Death of the Music Goddess

My Instagram handle and all-around nickname used to be LP Music Goddess. Even writing it out feels silly now. Like, What?

 

Let me take you back to 2006. Are you there? Do you remember the Abercrombie scent on everyone you knew? Razor Cell phones, Birkenstock clogs and thick eye liner? Do you remember when our phones barely had cameras and every camisole had lace and Facebook was just starting to catch on?  

 

There in the middle of all of that was me. Junior Year of High School. I drove an older Jeep Cherokee and blasted Nirvana whipping through my neighborhood with long straight hair flying out the windows. I wore lots of rings, the kinds with stones in them and in the summer I was always in some form of a long hippie skirt and a tank top swaying in a field of an outdoor concert.

 

 

In this colorful and hazy mess, LP Music Goddess was born. Out of a love for loud music and long car rides and a curiosity for all the world had to offer, I fell in love with just about every genre all at once and began burning CDs for my friends. A currency of love, I gave them as gifts with mixes for every mood and somewhere along the way, someone started calling me the “Music Goddess.”

 

And so I was.

 

Another lifeless thing I would place my identity in, I started to feel like music was part of me. So, consequently, without it, who am I?

 

I remember having a pivotal conversation with my oldest sister in college. She was always talking to me about her faith and about Jesus and I was always shoving it aside. I remember earnestly asking her, “If I decide to be a Christian, does that mean I can’t listen to the same music anymore?” She replied with a loving response but I was stuck on the idea that being a Christian would rob me of my personality and turn me into something I wasn’t, after all, I was the music goddess.  

 

It might sound strange, but the truth is that music was one of the biggest barriers to me accepting Christ. I loved it. I felt it was part of me. Back then, I loved it more than God.

 

In my early twenties, I took as much time off as I could to travel to concerts. It was the thing I placed most joy in. My friends and I would travel hours in the car and even fly to go see our favorite bands. I studied bands, music, artists. I knew all about how they wrote, the lyrics they used and the mechanics about the music. An amateur critic really. I remember feeling so alive at concerts. Front Row. Hot lights. Big Beats. Hands Up. Beer on our breath. Buzz in our heads. Lyrics that spoke to the pain and hurt our hearts desperately wanted to connect to. I was addicted to this feeling.

 

When at a concert singing along I could be desirable like Lana Del Rey, reckless like Red Hot Chili Peppers, likable like The Lumineers, wild like Nicki Minaj – whatever I wanted. I could transform, connect, be a part of something, reach over and grab an alter ego that led to a quick fix of fun. Desperate to find meaning somewhere, hands up and screaming lyrics, I worshipped music. Invisible to me, it was my largest idol.

 

But God. 

 

About a year after I asked Jesus to lead my life, I found myself at a John Mayer concert, an artist I still listen to and enjoy today. I was there with three friends I had frequented concerts with before finding Jesus. Per usual, we all expected to dance and sing along to all the songs we knew enjoying each minute of what we experienced.

 

The music started, and hands started popping up all around me. A familiar song that I liked and knew all the words to was playing and it sounded awesome. I got the urge to start dancing and raise my hands. But I couldn’t.

 

I now know this was a pivotal moment for me. The beginning of a funeral for my false identity and idol worship. A first step in a series of training that God would lovingly lead me through. I. couldn’t. raise. my. hands. Confused at this discomfort I heard the Holy Spirt say, “You would raise your hands to worship here, but you don’t raise your hands to worship me?”

 

It was a quick gut punch. Just that week, I had gone to church where I love to sing and worship. Wanting to freely express my gratitude and love for Christ, I remember wanting to raise my hands, lifting them in praise and worship. But I couldn’t. I was too worried about what other people would think.

 

The Lord, in his kindness, used John Mayer to teach me that I had a heart problem. If I was more comfortable raising my hands and dancing to John Mayer than I was to Jesus, then we had some work to do.

 

And work we did. It would take me cleaning out my playlists of songs that dishonored Christ, saying no to concerts with friends that I loved and wanted to be with, honoring my convictions even when it was hard and even when it was unpopular.

 

Two years later, I thought I had made major progress. I wasn’t listening to a lot of the same music anymore, not because I had some amazing self-control but because I didn’t desire the same music I used to. God truly does GIVE you the desires of your heart, I learned.

 

I was driving down the road to see my friend Stephanie and I remember thinking, “my name on Instagram is still LP Music Goddess. Not only am I still associating with an identity that isn’t mine anymore but I’m telling the world it’s ok to call yourself a goddess, a name associated with a belief in multiple Gods which is quite literally blasphemous to the one true God I love with all my heart. OH. NO.”

 

I love how the Holy Spirit convicts. I love how he brought me to this conclusion so kindly. He didn’t yell, he didn’t make me feel dirty or small, he simply brought it to mind, and the conviction came.

 

I changed my Instagram name that night.

 

I don’t think it’s a coincidence that when I changed my Instagram name, I finally felt free to lift my hands in church.

 

Sometimes we have to fully submit, give it all away, even the little pieces we’d like to hold onto. Sometimes we have to do the hard work. The work that changes our relationships with our friends, gets us uninvited, and challenges us to do housework in our hearts. Sometimes pieces of us we used to know have to die, buried deep in the earth before a seed gets placed on top and a flower blooms.   

 

God has had to peel off 26 years of layers of worldliness from my heart. Some are thick and oozing and black and some are quick flakes of brown. Some take a moment to lose and some take years. Some are gone and some are still with me. If he peeled them off all at once, I probably couldn’t take it, so like a careful, intentional surgeon, he is slowly operating on my heart. And though I’m exposed, open on the table of sanctification, I am slowly learning what it means to walk with Christ and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

It’s worth it. He’s worth it. And what I used to worship, I now use to worship. And my hands are up, and my eyes are too.