the 80's and 90's, I never listened to a Michael Jackson song till after he died.

Visiting other churches was really awkward. For a few years we settled at a tiny Independent Fundamentalist Baptist church that met just a few miles from our house. I took piano lessons from the girl who played the piano there. When her family left for a bigger, friendlier church, I inherited her spot on the piano bench.

As I got older, we became more entrenched in ATI teachings. I soaked up the student materials like a sponge, eagerly reading the newsletters from Gothard's "Headquarters" and imagining myself dressed in a navy skirt suit "giving the world a new approach to Life". At age 17, I was at last invited to join a missions trip to Russia to teach "character" in the Moscow schools. Some of my dad's clients helped sponsor my trip. Surrounded by other teenagers holding to the same standards, I was so thrilled to be having an adventure!


Read Chapter 4: The Lord's Song in a Strange Land

The Power of Music

Came across an old piece today. Something I wrote nearly three years ago. Decided to stick it up here as a point of reference. Those who grew up in ATI may relate to bits of my experience.

January 8, 2010

Played the piano for the last hour. First time in a long time that I've sat down and played like that. Now I know why. Nearly dissolved into tears twice. The music took me back to some very emotional places, both good and bad...

Ironing Dad's shirts and listening to praise tapes, with the choral worship songs of the early 80's. (Praise Six, "Come and Sing Praises", Maranatha/Word Music) They are still a part of me now. The songs, not the shirts. 

Growing up attending Church of the Living God with its enthusiastic praise style. Then wondering what exactly rock music was and why it made it us leave that church. We used to sing "and blessed be the Rock" there to much clapping. Shortly before we left Living God, a lady taught us a peppy new Scripture song. "In Him we live, and move, and have our being". I suspected that was the offensive song, but I found Paul referring to it later in the book of Acts. 

The wonder and awe when the grand piano with the inlaid roses was delivered to the OKC Training Center, the stunningly beautiful answer to our prayers. Anything in tune would have suited, but it seemed God had just decided to spoil us. Spending many hours worshiping with my hymnal, entertaining myself, or accompanying old-fashioned hymnsings. The thrill when a man I admired told me I sang like an angel. Also, our frustration when the same man asked one talented youth not to play recent sacred compositions but to stick with the old styles. Aaron more than made up for that limitation.

Learning said "recent compositions" at Springdale Alliance Church on Sundays. "Blessed Be the Lord God Almighty". Looking forward to sermons for the first time in my life. Feeling my faith and understanding grow. Being blessed by Pastor Ken Nesselroade and others.

Graham Kendrick. His songs have been meaningful to me, but more so since I learned that he is British. Somehow singing about "this land" and "the nations" feels more catholic now.

Singing out hymns like we meant it on weekends in Indianapolis. The rich harmony, the grand pianists we had, the giggles over the more "daring" selections. "God of Concrete, God of Steel", anyone? "Wonderful Grace of Jesus", with enough men's voices to carry the parts. The feeling that we in our crisp white shirts were right, and important.

Precious solitary piano worship between classes at UND in Grand Forks. In the open-air meeting hall in Nasuli on Mindanao. Or on the "homemade" piano in my generous neighbors' house. Learning new songs and digging out old ones. 

Coming home from Bay Area Baptist "Church" full of outrage week after week. Digging out [Christian] music that would be offensive there and playing it in rebellion. Like a praise songbook from the 70's, or a recent Catholic music issue stolen for me by my aunt when we attended Mass with her. Figuring out how to play chords from music intended for guitar or cantor. Discovering Bernadette Farrell. Fiercely pounding out songs about dancing, fellowship, grace, or unity. The melancholy "God and Man at Table Are Sat Down" was particularly satisfying. 

Many of my favorite albums (both sacred and instrumental secular) disappearing from the family collection overnight. Some to be repurchased gradually a decade and more later when my parents' religious views of music altered yet again. Being asked to evaluate recordings of instrumental hymns with a critical search for a "backbeat". 

Hours spent at the piano when I was a single living with my parents. The anguish I would pour out on the keyboard many nighths as I asked God the hard questions. He never would explain himself, but He would soothe my soul so that I could sleep. The old Appalachian tunes in minor keys, looking forward to Heaven. Ron Hamilton's "Rejoice in the Lord", and "Not My Will, But Thine, Lord". I was ready to die for Jesus. It would have been easier, actually.

Many a weekend hour at the piano in the basement of Brook Manor. I sought out ancient songs during that period. Like the Shield of St. Patrick. I needed to feel that our faith was much deeper than what I could see. I enjoyed all the music around me, though. My horizons were expanding. "Because He Lives" still reminds me of Derek LoVerde leading staff meeting. Philip Raymond led our handbell choir. Phil Garvin played traditional "Gospel piano". Hinsdale Baptist introduced me to the very latest church songs. Life was hard on us, but at the same time it was too good to be true. And then it seemed like it had ended, and again I was back at my "own" piano.

Visiting my mom's friend when I was a kid and listening to her daughter play the piano. Hannah was close to my age and very talented. She played "Isn't He" and the beauty blew me away. I longed to be able to make sounds like that. Today I realized that I can.

Trying to sing hymns with my mom and siblings to tapes of Alfred B. Smith. Wow. That was rough. But a few of those tunes are favorites today. Some of the old hymns seemed shocking then, and still amaze me. Like Frederick Faber's "There's a Wideness in God's Mercy". Faber traded the Calvinism of his youth for the Roman Catholic Church, becoming a theologian and writing the (ana-)Baptist favorite, "Faith of our Fathers". I used to think "dungeon, fire and sword" was talking about things like the Inquisition, but apparently not. 

***********************
There’s a wideness in God’s mercy,
Like the wideness of the sea;
There’s a kindness in His justice,
Which is more than liberty.

There is no place where earth’s sorrows
Are more felt than up in Heaven;
There is no place where earth’s failings
Have such kindly judgment given.

There is welcome for the sinner,
And more graces for the good;
There is mercy with the Savior;
There is healing in His blood.

There is grace enough for thousands
Of new worlds as great as this;
There is room for fresh creations
In that upper home of bliss.

For the love of God is broader
Than the measure of our mind;
And the heart of the Eternal
Is most wonderfully kind.

. . . 

It is God: His love looks mighty,
But is mightier than it seems;
’Tis our Father: and His fondness
Goes far out beyond our dreams.

But we make His love too narrow
By false limits of our own;
And we magnify His strictness
With a zeal He will not own.

Was there ever kinder shepherd
Half so gentle, half so sweet,
As the Savior who would have us
Come and gather at His feet?

Strange to read this again. I rarely play the piano anymore. I've tossed half of my hymnal collection. I've found new favorite songs and musical styles. I don't "worship", though I still have intense emotional experiences while singing with my favorite vocalists in my car. Perhaps if I'd been taught a gentler Jesus from the beginning, I'd have more patience with religion now?